Wednesday, May 30, 2012

UMMMM… (This is going to be awkward)

I wouldn’t have texted you but I’m desperate.
I need you to do me a solid, and help me figure out whether or not I am alive. Because people have been making funny faces at me recently, and it’s not because they think I’m unique or interesting—I’m not.
You need to take a sharp object (a razorblade, a broken beer bottle, a scalpel, switchblade, exacto knife, or samurai sword are some suggestions) and split the skin in the back, front, or whatever. And dig in! Elbow deep!  And start rearranging the furniture, and feeling around. Let your fingertips go WILD!
You got to really get in there because I’m not sure what you’re looking for.
Proof. I guess.
Like a plastic wristwatch. Ordered from a cereal box with 10 UPC codes. That’s still ticking.
Or a hotplate glowing red and orange.
Or a limited edition, first generation, copy of a self-help book written by grocery store romance novel writers, printed in 1979, still in mint condition.
Or a used silicone implant of a famous celebrity, still covered in dried out bits of coveted DNA.
Or a pod of unhatched spider eggs.
I don’t really know, but you’ll have to be thorough and have a steel stomach, because it’s going to be messy, and heartbreaking. And I don’t want you puking your guts into me—there’s already enough shit inside of me + the smell of puke makes me nauseous.
You’ll need a sandwich bag to catch my ghost because it will want to move out after you’re done remodeling my insides. 
(I started believing in that paranormal shit after watching a show about it on tv where three dudes go to abandoned buildings and detect ghosts with their arm hair.)
You can do whatever you want with it after you’re done.
Put it between two pieces of bread, make a sandwich, and take it to work for lunch—it’s already in the proper bag, and I’m sure it will taste good.
Perserve it in formaldehyde.
Or just throw it out.
Either way, you’ll be compensated with vicodin and a gram of weed.
And don’t worry about the body; it’s being shipped to Nepal for a sky burial.
Please get back to me.
 And thanks.
 Thanks again.
(Even though you haven’t helped or done anything yet.)

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

prematurely giving birth behind bars while witnessing something that has never been seen before (This Could Lead to Divorce)

My bra feels like a piano wire.
Tangling around a neck.
Becoming taught.
Rubbing jugular skin raw.

It feels like I’m starting to hallucinate:

Your eyes are onions
And I’m pulling thin translucent rings
Out of your pupils
Because I hate the taste
And the smell .

That’s why I got all teary eyed
When I threw them in the garbage

*

The water broke. And he put me in handcuffs. Tightening  them way too tight. And carefully shoved me into the backseat of the car.

