M.A.G. FEATURED WRITER
32 WORKS
BY BEN JONJAK
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MY WONDERFUL CLASS ABOUT FEMALE EMPOWERMENT
I was sitting in this class arguing about how I didn't think women had been oppressed anymore than anybody else all throughout history. Boy, let me tell you, that didn't go over well. It was surprising how easy it was for me to come up with answers to all their arguments though. I thought then, and I still think now, that what I was saying wasn't against the moral code of the universe, it was just against the popular opinion of what was appropriate to say. They told me how the women were stuck in the houses with the babies and I responded that the men were stuck in the mine shafts with black lung. They said how women couldn't own property and I responded that most men didn't own property either. The main crux of my argument was that historically societies have been developed so that women can have children and take care of them. This doesn't seem like oppression to me because it is pretty much vital to the continuation of the species. It isn't like every woman who was forced to stay at home and watch the kids was thus robbed of the opportunity to write the greatest novel or paint the greatest painting in the history of the world. In truth, it seems like most of the people who do that kind of thing do so against the greatest of odds anyway. Then I changed my tactic and said that I was being oppressed, as a man, just by being in this classroom. They all scoffed. I responded by saying, "Is there a class about how men have been oppressed all throughout history?" They didn't say anything, but it is because we had moved into the realm of their believing I was completely absurd. But think about it, if a man had the choice do you think he would spend his life in some shit job so that he could pay off the mortgage on his four bedroom house with the three walk in closets? Do you think a man invented the walk in closet? No, I think a man, given the choice, would prefer to live in the wild in a tent, or under the stars, searching out new places and hunting and killing stupid animals with his own two hands. A man would choose a life where he could be a man. That choice doesn't exist anymore, and laughing at the presentation of this complaint is another form of oppression. Eventually we got to the point where I said that men have been oppressed because they are the ones who have done all the dying in wars. This girl in front of me said it didn't count because men started all the wars. The idiocy of that comment shut me up. Did she think we would have never had a war if women were running things? Did she think there would have never been a shortage of food? Did she think there would never have been an argument? We would all have been just living in peace and harmony and perfection? The teacher didn't say anything. He just sat there with a dumb look on his face. I decided to not say any more. It seemed like a lost cause to me. Maybe if that one girl comes into power someday I'll be proven wrong, but right now in my oppressed and socially conditioned state of responsibility, I hope to God that it never happens.
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THE GUY WITH THE DEAD CAT
I was walking along at night in this urban area when this guy came along carrying a dead cat. He was all dirty wearing patched clothing and the cat was really dead. I mean dead to the point where I didn't immediately realize that it was a cat. I stood there looking at it, trying to connect the pieces that sprawled out from his cradled arm. "What the hell is that, a dead cat?" I thought to myself. The prick just kept on walking along like there was no reason in the world that people should be looking at him. Secretly you knew he was aware that they were looking, and that he liked the attention. Something about the scene struck me as totally wrong. Something beyond the superficial inherent wrongness of the situation. It was like he was flaunting his damn cat. Like he was projecting the idea that he was better than us for bearing this burden that any reasonable person would have buried years ago. But there was something more. The thing was, this cat was in about the twelfth stage of decay. It was like a corpse you find in the woods that all the cute little forest insects have already had the opportunity to pick clean of all body matter. It was kind of clean in a weird way, just skin and bones, made horrible by the fact that this guy was cradling them like a baby. I decided it was bullshit. There was no way that guy had carried that cat ever since it had died like he was obviously trying to make us think he had. It just wasn't possible, the corpse needed a couple of months in the woods left alone to get like that. In his hands it would have just rotted. Even a true crazy person wouldn't have put up with that. This guy was a faker. He'd picked up that cat somewhere and, realizing it wasn't as horrible as it looked, decided he would cash in on the image. What was he trying to suggest, that he was the walking Earth? That he could turn flesh into soil through prolonged contact with his body? Give me a break, that was way too advanced thinking for a homeless lunatic. He just wasn't genuine. He was trying too hard. Nobody's that crazy. He was probably some bullshit intellectual spending a year homeless and shamelessly using his dead cat to prove how superficial our society is. Behold how callow is the human spirit! They cannot even see past the body of one dead cat! Give me a break! Ignoring the guy with the dead cat is a good impulse. You can spin doctor it all you want but the fundamental truth of that statement will never change. Bullshit intellectual asshole, it probably never occurred to him when he stumbled across that dead cat in the woods and constructed his whole evil scheme that somebody would be smart enough to see through it. That's the problem with those bullshit intellectual types, they never even consider the possibility that somebody might be more clever than they are. That's why their conclusions are always so fucked up.
