"You take the butch. I'll take the book."
"Why do you always get the book. Just for once I'd like to get the book. It's no fair!"
"Quit your fucking whining you piece of shit. I'm gonna smack your face and make it look like a blueberry pancake."
"Ok."
Monday, December 15, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Pondering the Pope
I am thinking of resurrecting The Blog That Makes No Sense (TBTMNS).
It came to me in a dream. In this dream The Blog That Makes No Sense was disguised as my father. My father (really TBTMNS) was riding atop a llama. He spoke to me in Gaelic. I did not understand.
The llama snorted. My father spit. A child cried.
He looked down at me and spoke in French. I understand French. He said to me (this is translated from the French): "You must bring it back. The French Fries are at war and Richard Simmons is crying."
I awoke with a tear in my eye, a stranger in my bed, and a certainty that one only feels when nature calls.
I am yours, TBTMNS. I will not leave you, ignore you nor exploit you for money or free passes to Check E Cheese.
It came to me in a dream. In this dream The Blog That Makes No Sense was disguised as my father. My father (really TBTMNS) was riding atop a llama. He spoke to me in Gaelic. I did not understand.
The llama snorted. My father spit. A child cried.
He looked down at me and spoke in French. I understand French. He said to me (this is translated from the French): "You must bring it back. The French Fries are at war and Richard Simmons is crying."
I awoke with a tear in my eye, a stranger in my bed, and a certainty that one only feels when nature calls.
I am yours, TBTMNS. I will not leave you, ignore you nor exploit you for money or free passes to Check E Cheese.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Greatful Dead
Sadness makes my happy. Anger makes me calm. Fear makes me brave. Anxiety makes me want to punch circus clowns in their faces. Music makes me want to dance. Thunder makes me want to run outside in nothing but a Rachel Ray branded apron and let the rain fall upon my shrunken head like bocce balls raining down on an ant hill.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Green shoots of nutrition and death
They grow and they grow and they grow. Green sprouts climbing ever towards the sun. When will the asparagus give up and return to the earth like it's cousin the pear?
DAMN YOU ASPARAGUS!
Damn you oh asparagus!!! Taint my urine. Taint my mind.
Green devils.
DAMN YOU ASPARAGUS!
Damn you oh asparagus!!! Taint my urine. Taint my mind.
Green devils.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Tonight
Tonight I am going out on the town to celebrate the anniversary of a friend's birth, some 33 long years ago.
I am sure that his mother is not celebrating this "occasion". Perhaps that is because her belly has swelled and her face has fallen sallow with the passage of time. She will spend tonight with a loaf of stale bread and a pot of boiled green beans. She'll wash it all down with cheap vodka and reconstituted milk. Then she will retire to the bedroom and lay her wrinkled face on the hard pillow she's owned since she was a little girl with grand dreams and limitless optimism. The pillow laughs at her naivety. Her soul cries. The neighbor screams. The child bites.
The beans give her gas and she rises in the night, fumbling her way towards a bathroom she's seen one too many times. She needs to relive her distended belly. Her flatulence attacks the senses, roiling the quiet night like thunder and invading the nostrils with a smell akin to boiled cabbage and rotting flesh. The moonlight catches her face, casting shadows along the deep valleys that hundreds of years and thousands of cigarettes have carved in her skin.
She lifts her head briefly from the toilet, just in time to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the dirty water. She begins to cry. The salty tears roll down her cheeks, and into the toilet. The tears follow the same path that thousands of others have followed, flowing through the flesh canyons and caverns created by her pock marked and wrinkled skin. The tears pool around the open soars on her mouth before finally toppling onto the floor.
She is thirsty. She is hungry. She is cold. She is lonely. Darkness surrounds her, both day and night. Her soul has atrophied, her body is old and used. Her mind is clouded, like her cataract covered eyes. Tomorrow is a new day, but she already knows exactly how it will unfold.
I am sure that his mother is not celebrating this "occasion". Perhaps that is because her belly has swelled and her face has fallen sallow with the passage of time. She will spend tonight with a loaf of stale bread and a pot of boiled green beans. She'll wash it all down with cheap vodka and reconstituted milk. Then she will retire to the bedroom and lay her wrinkled face on the hard pillow she's owned since she was a little girl with grand dreams and limitless optimism. The pillow laughs at her naivety. Her soul cries. The neighbor screams. The child bites.