An amalgamation of fluids
Churning
Rustling back and forth
Against my belly button
Feels like indigestion
And I’ve taken recommended dosage of antacids
For a woman of my size
But it’s not helping.
And there’s no stopping it now:
PAIN.
“That’s it push!”
Latex gloves molesting my expanding vagina.
PAIN.
Relief?
PAIN.
Life.
I vomit out a fully formed child covered in a viscous film of half digested mash potatoes, shreds of buffalo chicken, specks of lettuce, and pieces of my personality saturated in stomach acid.
You smile behind your handheld video camera. Documenting every moment as carefully as an anthropologist in an unexplored region of the world.  Not missing a millisecond. Not paying attention. And you never held my hand or helped me breath.
“THIS HAS TO BE SOME KIND OF WORLD RECORD! WOW! AND I GOT IT ALL ON TAPE! THIS IS GOING TO BE AN INTERNET SENSATION FOR SURE!”
The doctor tries to hand him a sterile pair of scissors, but he was uploading the video on his smart phone. I grab the scalpel on the tray next to my bed and slice through the umbilical cord like it was a piece of paper.
PAIN.
“I still can’t believe I fucking got that on tape. What a fucking miracle. Right?”
The doctor tilts his grey hair down and exclaims, “Congratulations, it’s a girl.”
I readjust my body so that my back is representing my place in the conversation. It was terror twilight and rain was lapping against the pane of the hospital window before it dropped to the pavement below.
He inches closer to the doctor, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I mean, have you ever seen or heard of anything happening like that in your entire life?”
“No.”
“So this is the first documented case?”
“Yes.”
He rubs the outside his index finger over the scrubble on his chin. BINGO!
“You know this is going to make all of us fucking rich. Rich and famous! The rest of our lives our set my friend.”
He, the doctors, and the nurses, joined hands and began dancing and jumping up and down because they just won the lottery.
They put my baby in a plastic box, and left it as is because they couldn’t tamper with the evidence. It can’t be contaminated.
My husband posts the video on the internet, and it receives 50,000 views in the first three hours.
The best doctors from around the world are flying in on their private planes in order to study this strange reproductive phenomenon.
I think about the future: hours of medical tests and studies, syndicate talk shows, movie documentaries, parenthood, control, responsibilities, PTA meetings, and where I fit into all of this.
It was all his idea. And so far, he’s only touched his daughter through the movie screen.
“We are RICH! HONEY! RICH! RICH! RICH! No more office job. I can finally get whatever I want. And so could you!”
I peek over at our daughter motionless in the hodge-podge of fluids it was birthed in.
She isn’t crying, yet.
But I am, because I never wanted her.  And I never wanted to get rich. I wanted an abortion.
“I’m sorry, but she will be a carrot for the rest of her life,” the doctor said popping the cork off a champagne bottle. Foam raining down the plastic sides of the life support machine.
They go outside, imagining sports cars, awards, recognition, gold teeth, television specials, private jets, stacks of benjamins, and the American dream coming true in 2012.
Distracted.
I quietly sulk out of the bed in my hospital gown, and tiptoe over the linoleum, leaving footprints of DNA for forensic investigators to discover and collect later.
I look at my daughter. My baby carrot.
I love her, but she doesn’t deserve this:
I pick her up and cradle her close to my breast, swaying back and forth, humming a soft lullaby into her orange ear. 
I pop her into my mouth with a little bit of ranch, swallow and choke.
I will choke on her for the rest of my life.

*

Here’s some advice:
1. You’re life is not important because you get married. (The divorce rate in America is over 50%.)
2. You’re life is not important because you have the ability to reproduce.
3. You’re life is not important because you raise children.
4. You’re in jail, along with me. Life sentence.
5. And overpopulation is the number one problem in the world.

*

The jovial smell of jubilation masks the smell of bodily fluids drifting off the dirty linens in the hospital room. I bury my head in the pillow to escape the smell, and start tunneling through the center with a homemade tool made out of five scalpels and an ice cream scooper searching for daylight.

eavesdropping on customer conversations: #1

"Mom, look how tan I am."

"You're not really tan, just sunburned."

"Oh."

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

An Elederly Deli Customer Offers To Give Me Psychological Advice While Ordering A Half Pound of Cooked Ham

The other day, a short elderly lady with a cute, but very wrinkly face, asked me to slice her a half a pound of cooked ham.

"Any preference on how that is sliced?"

"Very thin."

I told her, "I'll do my best," looking straight into her blue eyes.

She smiled.

"If you don't, I tell you what the hell is wrong with you!"

 I cut each slice extra thick on purpose and moved it onto the scale.

She shook her head, pulled a pillow out of her purse, placed it on the counter of the deli case, and told me, in a reassuring voice, to "relax, lie down, and make yourself comfortable."

And I did.

She proceeded to inform me of all my chemical imbalances and psychological deficiencies, as I explained my past and present staring into the stained drop ceiling.

I got up, bagged her half pound of extra thick cooked ham, slapped the price sticker on it, handed her the bag, and she walked away, pissed, towards the bread aisle.

We really shared a moment together.

And I'll never forget it.