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ON THE SCHOOL BUS
I was sitting on the school bus with the kid that picks his nose and eats it. It had been the last seat. Well, there was always a spot next to the ten year old who shaves, but he looks at you with a strange desire in his eyes. The kid next to me picked his nose, smiled dumbly, and offered me a portion of his harvest. I turned him down politely. Manners are important. That's what my mom was always telling me. Actually she said that it was good manners to always accept a small portion of what anybody offered you. I loved my mother dearly, but I figured that in this instance, her advice was a crock of shit. There was no way I was going to accept any miniscule portion of that guys fucking mucus no matter what good manners called for. Sitting there on the bus, I thought of all those pompous assholes with their white gloves and their special salad forks looking at you with their nose in the air because you could never match up to their level of culture. They acted like they would know the socially acceptable thing to do in any situation. Well I bet they'd never been stuck on the bus with one of the legions of borderline retards who offered you some human secretion as an approximation of a tasty treat. Then in a flash I had it. Those pompous assholes were the booger eating kid all grown up. They turn their noses at you to remind you of the scorn you showed them in their youth. "This is a horn o' plenty," they suggest, giving you a good view, "but you'll get none of it." Well that's just fine by me. I decided to stop listening to the rules of etiquette and my mom in the same moment. And just for good measure, I punched that disgusting little brat in the face, breaking his nose and giving him two black eyes.
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GRANDPA WAS MASTURBATING
It was Christmas morning. Grandpa was lying on the living room floor masturbating. "Ma!" he screamed, "ma, come here, I got your present!" "What's that thing?" little Sue said. "Oh Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!" said Sue's mother. "Hurry up ma! I can't hold out forever!" continued Grandpa. You had to wonder if he'd planned this or if it was a spur of the moment deal. "Heeee Heeee!" The kids sat down next to Grandpa and tried not to touch him. They had to walk around him to get their presents. They sat and opened their presents placidly. Grandpa had had to walk forty miles through knee deep snow to get to school. He deserved to be able to do whatever he wanted. "Weeee weeee!"
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THE DEAD GOPHER
The dead gopher or something was laying there in the middle of the road. I say something because I don't know for sure that it was a gopher. Who the fuck cares what it was? Gopher is just the funniest name for those furry, bushy animals with hoofs and antlers. Anyway this Gopher was dead and its paws were folded over its chest. Err, just the left one. It looked funny as hell. Just like he'd been shot and gasped in shock and then clasped his paw over his chest. It's tongue hung out of its beak and its face was contorted in a death mask that was again weirdly comical. It was just so human. I bet it had been hit by a car. It was probably out wandering about, eating whatever gophers eat when it stumbled out onto the road and got hit by a car. You could tell it didn't happen at night because the gopher was wearing an orange reflective vest. Even a drunk driver would have seen that a mile off. It just goes to show the ancient proverb everybody knows. For elephants, the phrase is "an elephant never forgets." For gophers it's "safety first!" Didn't help this gopher though.
