Monday, March 30, 2015

Wrestlemania 2015 Review

Daniel Bryan, the inexplicably popular goat-man. At least he isn't John Cena.

Here are some scattered thoughts about Wrestlemania 2015. They are organized in list format because I am lazy and writing in such a manner is easier than actually forming paragraphs.

1. Can you smell what the Rock is cooking? I can. He's cooking tiramisu and it smells delicious. And he smacked Triple H! How cool was that? It was so cool, that's how cool it was!

2. Before John Cena came out to wrestle fake Russian Rusev (who is actually from Bulgaria, a country most Americans don't know exists), a ridiculous movie was shown, complete with American flags, Ronald Regan, and military tributes. The WWE wants you to know that the cold war is not over, and John Cena stands for the missionary position and cargo shorts and patriotism and shit. It was saccharine and distasteful and completely at odds with the spectacle that was taking place. Well, no, it wasn't, but...ahh, shit.

3. The WWE finally let fan-favorite Daniel Bryan win something. I understand that fans are tired of Vince McMahon pushing his giant steroid dudes on everyone, but Daniel Bryan looks like a goat and he has your dad's body, and that's his gimmick. Someone give him a top hat or joker face paint or some fat burners, please.

4. Sting versus Triple H was a big fight, even though Sting is like on his third hip replacement, and Triple H looks like he eats babies for breakfast along with massive spoonfuls of human growth hormone. They should've let Sting win. The guy saw The Crow and he's never been able to wrap his head around anything else. What's he going to tell the guys about at the retirement home now?

5. Is the WWE racist? Their wrestlers consist of giant buff white guys, giant fat white guys, scrawny white guys who look like goats, the Rock, and buxom white girls. Booker T is the last superstar black guy I can remember, and that's just sad, because nobody likes Booker T. I don't even think the guy can read.

6. Do all wrestlers sign some sort of agreement that states that they can be called upon to wrestle at any time, no matter how old and fat they have become? They dragged out Hulk Hogan and Shaun Michaels, and those guys really need to quit before their hearts explode. 

7. I want everyone to know that wrestling is real, because Triple H got a huge bruise on his leg and Dean Ambrose can't remember how to tie his shoes now because of running into a ladder with his head.  

Friday, March 27, 2015

Tips on Buying a New Car

Ugly dog not included.

Having just purchased a new vehicle, I feel compelled to share some great car-buying tips I used. You are welcome.

1. Pay whatever the dealer wants. These guys really know what the car is worth; why would you want to screw them and underpay? They work hard for their money and they're going to work hard for you.

2. Go in blind. I find the best way to buy a car is to have absolutely no idea what you want. That way, the whole process is a crap shoot. Choice is an illusion perpetrated by those who cannot see. I didn't not choose my sixty-thousand dollar Dodge Challenger 2015 SRT Hellcat. It chose me.

3. Ignore features like miles per gallon. Gas is currently cheap, and we all know it will stay that way. Billions of dinosaurs died so that we could drive big-ass Hummers. This shit is basically written in the bible.

4. It should have a tv in it. Don't buy a car without a tv. All cars have televisions in them now. We live in the future.

5. Make sure your salesman has a soul patch. The bigger the patch is, the more you can trust him. Plus, he might let you smoke weed in your new vehicle before you buy it. And let's be honest, that's what you're going to do in it anyway.

6. When you buy a car, don't think in terms of total dollar value. Think in monthly payment. If there's a chance you can make it, then you certainly can. Budgeting is overrated. No one ever accomplished anything by budgeting. Fun fact: most homeless people actually budgeted too much. Thanks, Obama.

7. Buy as new a car as possible. Everybody knows that new cars are worth more.

8. Make sure to send off your old beater in as cool a way as possible. Pump it full of gas, put a brick over the pedal, and toss of Molotov cocktail at it after pushing it down the street. The law states that you can only be held liable for one car per person. Therefore, you should try to take out as many people as possible with your old one.

9. Always buy while drunk. It sends a clear message that you're an alcoholic, and that you will not be restrained by society's rules. The dealer will respect that. He or she might even lower the price for you.

Well that's it. I hope you find your new vehicle. There's one out there for you, somewhere.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

400 lb Squat


Probably should've filmed it so you could actually see the weights. Not that anyone cares besides me. Squatting every day works, friends. This was kind of ugly, but the weight moved well. Onward to 500!

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews

Scarlett Johansson is Star Child.

Another day, another lie lived, am I not right, my gentle readers? The Critic has been very busy as of late, working on his manifesto, which will, I assure you all, take the entire literary world by storm. But it seems I must pay the bills by eviscerating the work of my fellow "artists." So it goes. Let us begin by looking at Under the Skin, a film released in 2013 that somehow flew under my radar.

Under the Skin
The premise is that Scarlett Johansson plays an alien succubus sent to Scotland to seduce men while driving around in a white rape van. She picks up these pale emaciated cretins (seriously, is haggis all they eat in Scotland? These are some skinny dudes) and takes them back to a bizarre dungeon-like building, where they slowly pursue her naked, sinking with every step into an oil-like substance that robs them of their skins. This is some B-movie stuff, but it is treated like high-art; you watch as Johansson's alien starts to develop empathy and curiosity about her human form. She eventually helps one of her abductees escape, leading to her own flight and abandonment of the whole nefarious operation. She is then, more or less, swallowed by the world, a world that sees her only as either a vulnerable woman or a featureless freak. The conclusion is heartbreaking and wondrous; the Critic really felt for the alien succubus, which is rare, for the Critic rarely feels anything these days but scorn and disdain. Highly recommended. Two and a half stars (my highest rating yet!).

The Conspiracy Against the Human Race by Thomas Ligotti
The first fifty or so pages of Thomas Ligotti's work of philosophical nihilism is captivating. He introduces us to some fascinating concepts of obscure pessimistic philosophers such as Phillip Mainlander, a German who reversed Schopenhauer's Will to Live into the Will to Die, and who insisted that God destroyed himself to create the universe, and that every living thing desires death because of this primordial being. But then Ligotti gets into the meat of his argument--he is an antinatalist, who believes that human beings should remove themselves as a species by not breeding--stating that consciousness is unnatural and unbearable, and life itself is full of so much suffering that it would be better to have never existed at all. Human beings cope, he claims, by filling their lives with meaningless distractions and lies. Ligotti may be right--humanity may be nothing more than a race of puppets unaware of their strings, yet it is impossible to agree with his central thesis, that life is full of unbearable suffering. Death is scary, of course, but the mere prospect of it is not enough to make me wish that I had never been born. Plus, the Critic finds many activities to enjoy in life, and although they may be ultimately meaningless, he wishes to perform them nonetheless. The problem with nihilism, of course, is that it is completely useless for dealing with life. Two stars.

