But Wait! There's More!

The gods were not happy. They were not happy at all. Well, most of them were not happy. Jake, god of wine, women, and rock was still passed out and probably wouldn’t have cared anyway. In fact he probably would have just raised the devil horns on his right hand and exclaimed, “That is so punk rock.” Which he will do later on when he wakes up and has the story told to him by three naked virgins soon to be deflowered in a swimming pool of grain alcohol. But everyone else was pissed. This was the second time this week that Jeff Krol had stolen the flaming surfboard.

Jeff Krol, however, couldn’t give a fuck. He was too busy jamming on his guitar (fashioned from Satan’s own third skull so that it rocks harder than a masturbating ninja) and cruising around scenic Buffalo, New York picking up classy ladies to have sex with on the flaming surfboard and then leave at some random street corner where they may or may not be able to find their way home but won’t care because they just fucked the man himself. But then he saw the most heinous sight imaginable and couldn’t contain his rage. He stopped the rocking, stopped the cruising, stopped the fucking hot bitches, and straight up killed Matthew McConaughey with his thumbs in thirteen different and equally graphic ways. That will teach him to steal all the high school girls. Fucker. And then the real rocking began. Jeff Krol flew his flaming surfboard to exactly 1004 ft above the center of exquisite downtown Buffalo, very close to the HSBC Arena in fact, and proceeded to wail so hard on his guitar that every pane of glass shattered into three or more pieces even the bullet proof glass and shatter proof glass and a lot of miscellaneous plastic too. He wailed for no less than three hours while having a marathon sexcapade with a young 23 year old lady who he promised he would introduce to his connections in “the biz” later on that evening but who he would really just kick off the flaming surfboard after he was through rocking and watch her ignite and then fall to her horrific yet amusing death. What a man. What a man.

Better Nate than Lever; or, I left my harp in Sam Tran’s Disco and other antecedent lacking punchlines

We are all equally blameless.

good/bad/indifferent names for bands I came up with in five minutes

the good/bad/indifferents

Ezra Jetson, God of Rocks

Sunday Morning Exit Strategy

Brannigan’s Law

Bender is the Greatest

Unfortunate Tuesday

Afternoon Junky Dogpile

Toothpaste and Lies

the i coudn't think of anything betters

dialogue in one part (further development possible)

Hey. (Tosses beer)

Hey. (Catches beer, opens, drinks)

Sorry bout waking you up

Nah, man. Thanks for that. Can’t really afford to miss any more work.

Yeah. Taks ain't in yet. So you’re good.

Solid.

Bad night?

Eh. The usual.

Still hasn’t called?

Nope. (Finishes beer, cracks second.)

Fuck, man.

I know. (sighs, laments, fades to gray)

For Jeffrey Scott, in accordance with his wishes

In the crowd, in the story, but not of it.

Somehow we lost all the mystery in the world. Left it behind maybe as we hurtled headlong into the post-industrial post-capitalist post-postmodern iWorld.

Sage advice: learn to accept that sometimes you just won’t be able to remember.

Jacques Nouveau

Marcel Duchamp flipped over a urinal and called it art. I pissed in it because I was drunk and didn’t call it anything.

Deconstructing myself. Create an overarching absurdist surreal existential metanarrative the main characters of which will be a cat and a pair of brown shoes. Life continues.

There is nothing more detrimental to furthering the goals of society than pigeons. Not only do they “plot in secrecy” (Simon, Bookends) but they are miserable fucking bastards too. Going directly our reporter, a pair of old shoes left near a statue of a forgotten hero, we have this story:

Having served my purpose of covering the feet of a young writer/philosopher/poet/drunk/failure for a select period of time as was deemed appropriate (I found myself worn out and not longer fashionable), I was thrown out. In a despondent state I do not know what next happened to me or how I was transferred from a cheap black trash bag so full of holes as to be almost entirely useless but at least it served as an expedient and a means of getting the trash and me from the apartment to the curb to my current (or any possibly intervening) state. Rum soaked months later (for I did notice the surprising passing of seasons) I woke to a bitch of a hangover and minus one lace to find myself at the oxidized foot of this most noble of forgotten and unremarkable heroes. Then there were pigeons. I hate them.