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STOPPING AT THE BANK FOR PEANUTS
Mack and Jane and Freddy and Bob were driving along in their car. They were all covered in blood. "Who else is hungry?" Freddy asked. It was unanimous. They stopped at a bank and changed all their money into coin so that they could empty the peanut machine. Mack left a human kidney on the top of the empty, plastic globe. They drove again. The world passed them buy. Eventually the car stopped and fossilized. A billion years later the scientists discovered them and built a tomb in their honor. It was a grand construction, and by the time they were done with it, it was composed of more than two thirds the mass of the earth. Everything was out of balance. The Earth tumbled out of its orbit and headed straight towards the sun. "I told you so!" said the one scientist that nobody had ever listened to. "And where did all that blood come from anyway?" It took the planet nearly an hour to be consumed by flames. The remaining scientists spent the time beating the hell out of their one dissenter.
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BURN TO THE GROUND
I went to 7 Eleven to buy slurpie. I wanted rooty-toot flavor. They had only grape. I watch the 7 Eleven burn to the ground. I went to weather station. I wanted weather for next forty year. They didn't even know what weather was at that minute. They said chance of snow. I watch weather station burn to the ground. I went to Disc Jockey to buy poster of Zachary Taylor Thomas. I bought poster. Poster cost ten hard earned yen. I walk home. I am happy and excited. I open poster and there is not the face of Zachary Taylor Thomas. There is poster of Menard's guy. I watch poster curl up in flames. I watch Disc Jockey burn to the ground. I went to Cat's Meow. I want my hair cut so I look like Brad Pitt. They cut my hair. The hair cut costs me ten hard earned yen. They turn the chair. I see myself in mirror. I still look like me. I do not look like Brad Pitt. I watch Cat's Meow burn to the ground. I go to post office. I have package that I want sent to me. I say it is urgent. Package need to arrive tomorrow. They assure me it will. Package cost five hard earned yen to send. Tomorrow I wait expectantly like little girl. My little girl heart is broken. Package do not arrive. I watch mailbox burn to the ground. Postman try to run away. I run faster. Postman burn to the ground. I watch this happen. Then I watch post office burn to the ground. I go to video store to rent "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo." They only have "Ishtar." I watch video store burn to the ground. I order Pepsi at restaurant. They bring me coke. Cost two yen. Do they think I stupid? Do not know difference between Pepsi and Coke? I watch the coke burn to the ground. I watch restaurant burn to the ground. I watch everything burn to ground. I pull out bag of marshmallow.
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SOMETHING
Do you remember that old George Harrison song? Something in the way you put your dead body against me, reminds me of no other cadaver. Something in the way you drool on me. I always thought that was a weird one. I played it for my girlfriend the other night. She struggled against the ropes and tried to scream through the duct tape. They always try to scream through the duct tape. It is one of the weirdest things in the world to watch. I mean, as you are watching it you recognize the figure as a human being. Knowing that it is a human being you know that it is a member of the most intelligent race of animals ever to exist on this planet. Possessed of tremendous learning skills. But no matter who it is, when you get them down in the basement with that duct tape on they uselessly try and scream and scream no matter how many repetitions prove that it is futile. It sort of makes me laugh every time. But not as much as the last line from that George Harrison song. Finger eyeball in the night, no further must I run than scatter. I have no idea what it means, but it always stirs me into action.
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TOILET TENNIS
I've always been very literal. Little did I know that my doom would be found written on the walls of a public restroom. I had just made myself comfortable upon the typical porcelain throne when I saw four words scribbled upon the wall in a tight but disjointed hand. "Toilet tennis: Look right." Intrigued, I swiveled my eyes in accordance with the direction of the words only to find another command upon the opposing wall writ in the same devil hand. "Toilet tennis: Look left." My head turned back and there again before me flaunting its superiority and standing over me like an horrific vision was the same and unavoidably obvious command. "Toilet tennis: Look right." I was compelled to obey. A cold shiver passed through me, grasping my heart with its icy hand in a premonition of what was to come. But what else could I do but obey? I slunk down in my aqua seat, willing my eyes to water and my sight to blur. Praying to god that I might be struck blind, anything to release me from this horrible incarceration. I was caught in a loop. The watery letters remained. Laughing. Urging me on. Back and forth I swiveled my head, and back and forth the letters followed me. Always around the corner, always just out of reach. I tried everything I could think of to break from trap. I lingered upon one command or another, forcing myself to briefly resist the call, searching for an escape. But the order was always clear, and in the end I inevitably had to follow. I could not pretend that I didn't understand the worlds. They bade me turn my head, and turn I did. A horrible mockery of a spectator at a game of tennis. Sitting vulnerable with my pants around my ankles, my bear behind hanging over that dark, blue void. The humiliation. The evil mind of the tormentor who had scrawled those words upon these walls was in complete control as he no doubt knew he would be. Curse him! "Toilet Tennis: Look left. Toilet Tennis: Look right." Minutes turned into hours, hours turned into days. Dehydrated and weak my arms fell to my sides. I lacked the strength to hold myself above the rim and felt the water rippling against me. It was cold, but the coldness became numb and I felt no more. Soon I could not follow the progress of the game with my earlier exuberance. My neck muscles failed me. Nothing functioned. There was no escape. I was left with only a flick of the eye. "Toilet tennis: Look left. Toilet tennis: Look right." I gasped one final time and expired. Game...set...match.