Workaholics
Here we go, this is my usual fare. A show about degenerates for degenerates. Accurately chronicles the dissolution of society by focusing on the most useless generation of people ever created, the Millennials. One star.

Bastion
A beautifully rendered ARPG, with excellent narration and decent fighting mechanics. Probably on sale somewhere, since it's three years old.  

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Hanging with the Goon


Howdy, folks! Thar weader is getting mighty nice nowadays, and teh ol' Goon can finally wear his holey pants an his boots that have teh holes in teh toes so that his feets can breathe nice. As teh lectric light orchastra once said, 'Mr. Blue sky is comin', an erbody betta get outta his way fore he puts a boot in dere ass cuz its teh American way.' Down at teh farm, we're getting ready fere teh apple seasson. I've got all teh prunings picked up an stacked on a funeral pyre twenty feet high, an me an Hernando are a looking for somebody ta sacrifice to our heathen gods. Har, har! I'm just kiddin.' We wouldn't waste a virgin like that, no siree.

Me an Hernando been messin' wit growin' a little bit of teh wacky weed, if yous know what I'm gettin' at. We got ourselves a nice little greenhouse project, an ol' Sammy never know any better, cuz he's old an he don't know what marajowana looks like. Aparently, you want female plants, not teh male, cuz they don't get you any seeds, or some shit, but I dunno, Hernando takes care of all teh necesary details, I just smoke teh shit. I've been dealin' some of it to childrens when dere at recess. Little Bobby Atkins bought a hole pound teh other day. He's gonna grow up to be Willy Nelson or Snoop Dog, I reckon, an erbody will have teh Goon to thank! It'll be my brightest hour.

In udder news, my big brotha Willy just got arrested for grand larceny, which'll give him another felony, though he still don't have teh record, which belongs to my long diseased grandfather, Measles Malone. Erbody in teh Goon household is mighty pleased that Willy got arrested, cuz it means we get to eat more coco puffs and drink more beer witout his dumb ass stealin' everything. Plus, Willy always gets himself arrested whne he's ready to train fere teh powerlifting competition. He gets all prison buff an kicks ass. He's got taht Goon heridetary retard strength. I has it myself, but I can't bring myself to train it.


If anybody know a good looking underaged girlee fere teh Goon ta get busy wit, lemme know through teh majics of teh internets. Its been a long an lonely winter, as Cris Cristopherson would say in teh movie Blade, witch is one of my most favorite feature films. Tell her I gots teh Beaver Fevor an not teh sifolas. Email me at Goonferelife@hotmail.com. Ya'll have a nice day.
 

Friday, March 20, 2015

A Collection of Literary Rejection Letters

I thought I would share the mounting evidence of my failure to become anything more than an internet writer. Here are some rejection letters I have received.
...
Dear Nathan,
Thank you for submitting In the Depths of the Valley to Resurrection House. We regret that this work is not right for us at this time. However, we appreciate that you gave us the opportunity to consider it, and we hope you remember us when you are ready to submit new material.
...
To Whom It May Concern,
Please do not send Crazy Larry's Bizarro House any more stuff. Your work is too weird for us, and none of it fits into any of our subgenres, such as people with pig heads fiction, cannibal fiction, true crime animal-head fiction, etc. Nobody wants to read about a Sasquatch masturbating. Asshole.
...
Dear Author,
We at the Gary Goldberg Agency feel that your work is not right for us at this time. As we emphasized on our How to Submit page, we are only interested in Paranormal Romance and Young Adult fiction at this time. No one gives a shit about Horror unless the monsters be banging.
...
To the "Writer" of This Shit,
Eww. Gross.
...

Dear Nathan,
Its nice that you think you can write. Please, by all means, keep sending us stuff. There's a reason gmail has a spam folder. You belong there.
...
To the Person or Robot Who Sent This Email,
We regret to inform you that we have declined to read your query letter. We might get to it; we might not. You might hear from us two weeks from now. It might be six months later. Who knows? If you received the volume of mail we do, you would understand. You start to hate letters and emails. You begin creating arbitrary rules for rejection. Every morning I take a big pile of letters and slowly feed them through the paper shredder. I cannot describe the joy I feel when I look at those shredded scraps of paper.
...
To You,
This is poop. You should be eating it.
...
Dear (Author),
We'd like to take a look at your manuscript! Please send the whole thing to us as a .Doc attachment. What excitement you must feel! Isn't this great? Somebody is actually taking a good, long look at your writing! Too bad it sucks and you'll never hear from us again, even after you email. Fuck you, asshole. Have a nice day.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Help! I Can't Stop Spending Money on Videogames

One can never have too many swords.

I take a peek at the Steam store, searching for deals. It doesn't matter that I have fifty unplayed titles in my library. I need something new. A change of pace. Something with graphics or original gameplay. An indie RPG calls to me and I click. There goes fifteen dollars. The game is unremarkable and derivative of a thousand older role playing games. I play it for fifteen minutes and then never touch it again. A dollar a minute is pretty good, right? It seems like a worthwhile purchase.

I look at my recently played list. Over 400 hours of my life have been spent playing Civilization 5. I don't know what to do with that figure. Should I be impressed? Sad? Depressed? Oh shit, Civilization: Beyond Earth is twenty-percent off. I click on it and the purchase is made. I play it for an hour and then decide that its a crappy mod of Civilization 5. At least it was on sale.

On my shelf is an Xbox 360, a Playstation 4, a Playstation 2, an original Xbox, a Nintendo 64, a Wii, and a Sega Genesis. I never touch any of them anymore, but that doesn't stop me from periodically reviewing my various libraries for each system. Such an investment in time and money. Someday, someone will pay big bucks for this collection. One can only hope.

I sit down on the couch and play Battlefield 4. Over the headset, children hurl racial slurs. I am killed over and over again. It occurs to me that this is the same game I have been playing since the original Battlefield. They keep selling the same game to us over and over again and we keep buying it. What is wrong with us? I derive no pleasure from being called a faggot. Is it possible that I am insane?

But I can't give up on gaming, right? Half-Life 3 might come out someday. The Oculus Rift is going to change everything. Indie gaming has really taken off. The medium is maturing. I guess.


Will I be a 40 year-old man prancing about my room with a set of virtual reality goggles strapped to my head? Will I still be listening to the children spout racial slurs while playing Battlefield 8? What about Doom 4? Or any of the other endless sequels? Will I be setting aside part of the family budget to pay for videogames?