Honestly.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

i didn't go to my college graduation (i got my diploma in the mail)

It doesn't make me happy when people shake my one hand and put piece of paper in the other, especially on stage. What would make me happy is if I could load my roscoe with my college tuition, cock it, pull the trigger, and pop the stacks of bills through the proud eyes of my parents/guardians. Through the sanguine mouths of my class. Through the clapping the hands of the audience, who is properly dressed for the occasion. Through the empty briefcases of job recruiters. And through the elaborately decorated robes of the faculty. 


Doing this, swallowing k-pins and smoking a Camel.

The body count is high.

It ruins the pageantry of the ceremony.

And no one outside this room gives a fuck.


A handshake and a piece of paper that has letters, printed in a fancy font, and signed by a person who is the president of a college, doesn't mean shit.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

excerpt from unfinished novella: how have you been?

December 25

“What is sorrow? I thought. What is sorrow but old, worn-out joy?” – Jon Raymond



Excerpt from Moral Orel: Episode: “Maturity”
Orel: Well I tried not talking about my feelings, too.
Clay: Oh son, behaving like a grown up is many things. First and for most it means doing things that you hate doing.
Orel: Like what, pop?
Clay: Well like dealing with people who make you unhappy, being stressed about things you have no control over, working soul-numbing jobs.
Orel: Ooh
Clay: Then gradually as we endure these hardships and accept them as normal, that's when we finally earned the right to get drunk and be emotionally distant from our families.

