Hookers or Cake

My wife awoke me with the sad news. I weep quietly into my morning martini. Rest in peace you splendid mother fucker!

hookersorcake:

My greatest brush with fame happened when I was 5 years old. I was at Knox Berry Farm. They were filming some kinda TV show. I wandered over to take a look and Richard Dawson came over and picked me up as I was standing on a bunch of wires. He had on some kind of denim 3 piece suit and was a bronze god. He carried me over to my mom and she almost fainted. I told her that he “smelled like a Christmas tree.” When I got older I realized that Christmas trees, smell just like a gin martinis.

Just a little rough draft

My Hyundai broke down and I got towed to a Texaco station in the middle of nowhere. The mechanic was an old Native American man who claimed to be the last of his tribe. He was the chief, the medicine man, the scout and the wife. “I have to be everyone,” he chuckled “but luckily there is no one else, so I don’t have to do anything - I’m free.”

I guess that was his idea of metaphysics. And if he hadn’t been levitating a Baby Ruth candy bar one foot above his head the whole time I woulda dismissed him as some crack pot. I just stared at him as he floated the candy bar over to his mouth and took a bite. “You wanna go on a vision quest?” he asked. Being a divorced white man who was loathed by everyone who knew me I said yes, even after he told me it would cost 2,000 dollars.

 So we hitch-hiked to a cabin by a lake in the foothills. A wolf and an woman lived there. The old man called them both, ‘Honey’. I never saw either of them at the same time.

After a session in the sweat lodge out back one night, we took a three day hike to the top of a mountain. We ate some mushrooms and sat up for another day and as the sun rose the old man pointed, “See,” he said. We then hiked down to an Avis rent-a-center and drove to Vegas. We got on a hot streak on one of tables and won big. It took us 2 days to loose it all. Spending most of it on escorts and good ‘lawyer cocaine’. The next morning as we sat at the breakfast buffet eating endless piles of meat, the chief was muttering about stupid, fucking, white people when he stopped suddenly and pointed at the TV, Al Roker was on. “See,” he whispered. Later I drove him back to his house and he took me into the basement and showed my a video on the internet of some cute, funny kittens. “I see,” I nodded solemny, “Same thing?” I queried. “No.” he said sounding incredulous, “These are kittens. Are you soft brains?” Before I left we stopped for a bootle of hooch and then to the DQ for some ice cream, the chief looked up and smiled. “You are the shape of your blindness. It is the same for all people.” then he just went back to eating his Banana Split. “What is my blindness,” I asked. “Its unknowable or it wouldn’t be blindness,  dumbass,” he said. “But there is sight so I can know,” I pleaded. “Seeing is not knowledge. he continued, “That is like comparing the vast boundless universe to a lawn mower. You have misidentified yourself, the truth is you have no real identity. You are just this dumb, boundless heart, stumbling around like a baby.”

“Oh,” I said. And for some reason when I finally got home I alternately laughed and cried for several days. 

In light of the recent blogs about people stealing other peoples blogs, I’ve decided to start a new blog where I rip myself off and then I’ll start another group blog based souly on ripping off the blog that ripped off my blogs blog. I’ll then start sending anoymous threats to EVERYONE! STOP! CEASE! DESIST! I AM AN ARTIST! and then I’ll be in some real shit because I’ll no longer know who I am. Of course the only one person in this who is not me will become rich and famous… BECAUSE THEY RIPPED ME OFF! Or was it me again? By then I’ll have told so many lies to so many people (78% of which are me) that I’ll be my own judge and jury.

Later when I’m banging the court stenographer at a sleazy Super 8 motel, I’ll come to the realization that I’m the only one in all of this who’s not real. I’ll float through the roof and laugh all the way to the bank! 

I know, because they make us go through being human before we can become full fledged demons. When I was human, towards the end, I had a Real Doll made in my own image. I then had sex with it and took it to a fancy dinner. We went to the Sizzler.  It was out of sight, man.

In the parking lot me and my real doll made love again but we got into an argument about pudding, I don’t want to go into it here, but let the record show, I think pudding is really awesome! So I began punching my real doll in its stupid head with a tire iron. After gnashing my teeth and gouging out my eyes I ingested the real doll in its entire material form and became the fully licensed demon you see standing before you now. Basically, I live on the edge of town under the highway bridge and I scream at cars all day. Its a living, right?

So in the middle of the night I have a lot of time to think, I’ve been thinking a lot about evil, because all demons are told from day one (if they come from a good home) that they’re the embodiment of evil. But what does evil really mean? Drinking goats blood and scaring old house wives? I’m not evil. A bit of a weird jerk, but nope, I was really never evil. I feel ashamed and I feel guilty that I let my parents down. I guess I was always just too scared to really reach out and blow up a church or smash kittens all night with the boys. I guess I never really had it in me. Maybe I should get some therapy.

Story Problems

The 2 fat babies are texting with laser like focus as they approach one another on the circus high wire. They do not look up as they collide nor do they stop texting as they fall 92 feet to their death. If the babies each weigh 52 lbs, what is the maximum message they have time to text before their I-phones are sa-mashed from their chubby lil baby paws?

1. ROFDMAO! (Rolling on floor dying my ass off)
2. never got 2 taste Diet Dr. Pepper
3. its better 2 burn out than 2 fade away
4. I think I know the sound of 1 hand clapping
5. hey this flying thing is pretty easy… oh wait =(
6. ?