Oh shit. Far Cry 4 is fifty percent off on Steam. I guess the answer is yes.


Monday, March 16, 2015

The Sugar Plum Dance of the Gainz Fairy


He sleeps comfortably, his giant ugly head at rest. A thin douche bag beard grows on his chin line, the remnants of a larger mass of facial hair that he has recently rid himself of due to the incessant pleas of his underage girlfriend. In his closet are hundreds of collared striped shirts. His computer history is full of visits to Brazzers and Penthouse.com. He is, in short, a bro. Yet he has said his prayers tonight. Behold! The Gainz Fairy comes to bestow upon him the fruits of his labors.

The Gainz Fairy materializes. He is huge with like twenty-two inch arms and a spray tan and little sparkly fairy wings. He holds a gigantic hypodermic needle in his hands. He rams it in the bro's ass. Dreams do come true.

A poor miscreant spends his days on bodybuilding.com, trying to increase his bench press, which has been stuck at 225 lbs for nearly a year. He types out vague queries, his language deteriorating, his patience growing thin. Why is it so goddamn hard? Why can't he look like Ronnie Coleman? All he wants in life is to have a giant muscle-man body and a tiny head to go with it. One night, however, he is blessed. The Gainz Fairy comes, bearing steroids and human growth hormone. The next day at the gym, he finally benches 230 lbs. Thanks Gainz Fairy!

Some fat slob goes to the gym week after week and finally reduces his fat to human levels. Now it's time for the gainz. He dopes himself on creatine and spiked whey protein powder. He doesn't skip leg day, but leg day is once a week, and it's really just for faggots. The fat on his arms gradually turns to muscle. He brags about his 275 lbs bench press, which is ten pounds over body weight. Eventually, he becomes an internet guru. But lo! Suddenly people want pics. They want substantial proof that he is as ripped as he says he is. So he builds an altar to the Gainz Fairy. It is beautiful and decorated with pictures of Arnold and Franco. He makes a deal with a guy for some Mexican steroids. The Gainz Fairy comes in the night, as he is wont to do. Once again, dreams, friends, do come true.

The Gainz Fairy visited me last night. He was drunk and disheveled, cursing in fairy language, stumbling over the random clutter of my room. Truth is, I was a little disappointed. He didn't quite have the separation between the heads of his deltoids I expected. His upper chest was also a little weak. But beggars can't be choosers. When the Gainz Fairy presented his offering, I took it. Only a fool wouldn't. Now, finally, after years and years, I can truly call myself swole. 

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Squatting Every Day: Nearly Fifty Days in


Nearly fifty days in, I wouldn't consider squatting every day difficult. Certainly it would be to someone unaccustomed to it, but the body adapts rapidly, and lifting daily soon feels fine. I've actually experienced less soreness than when I was training four times a week. As for the results, my squat and deadlift have certainly gone up, but by how much, I'm not sure. I don't have a power rack, so I can't truly max out on squats; I have to pick a weight that I'm almost certain I can lift. I have some nice personal records to list, however. A 325 for 5 high bar squat (I probably could've doubled this weight when I started), a 305 front squat (my max before was probably 280), a 365 for 2 low bar squat (was doubling 340 when I started), and a 460 deadlift (a five pound PR done yesterday, after not deadlifting for two weeks because of a busted shin. Since I've started, my body weight has increased by three pounds, and I've added an inch to my thighs (24 inches to 25 inches. Yes, I'll admit that I measured.). So what have I learned nearly halfway through this quest?

1. Rotate your squats daily. Learned this the first week. Variation makes squatting every day easier. Front squats are great for upper back strength and giving your legs something of a rest. High bar squats strengthen the quads more than low bar squats. Low bar squats allow you to lift a maximum weight. Pause squats build strength out of the hole. So on and so forth.

2. Rep PRs are as good as weight PRs. Hitting a new five rep max with a weight you used to be able to only double means you've gotten stronger. Higher reps build muscle. Squatting to a max is fun, but vary your rep ranges for best results.

3. Sleep is very important. I haven't been getting as much sleep as normal, and my workouts have been difficult. You need at least eight hours of sleep to train heavy every day.

4. Eat. Duh. A lot of protein, fat, and carbs. Gaining weight and heavy training go hand in hand.

5. You can do more than just squat every day. I've been doing a push/pull split along with my squats. After I hit day one-hundred, I think I'm going to bench press every day for one-hundred days. Focusing your training on a specific lift for a long period of time works.

So go forth and lift. 

Thursday, March 12, 2015

A Day in the Life of a Nihilist


Man is a self-conscious nothing. A fluke. An unnatural genetic mutation. I get out of bed and make myself a bowl of corn pops. They are delicious, but they mean nothing.

The amount of suffering that occurs during existence is infinite. Nonexistence would be preferable. Life is a gift that we did not ask for. I get so pissed when bad weather takes out my satellite because I can't watch Charmed, and, come on, twenty-year-old Shannon Doherty was smoking, am I right? Alyssa Milano wasn't bad, either.

We are puppets not aware of our strings. We hide our fears of death and meaninglessness by conjuring up benevolent deities that can't possibly exist. This is what I tell the Jehovah's Witnesses when they knock at my door. They mention that Prince is one of their congregation. I have nothing clever to say to that.

The human race should conspire to never birth another soul into existence. We must pay for our sins, our gross freakishness. This is what I tell the child I meet on the street. There seems to be no comprehension in his diminutive eyes.

I consider lighting a candle for the obscure Norwegian philosopher Peter Zapffe, but the thought of such a uselessly emotional act sickens me. I order a pizza instead with extra cheese.

Schopenhauer wrote at length about "the Will to Power." He should've written about "the Will to die," which is our only natural right. I'm thinking about getting a tattoo of a dragon on my ankle. Is that weird? It would be so cool, though.

No intelligent person refers to himself as a "nihilist." We prefer the term "pessimist." We are critics of the human race, of human ambition, of human meaning. I have a whole Youtube channel devoted to this. Will you fund my Kickstarter project? I need to eat somehow.  

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Wolf, Chapter Five




Seems like that whenever you start a new project, you initially have unlimited enthusiasm for it. I thought I was going to burn through writing this story in two months, but here we are, in March, and I'm still pecking away at it. It's fun, though. I've tried tackling a genre piece in an unconventional manner, and we'll see by the end whether or not I'm successful. Here are parts one, two, three, and four.