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DAVE'S WIVES
Every time we went over to Dave's house to play cards his wife was always in the basement screaming. "Hey Dave, where did you get that wife?" We'd all ask. "I got her second-hand," was Dave's inevitable reply. One time we were playing and Dave's wife came running up the stairs. She smashed through the door and upset our poker table. I don't know how she managed to climb those stairs tied to that chair, but she'd done it somehow. She kept spinning round and round in the room until Dave finally knocked her down. He rolled her back down into the basement. We all gave Dave a good ribbing for that one. "What's the matter big guy? Can't control your woman?" Dave only grunted in embarrassment. The next time we came over for poker, the door was re-enforced with a metal bar. "Let's see her try and get through that!" Dave said with a sneer. He was looking at his cards as he said it. Dave almost never made eye-contact with anybody. Not us, not his wives, not anybody. I could understand his shyness with his wives, he had a new one every week and it was always hard to get to know somebody. Dave was just a timid boy. But I don't understand why he should still be shy with us. He'd known us all for years. There was just something fundamentally wrong about a guy not being able to look his friends in the eye. It troubled me, sometimes I stayed up late worrying about him.
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THE WHALE
Three of my friends and I were walking along the coast when we came across the body of a whale. It had beached itself or something. We ran over to look at it more closely. Immediately weird Artie wanted to have sex with the blow-hole. "Come on guys we can take turns!" he said excitedly as if it would be some kind of bonding experience. "You go ahead," I replied and I went around to the other side to let the freak do his thing in private. "Why do we always bring that guy along?" I asked. Nobody could answer me. He was just the tag-along we all felt too sorry for to make stay at home. That and he'd probably kill us if he got mad enough, there was no sense in needlessly provoking him. We found ourselves near the white stomach of the wale. We took out our knives and started cutting in. Great sheets of wale-flesh fell to the ground all around us. We went in deeper and deeper. It was like exploring an ancient cave. It was really hot in there and we stripped off our clothes. The weird blood and wale innards started dripping down all around us. We laughed and sang and cut deeper and deeper. Suddenly I reached the stomach and, not knowing what it was, opened it up with a big horizontal cut. Fiery acid sprayed out into my eyes and onto my skin. I didn't even have time to call out before my friends were sprayed too. We fell to the ground screaming and writhing in agony. I lost nearly all of my hair and couldn't see for a week. In the end, it was Artie that saved us. He heard us screaming and ran around to the other side of the whale. He pulled us into the ocean and the waves cleaned us up enough that we could wait in only relative agony while he went for the ambulance. That was the only time that I was glad that we had Artie along. I never did ask him if when he heard our screams he came running right away, or if he finished fucking the blow-hole first. My suspicion is that he waited.