 *

The coffee pot gurgled on the polished stone countertop as red kielbasa casings, mash potatoes, gravy, and grizzle were scraped off the floral china and dribble into the black plastic garbage bin with a plop.
            “Oh, the countertop is made out of recycled stone. I’m not sure what types of stone are in it, but it’s called ‘Chocolate Truffle.’” My Aunt Nancy said slowly annunciating each syllable like the TV personalities on the Home & Garden channel.
            My sister Jenn spun her head around, took a sip of pinot grigio, and responded, “Well it looks real schnazzy!”
            “It better after how much it cost!”
            The women in the kitchen burst into giggles and laughter as the assembly line of female hands scraped, washed, dried, and put away the dishes. The men sleepily drank their beers watched a repeat of the ’95 Rose Bowl game where Penn State beat Oregon; the last Penn State team to go undefeated. A traditional Swiderski Holliday dinner, well almost.
            For me, Holliday family dinners with the Swiderski clan always came at a price. I’m not talking about family feuds, shitty cooking, or an aunt or uncle who has one too many. No, the reason why I never liked these soirees is because I usually spend most of my time outside by myself. It’s not because I hate my family or because I’m anti-social. (Not to say that it hasn’t helped me avoid the occasional awkward small-talk conversation with an aunt, uncle or cousin. You know, the conversation where you’re giving the generic questions and responses because there’s no common ground, but you still feel obliged to speak because your family.) It’s because I have asthma and horrible allergies, the most annoying being my allergy to pets.
Whenever I am in a house that has an animal (more specifically, any mammal that is covered with hair or fur) in it, a horrible chain reaction starts to unfold. First, red blotchy hives start to show up on my face. Then, I start to wheeze. Next, the eyes start to water and become bloodshot, which is usually followed by a runny nose and a box of tissues. At this point, I usually have to take two hits off my Albuterol inhaler, flood my eyes with Naphcon, and ingest two pink pills of Benadryl. If I continue to stay submerged in the toxic atmosphere, the Albuterol inhaler becomes worthless and I have to take a full on nebulizer treatment to keep my lungs from closing up. It usually ends with me having to go home because I’m too sick. But, every now and then, it’ll end up with me spending a night in the hospital. (This happened to me a couple of times because I was too sick and too far away for my mom to take me home.)This condition caused me to spend the majority of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners outside. If it was mild and dry, it wasn’t so bad. I credit it with helping me win the 2001 and 2002 Knights of Columbus Northeast Free Throw Championships due to the number of hours spent shooting at the basketball hoops that hung around whosever house we were at. What made me despise these get-togethers was the amount of miserable hours I spent outside huddled up trying to keep warm or dry in inclement weather. When I was younger, I wondered if I was the only kid who had to where long-johns to Christmas dinner or if there were other kids out there like me.
But not this year; I left the long-johns at home. The high pitched yelps of my Nana and Pop-Pop’s poodle were absent. All that could be heard was the constipated belches of the coffee maker bubbling along on the chocolate truffle countertop in the kitchen.
I got up from the lacquered kitchen table and stood on the outskirts of the living room as Kijana Carter exploded for an 83 yard touchdown run on Penn State’s first possession.
My dad took a sip of Coors Light and exclaimed to my Uncle Rick, “It’s sad that they can’t even come close to doing this anymore.”
“Well, they can on defense.”
“Sure, but on offense they’re putrid. This team scored 38 points in this one game. They can’t score 38 points in three or four games anymore. Peeyew!” he said with glee in his eyes as he looks at my uncle and pinches his nose.
“Well that boils down to a lot of things: coaching, recruiting, academics. But, they just can’t develop talent like they used to. I mean look at the team their playing next week, Florida…”
My Uncle Joe turned and made eye contact with me as the white foam clinged to his half grey half brown mustache. Small Talk.
“Matt! What’s going on buddy? Still frostbitten from being up in Vermont?”
“Hey, what’s up? Nah, I’m warming up thanks. How’s it going with you?”
He paused and took a sip of his black Stegmaier Winter Warmer before he responded.
“Good, good. Can’t complain. Your aunt just bought a new countertop, and of course I had to install it. Besides that, I’m just working on trying to finish the basement. How about yourself? You graduate this spring right?”
“Yeah, if all goes according to plan.”
I had not work on my senior project since I got home; I had five months left to get it done anyways.
“So what do you plan to do afterwards?”
“Um, I don’t know. Well, I’m not sure yet. I think I’m going to take a year off of school and then go for my masters. Right now, school is just getting real old.”
“Well, you got to do something. Your mom and dad can’t pay for everything. Plus, everyone has to work. It’s part of growing up.”
“Yep, yep.”
I was looking for a way out of this conversation when I noticed my grandfather. My Pop-Pop. He was sitting in a maroon wingback chair with his legs splayed out on the matching footstool. They looked like two fallen trees that were tired of standing. His light blue eyes sank into the back of his skull as he rested his chin in the palm of his right hand as he watched The Blue Band play “Fight on State” on the TV.
“Hey, um I’m going to go over and sit next to Pop-Pop. He looks like he can use some company.
“Yeah, I got to go take the trash out anyways before your aunt kills me.”
This was the first time I had seen my grandfather since what has become known in our family as, “The Incident.”
About two months ago, my Pop-Pop took his small French Poodle, Ginger outside so she could do her business, just the everyday routine. While Ginger was searching for the best patch of grass to piss on, my grandfather next door neighbor yelled over his fence, “Hey, those dogs are out.” Earlier in the day, two dogs, a Rottweiler and a German Sheppard, had escaped from a their pen; the owner of the dogs was on vacation, and his elderly mother was watching them.  Before my Pop-Pop could even process the statement, the German Sheppard had charged and got a hold of Ginger. It shook her back and forth like a teddy bear, but instead of soft white stuffing there was blood. He hurled himself onto the back of the dog, and started swinging with balled fists at the dog’s head. A few landed, but the pain wasn’t enough persuasion for the Sheppard to let go. The Sheppard started rolling around the ground like an alligator in a death roll as Ginger’s high pitched yelps of agony echoed off the bricks and blue vinyl siding into the street. The Sheppard’s spiked collar sliced my grandfather’s forearms causing them to bleed. Finally the Sheppard let go and ran off after the next door neighbor hopped the fence and smashed it in the back with a wooden stake that’s meant to hold up tomato plants. A small puddle of syrupy blood started to form under her mutilated body transforming her fur from white to pink to red. My Nana broke into tears after arriving at the crime scene; she was inside when what went down went down. He gathered the body his little baby, his Ginger and wrapped her up in a blanket. My Grandfather, with tears flooding down his face, drove frantically down the highway to the animal hospital, repeating, in a low murmur, the phrase, “I wish I had done more,” over and over and over again. The story made the front page of the local newspaper.
“How could he have done more?” I wondered as I walked over to him. He took his dog outside to go to the bathroom. He wasn’t expecting a German Sheppard to come bolting down the side of the yard, and attack his dog. It’s a freak accident. There was no time to prepare, just react. Plus, he’s an 84 year old man. He’s my grandfather. My Pop-Pop. He was the man who survived the streets of New York City, alone, homeless, and parentless when he was 10. He was the guy who punched a his commanding officer in the face while he was in the Navy, and hitchhiked 7858 miles back to Nanticoke so he could be with my Nana. He was the guy who took his grandson fishing multiple times every summer since he was 7. He didn’t take shit from nobody. He was one of the only people from my family who I actually admired. I admired him even when he blamed me for running over the bait bucket, or when he turned the boat 180 degrees around because I was catching fish and he wasn’t. I wanted to tell him, “You did all you could have done. Don’t beat yourself up over this cause you don’t deserve it.” And suffocate him with a hug.
I sat on the tan plastic fold out chair next to him as I contemplated telling him what I was thinking, something meaningful.
“Hey Pop-Pop. So have you been out golfing recently?”
Small Talk.       