Chapter Five
Coming out of work, I see Jody in the parking lot. I run up to her a little too fast, and she screams when I touch her shoulder.
            “Jesus, Harry, it's you,” she says, placing a hand on her heart. “I thought I was being attacked.”
            “You want to get something to eat?” I ask, smiling. The office has felt like a prison all day long, and I'm eager to escape, to do something, anything.
            “Where at?” she asks.
            “Let's just go to the Bear. They do have decent burgers. I'm craving a burger right now. I could eat ten pounds of meat.”
            “That much, huh?” say Jody. “Don't you have to get home to your wife and kids?”
            “They're Debra's kids, not mine,” I say.
            “You sound like my boyfriend. It's hard to get him to do anything for my kids.”
            “He sounds like a winner,” I say. “Come on. I'm starving.”
            She hops in my car, and we drive to the Bear. The place is deserted as usual, but we grab a booth this time instead of sitting at the bar. We both order burgers (I order two) and beers. Jody smells wonderful beneath her perfume, the under-odor a musky, wet fragrance that has me salivating. I've noticed that I'm tasting smells more and more, finding hidden information in them, wonderful, brilliant data that I just know, like I'm psychic. For instance, I can tell that Debra is on the verge of menstruating. Jody here, is not.
            “You look like you want to eat me, Harry,” says Jody.
            “I am really hunger,” I admit.
            “For more than a burger?” she asks, smiling.
            “Definitely,” I say. We lock eyes, staring intently at each other, sending telepathic signals through the air waves. I'm all id right now, pure, hungry, driven solely by desires. The bartender dumps the food on our table like a graceless baboon and takes off without asking us anything. I stare at his back as he returns to the bar, contemplating saying something, or perhaps getting up and ramming his head into the floor until it bursts like a grapefruit.
            “That fucking asshole,” says Jody. “I know his uncle. He's in the Ku Klux Klan. Thew a brick in my yard one time with meeting info taped on it.”
            “One horse towns only have one saloon,” I say. “They have their prejudices as well.”
            “I'm sick of this place.” She paws at her burger, lifting the bun, inspecting the condiments.
            “What are you looking for?” I ask.
            “Spit. Urine. Semen.”
            “Jesus, I wouldn't have suggested this place if I knew he'd spit on the burgers.”
            “I don't know. I wouldn't put it past him,” she says. My nostrils percolate, sipping the air, focusing on our burgers. Cigarettes. Ash. Dirty hands. All held together by phlegm. I grab Jody's burger from her hands before she takes a bite and go up to the bar.
            “You spit on our burgers,” I tell the bartender.
            “What the hell you saying?” he says, looking up from polishing a glass.
            “There is phlegm mixed in with our condiments. Unless you have a big loogie jar sitting on the shelf next to the ketchup, you spit on our food.”
            “I'd never do any such thing,” he says, his upper lip curling upward, revealing yellow, cigarette-stained teeth.
            “I want our money back,” I say.
            “Why don't you get the fuck out of here, nigger,” he says. My right arm shoots out, grabbing him by the neck and pulling him out from behind the bar in one quick movement. My left fist comes down, connecting with his ugly, hillbilly teeth, bouncing the back of his head off of the floor. His eyes flutter; blood seeps from his mouth, I can taste its heavy iron scent. Jody's next to me now, looking down at the bartender lying catatonic.
            “Let's get the fuck out of here,” she says, grabbing my arm.
            “He spit on our burgers,” I explain, my hands holding his shirt collar.
            “He's a dickwad, Harry, but you don't want to be here when the cops come.”
            “Who's calling the cops?” I ask, looking around. She pulls me to my feet, and I give up, my anger vanishing as suddenly as it came. Reality sets in, circular, a world revolving around a dying star. There is a catatonic man lying on the floor. You put him in that state. We go out the door, run to my car, and take off. We drive toward the horizon, a setting sun eclipsed by Kentucky hills, spilling its purple light as though wounded. I look at Jody, and she looks at me. There's a fever in her eyes, the same one boiling beneath my skin. She points at the road, and I just keep driving. We pass acres of barren fields, plowed, devastated earth. Jody's hand crosses the space between us and unzips my pants. What are you going to get the girls for Christmas? I think suddenly. Now there's bitterness in my mouth, but I ignore it, I surrender to what I want to do, and I pull over on the side of the road and take Jody to the backseat, and we fuck like animals; she bites my lip, and I turn her around and thrust at her backside like a dog, tongue lolling from my mouth, the fever rising, boiling over, dripping from my jaws. She screams, and I scream, our hands weaving together, our breath fogging the windows, a little death in my mouth, in between my teeth, her torso writhing beneath me, and I come and she comes, and I roll out of her and fall against the back of the seats, a dried out husk, a dead, soiled thing.
            Debra is waiting when I come home. Her relief is palpable; she embraces me, sobbing. I'm confused and angry, but I don't push her away.
            “Oh my god, Harry, why didn't you call me?” she asks. “You were supposed to be home four hours ago!”
            “I'm sorry. Phone died. I couldn't find my charger,” I say.
            “You know there's a manic out there killing people. I managed to keep Chastity home thankfully. You don't know how hard that was.” She wrinkles her nose, bending her head back. “Is that perfume?”
            “A cologne,” I say, stepping away from her, heading to the bathroom. “Excuse me, honey, I really have to pee.” The girls are sitting on the couch, staring at small screens. Rufus follows me into the bathroom, wagging his tail. I can tell he's been in the trash. I wash my face and hands, but the scent of Jody won't come off, so I take a shower. The fever hasn't left me, the heat cooking my insides, the manic energy, the crazed libido. My head feels like a steaming swamp. The cut on my hand has not healed; hair grows from it, thick, greasy strands. Maybe I should go to the doctor, I think. Tell him my symptoms. Take a pill that will return everything to normal. Debra comes in and starts to say something, but I rush out of the shower, tear her clothes off, and pull her in with me. I push her up against the glass, pressing myself inside, licking her neck, nipping her ears. I am a mindless thing, a phallus that walks and salivates, a cartoon wolf chasing rushing shirts. She says nothing but small utterances, my plaything, my vapid husk of a wife. Chauvinist beast, devourer of women. What good are words when you can just fuck? Debra screams the same way Jody did; they blend together, breasts, buttocks, vaginae. The end result is an anagram of flesh.
            Later, my wife sleeps soundlessly in our bed as I stand naked by the windows, basking in the moonlight. Rufus sits next to me, staring as I do. He and I have grown closer, and I see more in him than I do some people. He licks his foot and scratches his ear, grunting, snorting. Up in the sky the moon is cratered and littered with canals, a dead planet carved from our own. I am transfixed by it; I feel like forming a religion and making sacrifices, building caves out of sticks and bones. All my life I have been a quiet man, a good citizen, the antithesis of my father. Now I want to climb out the window and rove, looking for violence, for liquor, for gambling, for pussy. Rufus whines, sensing my desire. “They've straight-jacked me,” I tell him. “I've let them do it.” I wonder if I killed that bartender. I find that I don't care.
              “Let's look at the notebook,” I say suddenly. Rufus cocks his head, his brown eyes searching. I tear myself away from the window and retrieve Hutch's journal from my safe and take it into the kitchen, where I read it by dim light. The illegible scrawl has vanished, replaced by intricate handwriting composed of curves and bleeding spirals. The words form vivid images in my eyes like the scattered tatters of a dream, and I find myself whispering to myself, unsure of what I am saying, unable to stop.
            We ask it what we are made for; it tells us,
            Painting the altar with the blood of men,
            Its words falling from the darkness
            Like heavy stone upon their heads.
            What will they give? we ask.
            It takes their flesh and stretches their skins,
            Making an idol of their bones,
            Feasting on their hearts
            As though its hunger can ever be sated.
            We have our answer, watching the shadows dance,
            Hearing it rumble in the depths,
            Smelling smoke and feeling fire.
            Our features change and we leave our families behind,
            We go into the forest, wearing the heads of wolves,
            A churning sea in our bellies,
            The taste of iron in our mouths,
            Our fingers long and lean,
            Our teeth stony daggers yearning for flesh,
            Our past behind us, buried in the cave,
            Proffered bones for it to lick and clean.
            You have done what I have done,
            And what others have done before us.
            There is no shame in eating the heart of another.
           