Remarkable. Do you have a position, Cat? Ah, I see that we are out of time. We will convey the smiles and ridicule of the cat at some later date. Thank you for your consideration, and on the way home be sure to fornicate yourself with a decorative (fake decorative not quaint decorative or Orientalist decorative; and metal if possible) tree if you didn’t thoroughly enjoy the presentation.

( )

damn you, cineplex

The world is a dreadful, snarling place: umbilical … and choking. I left at last and laughed --/

Going to town on a Sunday is no more work than any other day, but the trains run different and the people are different and the rules change even though I don’t ... seem ... to.

The good mischief or the bad? The same in the the end or yesterday’s gone (tuesday) is the same day bleeding together like so many wasted corpses left out in the sun (to tan). Life is wasted on the living, as with everything else. and trying to figure it out is just so much wasted time and space and paper and language games that aren’t any fun and have no set rules and no one even gets drunk there isn’t a point take off your clothes or throw a pie or take a couple shots already!

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS!!?!! no. should i? it didn’t strike me as being important. in the least.

There was a story told in olden days about a man who went to market armed to the teeth but lacking severely in funds. He rolled into town without a care in the world just as the sun was cresting its peak in the glassy blue heavens; he probably was smiling a toothy grin (though one cannot be certain on this point). He killed one shopkeep and threatened the rest, ultimately leaving with all the goods that he desired (or at least as many as he could carry) proceeding to his hideout in the woods. Unbeknownst to him but knownst to us, the men from the market and the village and the surrounding farms got themselves together a posse/lynch mob and went after the murdering son of a bitch. Of course they all died because most farmers and townspeople are shit with the fighting (having only their young hos, sighs, and Satan’s hay tridents to fight with), the hideout was heavily fortified as per standard criminal forethought and as previously stated (in case you forgot or weren’t paying attention the first time) the man was a murdering son of a bitch. Lesson learned.

Chester A. Arthur used to be my hero, but now

“Now, that is a devil’s cup right there.”

I considered killing myself again. Or him. I think I would much rather kill him. But it would be far less economical. The world would replace him without trouble and I would have wasted a bullet on an assembly line douche. If I shot myself the game would be over. Simple. Mostly. I put the gun away and went back to listening to “Stairway.”

//

my thoughts come in fragments. they can build on each other, if i choose to take them in a particular direction for a while, but they are always undercutting each other. they are always subversive, as if they don't want me to take any one path, go too far down any one road. "It's my nature." - the Scorpion.

something about consistency. a story then.

In the half light of dawn, James almost mistook his hat for the garbage can and threw up in it anyway.

//

"To be a rock and not to roll." - the Led

the dancings of yesteryear

Napoleon V looked out over the abyss, over all of his creation. A rictus of a smile warped his scarred visage, his pulse and breathing quickened, his eyes furtively darting up and down the alley to see if he was being watched, he knew he was being watched, someone was always watching – and he ejaculated over the blood soaked corpse of the stray dog, finishing the desecration. He cleaned up slowly, deliberately, with a causal indifference and then, with an air of wicked confidence, moved back into the jostling crowds that wanted nothing to do with him, that he could never fully escape.

(and besides, it was a newspaper)

&c.

"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, the skulls of small children, and petrified cobblestones. The road to Heaven is an unpaved switchback up a nearly sheer rock face difficult to traverse without the assistance of a pack mule or mountain goat." - Isaac Aronson, Ramblings with Bacchus and Enoch

The Glorious Return of Napoleon V

will happen soon, but not just now.

instead, this:

On the way back to my cube from the pisser passing an attractive young resident of some other box in this soul crushing labyrinth I contemplate whether I should: a) act out a scene from Dilbert (though none come to mind quickly enough), b) find some means of articulating my sexual desire (the more effective in soliciting direct action the better), or c). I get back to back to my chair before a third idea arises and forget the whole thing.

You, you who once had dreams. Of glory, of passion, of life par excellence, or maybe just of writing something that people would read. But now what? This? This is what it has come to? Fine. I accept my fate as it is given me. If this be the choice that you would make, so be it. I am free. You are not the architect of my destiny. The hawk marks the passage to NoTime.

***
"Do what thou wilt." - Rabelais, Dashwood, Crowley.

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