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ROUND SMELLY BALL
The only time I was abducted by aliens was back in nineteen eighty-seven. I was just walking along in this field at night, naked like I always do, when I saw this bright shining light. The aliens came right up close to me and told me they were from Zargoof, a planet many metric miles away. They kept touching me with their slimy hands and their suction-cup fingers. I told them to knock it off but they just kept going. Apparently on Zargoof they don't know that on Earth no means no. They loaded me up on their ship and fed me only Ritz Crackers and cheese for the whole ten-year voyage. I don't know how I survived it. I had diarrhea every day. Maybe that was the whole point, they did all kinds of unspeakable things with the stuff. Maybe I was their diarrhea factory. Maybe they didn't have any diarrhea on Zargoof. Things changed quickly when I got to the home world. I quickly grasped their social structure and worked my way up to Hanka Char Pew, which means "chief of 50,000 families." It was a pretty impressive feat having started as a lowly Burrrgh, or "diarrhea slave." I decided it would be a good idea to lead a revolution and destroy the whole social structure. I had enough clout to do it by then. They called me Grnguh, which translates as "Round smelly ball." After the revolution, I stole a ship and flew back home. I could see the planet smoking in ruin in my rearview mirrors. On the way back wouldn't you know it, the only thing to eat was Ritz Crackers and cheese. Ten more years of diarrhea. Many snotty intellectuals have pointed out that If you do the math you'll see that I couldn't have arrived any earlier than 2007. Because it was 2002 at the time that I wrote this, most people dismiss my credibility. Frankly, I don't have the time to explain the time-dilation and difference in reference frames that occurs whenever you have faster than light travel. The truth is that I returned in early 1988, which meant I was in time to see Don Majikowski lead the 1989 Green Bay Packers to a 10-6 regular season record. Talk about an unbelievable story!
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THE VORTEX TO THE INFERNO
One day this vortex to the inferno opened up in my living room. The cat fell right in. That was funny as hell. It hung on there grasping to the lip of the vortex for the longest time. It looked just like a man holding on for dear life. Its claws were digging into the carpet. My wife wasn't at home so the cat wasn't wasting any energy making any noise. It knew that I hated it. It knew I always had. That cat and I had engaged in some nasty warfare up until this day. We were both vying for my wife's attention. That fucking cat beat me most of the time. It would sit there and purr as she held it. It always stared right at me as she caressed it. I could see it becoming aroused. Stupid masculine asshole cat. Moving in on my woman. Stealing my caresses! So I just laughed as I saw it hanging suspended over the vortex. Its stupid little cat feet swinging out over the swirling fire below. The TV had fallen in, but even that was worth it to be rid of the cat. I ran into the kitchen to grab the broom. That tenacious little bastard had made some progress by the time I got back. It was scrambling like mad. But you should have seen its face drop when I came at it with that broom. It knew what it was in for. It flashed me with a look of supreme hatred. I just waved and smiled. I got it right in the face with the bristles and pushed it away from the lip. The cat had one last trick up its sleeve. It almost got me. I knew once it got back on the floor I'd have a hell of a time getting it into that vortex. It grabbed onto the bristles of the broom and started scrambling again. The cat was trying to use the broom as a safety line. It was a good tactic, but genius struck me at that moment. I tossed the whole broom in. I watched as the cat fell forever downwards. I could have sworn it screamed, "Damn you!" in its irritating cat whine. Just like that, the vortex closed up. The TV was gone, so I sat down and picked up a book. That's when my wife got home. "Look at what I found alone and in the park," she said. She was holding a new cat. This one was white and it stared at me with eyes of focused hatred. I knew right then I was going to have to kill that little bastard eight more times. Somehow, I inherently understood that no more vortexes were going to be randomly opening up to make things easy for me either.
closed. The ants would mill about in confusion. My friend the skull with the flames coming out of his eyes would throw back his head and let loose with a hearty laugh. The laugher sounded like an echoing roar and usually lasted for a good ten to fifteen minutes.