Monday, March 9, 2015

Mr. Redlegs Cometh


Hidey ho there, friends. It is I, Mr. Redlegs, giver of joy and breaker of bones. Do you know what time it almost is? Baseball time! Once again I shall be free to prance about the confines of Great American Ballpark, searching for pliable souls. The father and son bond will be tested, as will the resolve of the ballparkgoer to pay premium prices for bud light. DID YOU KNOW SOME CALL BASEBALL A CHILDREN'S GAME? Were it up to Mr. Redlegs, they would see the light and then nothing else. Let us preview the 2015 season to see what trials and tribulations face your Cincinnati Reds.

Question 1: Can the Reds come back from injury? Oh yea of little faith! I have personally bound together the fragments of Joey Votto's meniscus with shark cartilage and virgin's blood. Joey Ballgame's slugging percentage will rebound or heads will roll! I can't say the same for Jay Bruce. He lacked the resolve to continue with the procedure. I swear to the Christian god, however, if I hear Marty Brennaman complain about RBI's one more time, I'm going to crucify that leathery old ponce. No one gives a shit about your golf game either, Marty. Remember, I know the secret you possess. Remember your boy, Marty. Look to the stars.

Question 2: Can Cincinnati fans hold it together all season? Look, I understand Cincinnati's close proximity to Kentucky. There are bound to be a few bad apples. Mr. Redlegs has come to terms with the fact that a significant percentage of his fanbase is composed of toothless hillbillies whose IQs measure in double digits. Sure, you get the stray 100 or so every so often, but that Kentuckian is from Louisville or some other bastion of decency in that terrible state. Mr. Redlegs asks that all fans keep their concession stand visits to a two trip maximum, and that they have the courtesy to wait until the inning is finished before lumbering to fill their gullets with hobo shi... I mean Skyline Chili. Please keep the racial slurs to a minimum, Kentuckians. Exercise your right to free speech at UK games.

Question 3: Will someone do something about the ghost of Marge Schott? Shottzie still craps all over the place. Only Mr. Redlegs can see it because of his strong connection with the spirit world. Everyone should have pity for Mr. Redlegs. Sometimes Marge will follow him and say crazy things. You think she was nuts in life? Try walking a day in Mr. Redlegs' shoes.

Question 4: YOU WILL BOW TO ME AND WORSHIP AT THE ALTAR OF MY MUSTACHE, PATHETIC HUMAN CREATURE! WHEN THE MOON IS FULL AND RED, THE SEED SHALL BE PLANTED! BEHOLD, THE WOMB OF ROSIE SHALL BIRTH AN HEIR, AND HE SHALL BE BEAUTIFUL AND GLISTENING WITH PROMISE! ALL WILL BOW TO HIM AND CALL HIM KING!

Let's have a good season, folks. Brought to you by John Morrell & Co.

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Wolf, Chapter Four


I think this thing's going to end up as a novella, so I had the idea of bundling it with In the Depths of the Valley, for which I've never found a publisher. Here are chapters one, two, and three.