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Even Though I Have and Use a Vacuum Saver, I Still Let Food Go Past It’s Expiration Date Because I Want It to Stay Fresh Forever

While you are packing yourself up in a box to be shipped across the country, I am vacuum sealing our memories, which you gave to me as a going away present, in a special polyethylene bag and injecting them with preservatives so I can eat them on a later date because SARAN WRAP WON’T DO! The bulge of plastic shrinks around the outer edges until it is nonexistent. Locked in an air tight seal. For a second, it seems pointless, but the infomercial did guarantee it would keep things “fresher” and make them “last longer.”  100% waterproof. Prevents freezer-burn for up to four months. Money saved. Less waste.
You fasten the flaps of cardboard together with clear packaging tape, and enclose yourself inside.
Hearing the squeak of the tape ripping from the spool, and the POP when the adhesive umbilical cord snaps like an elastic waistband, I cope.
In a permanent marker, I write 7-27-12 in the white box on the top corner, labeled: EXPIRATION DATE. The ink smears on the polyethylene. The numbers aren’t numbers, but fat messy streaks of black ink. No one else can read this but me and that makes me feel good.

*

I didn’t see the post man/woman pick you up or slide you into the back of their little van because I was sleeping.
I think about defrosting our memories in the microwave and sautéing them in a pan with olive oil, cayenne, the liquid extract of daydreams, evaporated tear salt, butter, garlic, and a pinch of nostalgia over medium heat. The dish would be served on a plate made out of a picture frame with french fries for a side dish, and a cup of coffee. At the kitchen table. Alone.  Watching cartoons. Savoring it because it will be the most delicious thing in the world. No, the universe. No, wait, the multiverse.
FUCK YEAH!
I would be so proud of my accomplishment because no one ever did it before. Just like how no one has ever stepped onto the surface of Jupiter.
And cooking something that complicated from frozen food and making into a delicacy would be an accomplishment of an equal or greater significance for humanity, at least, in my eyes.

*

Now.
It’s five weeks past the 27th.
You sent yourself back across country.
Soon, you’re sending yourself somewhere else.
Not across the country, but closer.
But still far away.