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ROTTEN MANDARIN ORANGES
There was this little old lady working at this market in Peru. She was selling mandarin oranges. She wanted three soles for a kilo. The standard price was one, but that was in the country and this was the city so I decided I'd humor her. She smiled her fat little old woman smile. She had the kind of job where she worked forty eight hours a day and earned about a nickel. "Three fifty," she cackled once I had agreed to three. You bitch! I thought, that's the thing about these third-world country people, they're always looking for a hand out. But I really wanted some oranges. "Fine!" I said pointing to the oranges I wanted. "From here, these are same," she said, pointing to another pile. I wasn't in the mood to argue. She loaded up the bag and running out of her selected pile of oranges, gave me one final orange from the pile I had originally pointed to. "Do you want some strawberries?" "NO!" I went home. I was irritated the whole way for having paid so much. I laid down in front of the TV to eat my oranges. The first one was good and sweet and juicy. It was from the pile I had pointed to. My bad mood abated. I peeled the next orange and put a slice in my mouth. I spit it out all over my room. Rotten! I peeled all the rest. They were all rotten. I was actually pissed off enough that I went back to the old woman. "These oranges suck! I want my money back!" "Who you?" she replied dumbly. "That shit don't work on me!" I screamed and punched her in the stomach. She cried out and fell over. A crowd soon gathered to watch. "You like rotten oranges? Here, why don't you eat it?" I had brought the oranges with me and I started stuffing them into her mouth. She tried to close her mouth in resistance so I just smeared the orange all over her face. I stuck the orange into her nose, ears and eyeballs. "Eat it! EAT IT!" I said. Evil old bitch. Then I took a new bag, filled it up with two kilos of the oranges I had wanted in the first place, gave her one last kick in the head and walked out of there. She never gave me any problems after that. That's the thing with these third-world people, you try and do something nice and buy their damn oranges and they just walk all over you. You've got to remind them where their place is every now and then.
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THE MAN WITH A BUTT FOR A HEAD
One of my best friends in college had a butt for a head. It was a big hairy sweaty butt that nobody wanted to make eye-contact with. He talked with a muffled voice that was difficult to understand because he didn't have any lips. He had really bad breath. He seemed to be able to see ok and everything even though he didn't have any normal facial features, but his sense of smell was severely limited. We used to get together and drink beer. It was fun to watch him. With a beer in his ass he looked just like one of those guys in the cantina scene in the original "Star Wars." At parties we'd always go up to girls and he'd ask them to kiss his ass. Most of the time they'd just get a disgusted look on their face and walk off, but one time this girl thought she'd be smart. She said, "OK," and pulled down his pants only to find a face where his butt should be that was the spitting image of Tom Cruise. Her eyes glossed over and she bent down all puckered up and ready. She eagerly plunged as deep as she could into those Tom Cruse lips. Boy was she surprised when she got a mouthful of shit. We laughed at that one forever, but really, she should have seen it coming.
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THE EVIL WEDDING RING
I love that movie about the evil wedding ring. The one where nine of the most powerful people in the world get together on a mission to destroy it. The whole time the movie goes on they keep looking at the wedding ring and shuddering with the pure evil of it. It is like the message of the movie is that marriage is evil. I wonder whose marriage that ring was from? Probably two people who were really bad. No, it was probably two people who were a really happy couple and then got married and started treating each other like shit. That's what usually happens when people get married. I suppose the nine powerful people who want to destroy the ring figure that it is the ring's fault that the nice couple started treating each other so badly. I guess that makes sense in a way. More sense than most movies do these days. What a wonderful assault on American values. Wedding rings are evil! They must be destroyed! I'm surprised that there aren't lines of protesters flocking to whatever theatre shows that movie. They've come out for other movies in response to much less obvious provocation. Maybe they just figure there is nothing to protest. Maybe the protesters are sitting there with a beer screaming, "Hell yeah, it's about time somebody pointed out that marriage was evil!"