The beans give her gas and she rises in the night, fumbling her way towards a bathroom she's seen one too many times. She needs to relive her distended belly. Her flatulence attacks the senses, roiling the quiet night like thunder and invading the nostrils with a smell akin to boiled cabbage and rotting flesh. The moonlight catches her face, casting shadows along the deep valleys that hundreds of years and thousands of cigarettes have carved in her skin.
She lifts her head briefly from the toilet, just in time to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the dirty water. She begins to cry. The salty tears roll down her cheeks, and into the toilet. The tears follow the same path that thousands of others have followed, flowing through the flesh canyons and caverns created by her pock marked and wrinkled skin. The tears pool around the open soars on her mouth before finally toppling onto the floor.
She is thirsty. She is hungry. She is cold. She is lonely. Darkness surrounds her, both day and night. Her soul has atrophied, her body is old and used. Her mind is clouded, like her cataract covered eyes. Tomorrow is a new day, but she already knows exactly how it will unfold.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Frankenstein comes to town
Knock Knock!
Who can be knocking at my door on such a day? It is raining and my stoop has been washed away by the dam break. Oprah is yelling for more Oreos and my cat disapproves of Republicans and French maitre d's named Pierre with lisps and lazy eyes.
Who can be knocking at my door on such a day? It is raining and my stoop has been washed away by the dam break. Oprah is yelling for more Oreos and my cat disapproves of Republicans and French maitre d's named Pierre with lisps and lazy eyes.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Thanks Alot
How come no one ever told me that it was unsafe to put my hand in a blender? Don't you know that in today's day and age it is not my responsibility to take care of myself but YOURS??????!
You will be hearing from my lawyer.
You will be hearing from my lawyer.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
One day long ago, when I was a child, I asked my one legged father a question. I said "Daddy, what's a carny?"
I was holding my father's hand, walking down a dirt road. Poplar trees lined both sides of the secluded lane, scattering the early morning sunlight and giving the impression that we were on a secluded lane in the early morning. A light coat of dew rested delicately on the fallen leaves that cushioned our steps.
I remember that when I asked my father this question I could feel his hand pull away from mine. He stopped in his track (since he had only one leg I don't feel comfortable using the plural 'tracks' here) and paused for a moment before spinning around on his peg leg to look down at me. Suddenly, I felt as if I had done something horribly wrong and I found myself wishing that I had never asked the question. I wanted things to be as they were before. Before I had asked the question, before my father had lost his leg in an arm wrestling contest, before my mother had left us for the prosthetic leg salesman.
I reached into my pocket, frantically searching for my ear plugs.
I was holding my father's hand, walking down a dirt road. Poplar trees lined both sides of the secluded lane, scattering the early morning sunlight and giving the impression that we were on a secluded lane in the early morning. A light coat of dew rested delicately on the fallen leaves that cushioned our steps.
I remember that when I asked my father this question I could feel his hand pull away from mine. He stopped in his track (since he had only one leg I don't feel comfortable using the plural 'tracks' here) and paused for a moment before spinning around on his peg leg to look down at me. Suddenly, I felt as if I had done something horribly wrong and I found myself wishing that I had never asked the question. I wanted things to be as they were before. Before I had asked the question, before my father had lost his leg in an arm wrestling contest, before my mother had left us for the prosthetic leg salesman.
I reached into my pocket, frantically searching for my ear plugs.
Song
The following song is sung to the music of Interpol's "NYC":
I had seven faces
Thought I new which one to wear
But I'm sick of spending these lonely nights
Training myself not to care
The subway is a porno
The pavements they are a mess
I know you've supported me for a long time
Somehow I'm not impressed
But
[Chorus]
New York cares
(Got to be some more change in my life)
The subway she is a porno
The pavements they are a mess
I know you've supported me for a long time
Somehow I'm not impressed
It is up to me now, turn on the bright lights
I had seven faces
Thought I new which one to wear
But I'm sick of spending these lonely nights
Training myself not to care
The subway is a porno
The pavements they are a mess
I know you've supported me for a long time
Somehow I'm not impressed
But
[Chorus]
New York cares
(Got to be some more change in my life)
The subway she is a porno
The pavements they are a mess
I know you've supported me for a long time
Somehow I'm not impressed
It is up to me now, turn on the bright lights
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