When I was a kid candy cigarettes were popular. The packs they came in looked just like real cigarettes and even had the same name as the popular brands; Lucky Strikes, Kools, Camels, and Marlboro’s. I had a friend Joe who had a 3 pack a day habit. He developed diabetes within 6 months, but it was the cancer that finally got him 2 years later at the ripe old age of 7. Come to find out candy cigarettes are more dangerous and addictive than real smokes. 

I visited him in the hospital, the whole second grade class did. The cancer had started in his lips and spread to his entire face. As a result the skin had been removed from his entire face and it covered with a kind of clear saran wrap that allowed doctors to easily monitor the aggressive cancer. Joe just sat there in bed, a small faceless monster chomping candy cigs, high on pain meds. Sometimes I guess he’d get too much morphine in his system and he’d stand in his bed and chant commercials slogans like a rabid tele-evangelist. I can still see the whole second grade class visiting him in the hospital all of us crying or catatonic with fear.

Little Joe standing on his bed, a candy cigarette between each finger, holding his hands high above his head, waving to the sun, chanting over and over, “We love to fly, and it shows! We love to fly and it shows!”

Hide-N-Seek

Mrs. Jenkins had zoned out again, “Mrs. Jenkins,” I clear my throat and wait a couple of beats, “Mrs. Jenkins” I repeat, almost shouting.

“What? Where,” she looks startled, “Who am I?”

“Mrs. Jenkins,” I say calmly, “You were telling us about the cars racing through your neighborhood.”

Mrs. Jenkins sometimes falls into a sort of stupor when she talks. She’ll be prattling on at the city council meeting about the local kids tearing through her neighborhood in their cars, like a bunch of ‘wild stallions’ and she’ll just go blank. Standing there in a floral print dress, her mouth slightly open, swaying like a tree in the breeze. Come to think of it Mrs. Jenkins always uses that same metaphor, ‘wild stallions’ and then she goes blank, like she’s hypnotising herself. Ha! She’s probably fantasizing about wild stallions, sexually. Oh that’s terrible. I shouldn’t think that way about a nice old lady.

…what is this noise I’m hearing? Its like a buzzing punctuated with garbled sounds. Its getting louder. I close my eyes to concentrate. I can hear it clearer now. Its a familiar voice. A man’s voice. He’s repeating a phrase. “Me su ja ka - Meh sis je kis - mes is jeng cans - MRS. JENKINS!” I open my eyes and I’m looking at myself. I’m just as I was, sitting at a long table with the rest of the city council, its like a complete out of body experience or something. I watch and realize that the me sitting there, is saying something to the me floating here. I’m addressing myself. There is a microphone in front of me. And I look down and I’m wearing a floral dress. My hands are that of an old lady. “What? Where, Who am I?” I’m Mrs Jenkins! And I look up and I lock eyes with myself. Everything falls away. I see wild stallions running through fragile houses, stampeding through a strip mall as if reality is made of rice paper.

roaring black - flaring nostrils - wild eyed destruction

I open my eyes and Mrs Jenkins is in front of me again, her floral dress swaying slightly. “Mrs. Jenkins,” I say with compassion and her scared eyes lock onto mine and I realize, she is me and we… there are only eyes and they become the seeing - everything falls away again and 

the sound of hoofs

the sound of thunder

and it makes you wonder

just who the hell are we?

Telepathic Cigarette

I was at a giant convenience store/gas station when I saw a large sign proclaiming, “ELECTRONIC CIGARETTES $9.99!” and before I could wrap my mind around the endless joy of what the sign could mean, a famous blond girl that I’d seen on TV walked out the front door.

She froze in fear like a frightened forest creature that suddenly had an entire city spring up around it. I heard a child’s scared voice in my mind, “cigarette?” like a small shy answer to a great cosmic question. I instinctively reached for my pack of Kool’s and held them out to her as an offering. She cautiously approached and I set down the pack on the hood of my Hyundai. She then scampered over like an awkward young foal and opened the the pack with surprising quickness and dexterity. She ate at least 3 or 4 cigarettes before two members of her security detail rushed over, picked her up, and tucked her neatly into the back of a massive black SUV.

I retrieved the now almost empty pack off the ground. It smelled faintly of plastic and Watermelon Bubblicious.

(Source: hookersorcake)

I was a Freshman in Highschool. Bon Jovi had just released their 3rd album, Slippery When Wet. Though not a Bon Jovi Fan I kinda liked the first single, You Give Love A Bad Name. And against my better judgement I put it on a mix tape for my girlfriend.

That night I had an ominous dream.

In it I opened up the front door and Jon Bon Jovi was standing there wearing sunglasses and smiling. A strange feeling overtook me as I studied his leather jacket and perfect teeth. Bon Jovi didn’t seem human. His meticulously wild hair and fake smile seemed almost oppressive. He stepped towards me and in an instant I realized that Bon Jovi was here to make me his bitch, sexually.

The nightmare continued throughout the night, basically a cross between the Terminator films and a Bon Jovi video. Everywhere I ran, whenever I opened a door to escape, there was lecherous, evil, Bon Jovi - smiling and closing in upon me.

I awoke in the morning having luckily eluded the monster for the entire night. I went over to my dual cassette deck and immediately erased the tape.  I never dreamt of Bon Jovi again. I had learned a valuable lesson.

Not only is Jon Bon Jovi kinda creepy but that bad music will literally try to fuck you.