Freezer-burn is cultivating a civilization on the plastic.
Scraping the frost away, I can see grey orbs of old age on the surface of our frozen block of memories.  It defrosts, and galaxies of swirling yellowish-green bacteria begin to rotate and come back to life.
Expired. The present you gave me is inedible. 
 It smells like the breath of a distracted person who’s not paying attention, and has puppy legs rotting in his/her lungs. He/she used to believe in puppy love, but then severed its spinal cord with a boxcutter and ate it. He/she cannot digest it. And he/she is repeatedly exhaling directly into my face.
 I gag. I vomit, and throw our memories (your present?) in the garbage, and immediately take the trash out to the dumpster behind my apartment. Because our memories got buried under fish fillets, ice cream, soft pretzels, pizza bagels, and vodka. And personal interpretation. In silence.
And I feel ashamed.
And I feel like shit.
Because it’s a fucking waste.
I turn on the tv.
It’s a commercial about world hunger: “Think of the starving children in Africa YOU FUCK!”

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Cybernated Therapy Sessions: #1

I don’t complain about life through status updates.
I don’t believe you get a trophy for having over 10 likes and 13 comments. I could be wrong.
But I won’t post about how much I hate you/betrayed me, or photos of my face, or how depressed I am through (insert trending band/pop singer) song lyrics about being a strong person and not needing him/her because you’re better than that or suicide, or about where I’m getting drunk tonight.
Fuck that.
If I’m depressed, I do drugs (L’s and pills), pretend to kill myself, read a book, and walk streets looking for new friends. Cause I’m on my grind. And it can be lonely. And I can be a sociopath, just like the rest of you. (But I’m alive, and amen to that.)
If you piss me off, I’ll open the ink wells in your neck with a razor blade, and I will put a .22 caliber bullet directly into the cranium of a guilty by-stander with a cross body shot and a handgun. Some wild west shit.
I will write your malfunctioning body a short angry letter in finger-paint cause I’m old school + you won’t be able to read it because when your body is malfunctioning, your mind can only focus on what’s wrong with you.
It will be on a sheet of loose-leaf ripped out of a middle school notebook:
“Yo. Fuck off. Sincerely, _____.”

Friday, May 11, 2012

Next Million Dollar Idea.

Opening a rehab/advice center for social network addicts/users, and writing a whole self-help book series on the issue.

Also, the world's first indoor maze emporium.

Donate/invest in the maze emporium. 

Also I have handmade books for sale:
crakpipefellatio@gmail.com


pics of those coming soon.
paypal link coming soon once i take the time to figure it out and set it up.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

“got any hidden talents?”

I can paint the most beautiful/colorful/despondent/gross/innovative picture of any one in my mind, but it never translates very well when I put it down on canvas or a piece of paper.
And if I could show you them to you, I would. Because I think you would all like them. You could post the pictures of yourselves on the outside your refrigerator with magnets. Or on your blog. Or social network. Then you would think that I’m somehow unique, instead of another person with a name tag working a shitty customer’s service job, behind a sterile counter and a door that says : EMPLOYEES ONLY!
SO PROUD.
SO HAPPY.
You people can’t even IMAGINE!

College Graduate: Class 2011!

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Are you a sexual athlete? Tommy Gunn will show you his secret to making YOUR DICK BIGGER!

A family of babies covered in white ectoplasm is learning how to swim in the toilet bowl when I notice Tommy Gunn’s hard cock in the advertisement on the upper left hand corner of the screen. I know it’s inappropriate, but I’m mesmerized. Tommy Gunn grips his shaft around the base with both hands as drops of frozen sweat hang on the black hairs of his goatee. His dick is a weapon. A kendo stick that could initial a skull. A rifle that could shoot a hole through the back of a throat. A flamethrower that could melt skin. A missile that could change the history of the world. I notice my dick. It is a six inch slug and I am pouring salt on it. The pink mollusk deflates into a moist tuff of pubic hair, but it’s not dead, and don’t think I forgot about the babies. They bob on the surface of water and cry because they don’t know how to swim. They try to cling to the porcelain walls but their fingernails have nothing to dig into.  These babies are submarines out gas and I can’t save them. (I’m not an athlete.) So I drown a family of babies in a whirlpool by flushing the toilet. And the fucked up thing is, I knew this would all happen. A fresh wave of water rushes in and I don’t want a slug for a dick anymore. I want something mechanical. A weapon. Like Tommy Gunn. I want a ship. A destroyer with big fucking guns so I can sail around to different countries and lob shells into their interiors. The power of my destroyer would be enough to persuade one of these nations to become my ally. Likewise, I would dedicate my allegiance to them and we would spend the rest of our lives teaching one baby out of each family of babies covered in white ectoplasm how to swim.  I click on the ad and Tommy Gunn shows me his secret:

Combine:
1 oz of somatropin
6 oz of clam bullion
one can of AXE body spray (any scent)
two 5oz tubes of lube
 1 tiger penis
And a dash of paprika. (optional)
In a blender
Pulse for six minute
Bottle
It’s just like shampoo
Lather, Rinse, Repeat
Will notice effects in four to five weeks
Results may vary…





Sunday, May 6, 2012

a survival guide for people who are shopping at a deli

Be cordial. Nice. Patient. Understanding. Don't get anal over your cheese being sliced to thin, or how it looks in the bag or if it's a little over/under weight. Also don't get pissed at us if we don't know where the pop tarts or chicken liver is because that's not our department—we're confined to a fifteen foot corridor for over seven hours each day. Last, refrain from using the phrase, "This is a SALE!!!" in a sarcastic context, then complaining to the deli clerk over the price. Complain to our CEO's, or the lunch meat company CEO's, or the cheese company CEO's that create the prices.


Most of us get paid 40 cents above minimum wage (except an extra dollar on sunday.) And we carry knives and box cutters on us at all time. ALL THE TIME. 
Just remember anyone can snap and kill you in a multiple of ways at anytime, anywhere. But if you follow these guidelines at a deli you should survive and avoid any cases of biological warfare which could arise from improper deli etiquette.

Friday, May 4, 2012

23 and not pregnant

Running my fingertips
Over the flat contours
Of my stomach,
I realize that I can sell the rest of my eggs
To a charity.

They could be used to feed the homeless.
They could hatch.
They could be made into the best omelet anyone has ever had ever.
They could be smashed into the side of a house on mischief night
Pink and red yolk oozing down the tawny siding.

I would use the money to pay off student loans.
I would use the money to go to the movies with someone on a date because I can afford it.
I would use the money to sleep in.
I would use the money to realize that there really are different land masses on the other sides of the oceans.
I would use the money to sharpen my canines so I can puncture skin with ease.
Cause I’m fucking wild, man.
But not wild enough to get on reality tv.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

how to avoid an alien invasion

We should point all of our radio antennas
In different directions
And blast some real hood shit
Over the universal airways
So they know that the earth rolls fucking deep.

Other ideas:
1.       Show the movie Bambi, and, right after, show A Serbian Film.
2.       Broadcast the coney island hot dog competition. Have a 45 minute commercial break (all prescription pills and lawn care ads) with 30 seconds left in the competition. And after the commercials and hot dog competition finish, flash to a drunk twenty something power-washing the sidewalks with his/her stomach contents.
3.        Hooking them up with a social networking site.
4.       Include the following objects in a space capsule: a wax statue of Nixon, the largest/greasiest fast food hamburger with the recipe included in the wrapper, a handle of whiskey, a diesel engine, the blueprints for Chinese coal power plants, a syringe filled with crocodiles, the complete series of the show where people lose weight while the host(s) tell them that “you won’t be beautiful on the inside until your skinny, but not too skinny because then you’ll have a problem,” on DVD, arsenic, and all the Home & Garden magazines produced in the past ten years.


We roll fucking DEEP!
So FUCKING deep!
And they should feel fear
Cause we’re growing larger.
Hungrier.
More alone.