Chapter Four
A man in a cheap suit sits alone in a diner, intermittently sipping his coffee while viewing documents on his tablet computer. The diner isn't busy; it's never busy, really, not in this town, with its aging population. The man passed many miles of corn fields as he drove here, each mile identical to the next except for the rollercoaster slope of the hills. There is a casino down by the river, with a buffet and a couple chain restaurants, but the man prefers small establishments, finding them to be closer to the heart of a town, and it is the heart, after all, that he is after, the rhythmic pulse that is either pounding in cardiac arrest or lulling itself to a sleepy death. After a few minutes in the diner, he guesses that the latter is the case. The waitress comes by and refills his coffee; he gives her a quick look, dismissive, judging her with a glance. She is fat and saggy-jowled, her hair defying gravity with the aid of a liter of cheap hairspray, the odor of cigarettes wafting from her bosom like a natural, cancerous perfume. “What can I get ya?” she asks, her notepad rising from her apron. He looks back at the menu lying untouched on the table and then at the waitress. Her lipstick is a purplish shade like bruised flesh.
            “Eggs,” he says.
            “Scrambled, hard, or over easy?” asks the waitress.
            “Over easy,” says the man.
            “It comes with toast too. You want any jam?”
            “Sure,” says the man.
            “You work for the government?” she asks, suddenly, putting down her notepad.
            “Sort of,” says the man. “I'm a contractor.”
            “You ain't here about taxes, are ya?”
            “Nope,” says the man.
            “It's them murders by the school and over in that burb, ain't it?” she asks.
            “I'm not at liberty to say,” replies the man. “But if you have any information, then I'd be happy to hear it.”
            “You ain't a reporter? The cops don't want anyone to talk to reporters. You got a card?”
            The man reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a business card. The waitress takes it in her hand.
            “How you say that? Kar-wah-skee?”
            “That's my number there, if you have anything you'd like to tell me.”
            “They couldn't cover it up, you know, not with those photos being put on the internet. It looked like somebody put those people through a combine. I wouldn't have thought it was real, but I know the coroner, and I knew Linda, and she ain't around no more, that's the truth. She was a beautiful woman, Mr. If I knew anything but rumors, I'd tell ya.” The waitress puts the card in her apron pocket.
            “I'll listen to rumors,” says the man. “What the most outrageous one?”
            “That it ain't a man but an animal that's killing people. The corn might be acid-proof, but I've seen stray dogs running round, and they don't last too long. They don't even hand out hunting permits for the deer no more, 'cause the birth rate's so low, and the ones that live are so sickly-looking.”
            “You don't think an animal could adapt to the ash, to the acid?” asks the man. “There's evidence that several species are evolving in order to survive inexplicable atmospheric phenomena.”
            “I don't know nothing 'bout that,” says the waitress. “You want me to put this in?”
            “Please,” says the man.    
            He watches her walk to the counter, the smell of cigarette lingering behind like an unwanted guest. Outside, two men are taking a chainsaw to an old oak tree full of rotten limbs. A courthouse lies across the street, a red-brick, white columned edifice that has extensive acid rain damage. A dead town, he thinks. According to his report, the casino is nearing bankruptcy, having been displaced by rival businesses closer to high density population centers. No one wants to drive out to the boonies to gamble, not since the golf course closed due to the difficulties of golfing in hazmat suits. He pulls out a photograph printed off the internet. It shows the ragged corpse of a woman, her chest cavity torn out, her organs devoured, her head held on to her body by a few thins strands of flesh. The heart, of course, was consumed first; none of his information tells him this, but he has dealt with this sort of case often enough to recognize the signs. Note the muddied ground and large dog-like tracks. A clump of black fur lies near the body, greasy, with thick, long hairs. A witness reports seeing a tall figure lurking in the vicinity of the body; it fled on all fours when a light was shined in its direction. The question is not what but who. The school where the second murder took place is close to the burb enclave. It would be logical to assume that the murder lives in the burb or near it. Cameras would have to be installed immediately without alerting any of the residents. It cannot know; whether or not it is cognizant of what it is, the instinct of self-preservation is always present. He'd made that mistake before, treating it like an animal, and after four deaths and a mauling, he'd learned his lesson.
            His eggs arrive, delivered by the waitress, who refills his coffee and vanishes silently, already gossiping, he thinks, with her colleagues behind the bar. He digs in; he is a hearty eater, though not quite a glutton. The coffee is bland but hot. He looks back at the woman suddenly; she is whispering something to an overweight blonde with bright blue eyelids. It could be her, of course. That's the difficulty with these sort of cases—anybody is a suspect. The last time he had to deal with a 509, the perpetrator turned out to be an eighty-year-old woman. That was in Wyoming, and the circumstance of her infection was still not understood, but it may have been a family tradition. He made a note to check out the older families in the region.
            The man gets up, puts his tablet in a suitcase, leaves a decent tip (twenty-five percent), and exits the diner. He holds the door open for an elderly man with an enormous mole growing on his pale face. The old man says nothing, just looks at him briefly as though he were the doorman and shuffles inside. Very friendly, the man thinks, walking to his car, a cheap, black sedan. He sits in it with the motor running for a while, looking blankly down the street. The smell of cloves comes to him, rushing his nostrils, summoning a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He looks down at his hands and sees the scars, the lines that mark where the flesh was torn ragged. His shoulder pops as he buckles his seat belt, blinking back memories. Why do I do this? he thinks. He remembers the process, nothing more, machine-like, a cold, hard eater of data. In his trunk are handcuffs, a knife, a bottle of flunitrazepam, and a ring-bound copy of a book entitled Al-Azif. A forty-ounce can of beer sits in a brown sack on the floor of the passenger's side. The man shakes his head, puts the car in gear, and heads toward the burb enclave.
            This town looks like any other. Empty streets, dilapidated buildings. Smoke oozing from the river, creating a noxious cloud. He watches as a teenage girl pushes a baby in a stroller down the sidewalk, sans mask, the infant unshielded. What can you do, though? It's likely that her tenement lacks the necessary filtration system to protect her and her child. A bill requiring air recyclers in all dwellings failed to pass Congress again, despite heavy public support, because the funding simply wasn't there. People want their air breathable, but they don't want to increase taxes. He hates politics with a passion. The worst people are politicians. Sometimes, he thought that anyone with an opinion was a politician. Why can't we all be dead and glass-eyed? He shakes his head again, trying to keep focus.
            The burb is a nice homogenous community. All the houses specially designed to prevent the penetration of ultraviolent rays and corrosive particles. Dome-shaped roofs, great fans swirling in the center, silently slicing through the air. Window shades drawn, the glass unbreakable. A security guard checking people in an out, opening the ten-foot-tall gates. He pulls his car up to the booth, rolls down his window, and hands the guard his badge.
            “What is the reason for your visit?” he asks, handing the man back his badge. He's a tall fella, close-cropped hair, a little thick around the waist. A physique built with donuts and cheeseburgers. Pale, big-teethed, a slight twang to his query. Doesn't like people he doesn't know. Might not like anyone. Might not like himself.
            “You always ask cops questions?” the man replies, looking the guard in the eyes.
            “Just need something to write down in the log book,” says the guard. “FBI, huh? That oughta reassure some of the residents.”
            “I'm just going to ask some questions,” says the man. The gates swing open; he enters the forbidden city. It is tiring, always asking questions. All he ever does is look people in the eyes and ask them goddamn questions. The fake badge sits in his wallet, waiting to be shown to a pair of questioning eyes. One of these days it's going to fall apart, he thinks. He'll just have to make another.
            He does a sweep of the community, observing the homes. Hard to tell one from another. The lawns are manicured, pumped full of nitrates, the grass a GMO resistant to inexplicable atmospheric phenomena. Evergreen even when the sun doesn't shine. Comes with the property, cared for by the crack maintenance crew of illegal immigrants. He stops suddenly, picking a random house, parking on the street. Out he goes, straightening his tie, a mask placed over his mouth, an umbrella over his head. He knocks on the door, three quick taps. A small dog yips inside, something cross and probably spoiled to fatness. The door cracks open. Eyes peer out.
            “Yeah?” asks the homeowner.
            “Kurt Karwoski, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he says, extending his badge. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
            “About what?” says the man.
            “Could I come in?” he asks.
            “Yeah, just let me put the damn dog up.” The door opens seconds later, and the man walks into the house. It's a nice place, of course, like any one of these burb homes. Programmable walls and furnishings that change color according to the owner's preference. Rectangular shard chandeliers hanging from the ceiling like ornaments suspended from heaven. The omnipresent televisions, flickering on the living room wall and in the kitchen. He spots the dog, an obese pug, glowering at him from behind a baby gate. It makes rumbling sounds like a little volcano, but its owner shushes it and motions toward the couch. They both sit on it.
            “Ron Hernandez,” says the home owner, offering his hand. The man shakes it. Ron is a stocky middle-aged man of Latino descent dressed in sweatpants and a baggy hooded sweatshirt that says Ball State across the chest.   
            “What's one of these babies cost you a month? I'm thinking of moving out of my apartment and into a burb,” says the man.
            “I arranged a sixty-year mortgage,” says Ron. “So my rate's half the usual. But the kicker's that the debt transfers to my kids. They'll be able to pay it, though. And if they can't, hell, I'd rather they grow up with healthy lungs than get cancer in their twenties. You know how it is.” He gesticulates, his hands moving through the air in graceful motions. The man thinks of paper airplanes. Fragile. Dying toward the earth.
            “You got anything to drink?” asks the man.
            “This is about the murders, isn't it?” asks Ron.
            “I'll have a beer if you got one. Unless it's light beer. I can't drink light beer,” explains the man.
            “I don't take Charles out to piss with out my prod,” says Ron, motioning to an electric shock prod lying on the coffee table. “That thing could bring a horse to cardiac arrest.”
            “Heard any strange noises? Moaning, shouting, growls, howls, even?” asks the man.
            “Where?” asks Ron.
            “Under the bed. In the closet. Outside.”
            “These walls are sound-proof. I can't hear a car pull up. That might be part of the problem, you know. You don't know if a maniac is waiting outside unless he knocks on the door.”
            “Has a maniac knocked on your door?” asks the man.
            “Charles would tell me if one did. He knows people, the little shit. He's judge and jury all in one. Look at him there, eyeing us. Look at that little black pushed-in face. Try to lie to that face. You can't. It's impossible.”
            “Where are your wife and kids?” asks the man.
            “Work and school. We try to spend as much time apart as we can. You don't need to talk to them, do you?”
            The man gets up, looks the place over again, and walks into the kitchen. Ron sits on the couch, watching him, nervous. The man opens his refrigerator and grabs an orange bottle covered in Chinese hieroglyphics.
            “Can I have this?” he asks, opening the lid and taking a drink.
            “Yeah, I guess,” says Ron.
            “You pay your taxes?” he asks, after draining half the bottle.
            “You work for the IRS too?”
            “I moonlight. I'm a jack-of-all trades. Listen, you have anything to report, give me a call. Here's my card.” He places it on the coffee table.
            “This is a nice community,” says Ron, as though uttering the statement will make it true. “I sacrificed a lot to live here.”
            “Don't be a stranger,” says the man, letting himself out. Little Charles watches him go, his round face placid, contemplating hidden truths.
... 
            The man comes back at night. He brings a small collapsible step ladder with him which he positions behind a hedge row. The problem with this approach is that he'll have to improvise once he's inside; he can't bring the ladder with him. He's dressed in dark blue, carrying a heavily-loaded backpack. I'm too goddamn loud, he thinks as he vaults over the fence, landing poorly on his ankle, straining it. On his hip is the knife, the gun in the backpack, for what good it'll do him. Silver particle-plated polyester underclothes should keep him odorless, but this isn't a hunting mission. He's just gathering intel like a good little automaton, performing his routine, mindlessly adhering to the plan. What happens when it all goes to hell? he thinks. Defeatism, or more accurately, fatalism, hung around his neck like a heavy chain. He moves along the fence line, shunning the sodium lights brightening the street, heading toward the park, crouched and slinking, a thief, he thinks, but really just an actor. Briefly he stops to watch a tumorous raccoon waddle toward a trash bin. A nice night for a snack, he thinks, sucking the air through his mask. Maybe one day people would walk down the street like this raccoon, carrying their protuberances in their hands or on carts, the great irony of man's destructive nature made explicit. Is that irony? he wonders, looking up into the night's sky. A few dim stars sparkle, leaving faint evidence of their existence. “I am a fatalist,” he whispers, his legs moving independent of his unthinking mind. No one tears their door down as he passes. No howling is heard. He soon reaches the park trail and crawls into the bush on his belly, sliding like a snake, the smell of the earth rich and fertile with disease. Lying on his guts, he sees the tree, a great pine rising above the tree line, facing the burb enclave. It's probably watching me right now, he thinks, feeling gooseflesh prickle his skin. Still, he doesn't move, nor does his heart rate rise substantially. Either it is here, watching, waiting, or it is not. The moon is not full, but that doesn't mean a lot, he's fairly certain of this. Crawl, he mouths, and he does, slithering slowly, making tiny progress. It would wait by the road, he assumes, or travel on it, wanting the woods but unwilling to abandon its human pathways, its human routine. When he is close to the tree, he leaps up and grabs the nearest branch and swings himself up, climbing fast, trying to gain height as quickly as possible. Nothing beats at the bark or snaps at his feet. Goddamn he hates the waiting.
            At the top he can see the whole burb enclave, lying asleep like a dead city, nothing moving, all cars parked securely in their garages. It appears to be a model city, identical, he knows, to countless others spread across the country. He puts his hand in a bird's nest accidentally and nearly loses his footing. In the past he would've waiting up here all night, a silent sentry, immune to the effects of weariness and discomfort. The camera comes out and attaches to a top branch. It's a sophisticated piece of equipment, capable of streaming a week's worth of live video to his computer, if its battery lasts that long. He'll have to climb back up here to get it, which is a pain, but hopefully by then he won't have to worry about being eaten alive or disemboweled. If that's what's supposed to happen, then so be it. Christ, why not just a heart attack? Something quiet and relatively painless. Does a death say something about a life? Who gives a flying fuck. Beneath him something crashes through the bushes, grunting, snorting, churning up dead earth. An aneurism sounds nice, kind of like a holiday. His uncle died of an aneurism. Maybe it is genetic. It is digging a hole right under him, its fingers flinging dirt up into the air, giggling, growling, gnashing teeth. What do you got there, doggy, a nice bone? This is a living memory and sometimes those are hard to separate from the others. He could try to shoot it from here, put a bullet in its brain, but he can't see anything, it could be a dog or a hobo or a goddamn leprechaun, and he would be just another madman firing blindly into the darkness. He hears tongue clicks and then a whistle followed by a long, deep moan. A familiar sound, unfortunately. Iowa, four years ago, trapped in a tree just like this, with a monster prowling around the base, waiting, waiting, sniffing and growling and complaining that he wouldn't come down and become food. It started to climb the tree when it realized he wasn't coming down, its great yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, hugging the trunk and pulling itself up like a bear. He let it get very close, the beast, close enough for him to see the ivory gleam of its teeth, and then he lashed out with a machete, severing its fingers and sending it plummeting to its death. That was a long night, though, wanting it crawl up the tree, listening to its utterances, fight the terror that grew in his stomach and spread into his limbs. When he lashed out with the weapon he was surprised. It wasn't a premeditated event. It just happened, independent of thought.
            Now there's nothing under the tree. He's sure of it. Quickly, he climbs down, the knife in-between his teeth, his hands moving like an ape's. There no hole on the ground, no evidence of the beast, no confirmation that what he heard actually occurred. This is somehow worse; it means that he's losing it, fading into the past, or maybe even the future. He creeps out of the woods and back to the subdivision, stealing a solid metal trashcan from the street to use as a stand. He overcomes the fence, jumping from the trashcan, barely pulling himself over. On the other side he returns to his car and sits in it awhile, drinking a beer in paper sack, images dancing on the windshield, ugly shapes, distorted, vague and full of dark promise. After maybe an hour he turns the key and puts it into gear. What do I have that he does not? he thinks. He doesn't know what he means or what he's talking about.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Have You Seen the Yellow Sign?


Have you seen the yellow sign? Jesus, I have. I read this play called The King in Yellow and now it's like I'm trapped in a Tom Waits' song. A man with cauliflower ears and no fingers on his left hand just moved into the apartment next to mine. He claims that he's a repairer or reputations, whatever the hell that is. He is constantly being attack by a feral cat. I'm thinking about calling Animal Control. That thing is dangerous.

Did you know that the government approved suicide chambers? I saw some goth kids waiting in line. They were texting on their phones and smoking cigarettes while drinking coffee. Some last meal, eh? At least they weren't listening to music. I don't know if Robert Smith's wail would be the last thing I'd want to hear.

I knew this artist who invented a miracle solution that turns living things to beautiful marble. He lost his melancholy lover who decided to take a dip. I guess she forgot to take her Prozac. I told him I'd buy the statue from him, but he looked at me as though I were insane.

Maybe I am insane. I'm starting to think that my church watchman looks like a worm. Like a pale, squirming grave grub. I spoke to the cockney kid that lives nearby, and he says that the man is missing a finger. It just fell off, I guess. What's up with all these people and their missing digits? I half expect a carnival to pull into town at any minute, the ringleader a midget in a top hat riding the shoulders of an enormous, mentally-handicapped man.

Oh, to not hear the screaming of sweet Camilla through the dim streets of Carcosa. To not see the black stars rising in the Hyades. The tattered yellow robes of the king stretch beyond the limits of time and dimension. I see the yellow sign plastered on buildings, hanging from windows, engraved on the flesh of strangers.

Why the hell does sparknotes not have a decent summary of the King of Yellow? I really don't want to read that goddamn thing again.


Monday, March 2, 2015

Sonny Imagines a World of Chocolatey Awesomeness


Mount Everest is 23,622 feet tall! What if it were made entirely of chocolate! Imagine freezing to death at that elevation on an mountain of pure chocolate! That just screams chocolatey goodness.

Usain Bolt is the world's fastest man! He can run the 100 meter dash in 9.58 seconds! How fast could you go if the track were made of chocolate? Probably not that fast since chocolate is sticky and melts in warmer temperatures.

The Nile river is the world's longest river system at 4,132 miles. Imagine floating down a river of chocolate! Could you still get dysentery from drinking a chocolate river? Would fish be able to swim in it? Who cares! It's made of yummy chocolate!

At 98 feet, the blue whale is the world's largest animal. It also has the world's largest penis at 10 feet long and 14 inches wide. Could you picture a chocolate penis of those dimensions? Sonny would have to reconsider his position on interspecies intercourse! It would be a challenge to not lick such a thing of pure chocolatey goodness!

  
The great pacific plastic vortex is estimated to be larger than Texas! Once again, I have to wonder what the implications would be if it were entirely composed of chocolate! Deliciousity would occur, I fear. Give me a year and a suitable craft and all that chocolate would vanish! If everything were made of chocolate, the world's problems could all be solved by one cartoon cuckoo bird!

The world's population is estimated to be 7.125 billion people! What if they were all made of chocolate? Sonny would turn serial murder, that's what would happen! You can bet he'd keep the population in check!

I LOVE CHOCOLATE. PLEASE, GOD, SOMEBODY HELP ME. BIRDS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO LIVE ON CHOCOLATE. I AM GOING INSANE.
 

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Dude Looks Like a Lady


Yeah, that's me up there. Vince Neil, circa 1980 whatever. I guess I do kind of look like a lady. I don't know who was designing my outfits back then. Red leather pants. Some studs. The scraps of a shirt. And then that hair. Christ. You know how much hair spray was involved creating that do? I think I got more brain damage from Aquanet than hard drugs. Fuck, I know it. And look at those gloves. What am I, a motorcross driver? All in all, I look like the concubine of the Humongous in Mad Max.

I used to get picked up by both men and women in those days. Steven Tyler made a pass at me, back when he didn't look like the swamp thing with bitch tits. Man, the eighties were cool. Prince was the shit. Everybody did cocaine. Your mom, your dad, your uncle Larry. Hell, grandma was in the bathroom doing lines off of the counter. Ozzie was snorting anthills. Christ, Ozzie. What have you become, man? Sharon has to wipe his ass and spoon food into his mouth. That's why you don't marry a succubus.


This is me now. I look like somebody's dad who sleeps on the beach and calls everybody "dude." You know what, though? I'm rich as fuck. I own an arena football team. Strip clubs. Bars. I show up in the occasionally sitcom. I do what your dad would do if he had unlimited cash. Still, I long for the eighties. I've purchased three time machines and they all turned out to be shit. I'm currently trying to bribe Elon Musk and Stephen Hawking to put their giant brains together and get me back to where I belong. Because I don't belong here. Not me.

Cell phones. The internet. Rap music. All things I hate. Take me back to the paradise city, baby. I might bring Axle with me. He wasn't as big of an asshole back then. Maybe we can change the present. Kill Kurt Cobain before he offs himself and starts all this grunge shit. Man, music used to be fun! Rock 'n' Roll used to be about dressing up as a chick and puking all over strippers and putting makeup on your face. No more. Christ.

If anybody knows how to make a time machine, I will pay you my millions. Hit me up at Girlsgirlsgirls69@hotmail.com. I gotta go. There's a hotdog out there with my name on it.