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A HANDFUL OF VIOLENCE
I reached into my pocket for my handful of violence. I was going to show this kid something. He was provoking me. But my handful of violence was gone! I recoiled in surprise and anger. Somebody had stolen it! Maybe it was this kid! I jumped on him and started smashing him in the face. He put his hands up weakly to defend against me but to no avail. I continued to hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him. He started to cry and begged me to stop. That was the oldest trick in the book. Did he think I was some kind of idiot or something? Ten more for that. I could feel his little baby teeth folding back against the inside of his mouth. I hit him again and again. Soon I felt big hands on my sides. They pulled me off of the little boy. "Where's my handful of violence! Where's my handful of violence!" I screamed. The teacher held me up in the air. He gasped at the sight of the boy. The boy was his son. He held me by my ankles and bashed me against the wall. He bashed me again and again. It was a hard, brick wall. My skull cracked. My brains fell out onto the floor. There was a big red streak on the wall and a big red puddle on the floor. There were brains everywhere. The teacher stopped in horror at what he had done. His son was dead and so was I. He ran into his room and picked up a gun and shot himself. All of this could have been avoided if that kid had just returned my handful of violence from the beginning. If he had done that he might have walked away with just a fat lip. People who can't handle a handful of violence shouldn't go playing with somebody else's. When unlicensed, untrained people go on a rampage with a handful of violence, all you end up with is anarchy. Nothing good ever comes of it.
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PLAYING TRICKS ON THE BLIND
There sure are a lot of blind people in this city. They're always walking around asking for money or for help crossing the street. I'm sick of them frankly, but they are fun to play jokes on. One time this blind guy asked me to help him across the street. I took him into a building and we rode the elevator all the way up to the roof. When we got to the roof I walked him over to the edge. "Be careful," I said, "it's about a six inch drop." He nodded and smiled at me with his eyes closed. He had yellow, furry teeth. I shuddered. Then, just like that, he stepped off the building. Another time this blind guy was walking along. He was using his cane to tap a building to keep himself oriented. I took a piece of plywood and held it up against the edge of the building. The blind guy just kept walking along tapping the plywood thinking that the building just kept on going. When we got out into the middle of the street I pulled the plywood board away and ran back to the sidewalk. The blind guy just stood there confused, slowly turning in circles. A truck came around the corner and made a red cloud out of him. Sometimes those blind guys have those big mean dogs. The dogs don't like me. I think they can tell what I'm going to do. Dogs are like that. They can sense when you mean them ill-will. I've never thought it was fair that a dog could have this talent and not people. After all, aren't people superior to dogs? I bought a rabbit from a pet store and set it down in front of the dog. The rabbit went running out into the street. I thought for sure the dog would go after it and that it would be funny as hell. But the dog was too well trained. It just stood there growling at me. I ran into a pawnshop and bought a gun. I aimed it at the dog and pulled the trigger. I found out later that the pawnshop guy had sold me the wrong caliber ammunition. The bullet blew up in my hand and sent scalding hot powder into my eyes. I never saw anything again. Ain't that just a kick in the ass?
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THE ARCHANGEL OF DEATH
Last night I was sitting around in my apartment in my dirty whitey tighties when the doorbell rang. I set the popcorn aside and let the TV continue to flicker as I walked over to the door. I didn't bother to put on any pants. I figured that if whoever it was had the discourtesy to bother me at this hour they deserved to see me in my near-naked state. I swung the door open and lo and behold it was the archangel of death. His wings were beating slowly behind him. "I told you I don't want any!" I screamed, and slammed the door in his face. I figured that if it worked on girl scouts it might work on him. I walked back over to the TV, only to find that the archangel of death was sitting in my chair eating my popcorn. "Do you want a beer?" I asked. He nodded his pallid skull. I wandered into the kitchen scratching the crack of my ass absentmindedly on the way. Nothing worse than when the archangel of death stops by. The guy could drink straight for a week and never be the worse for it. He never brought any beer to thank me or anything and he never talked. He just sat there, staring at me, with that big leering skull. I tried to ignore him and concentrate on "Baywatch." I know that you're supposed to be polite to a guest, but the archangel of death always gives me the heebie-jeebies.
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THE OLD LADY
I was walking behind this little old lady on the street. She was toddling along and at first it was kind of cute. She toddled back and forth at this speed that was just fast enough to make it difficult to pass her, but just slow enough so that it was infuriating to stay behind. Finally the sight of her lost whatever minimal appeal it had previously generated. I decided to pass her, and that's when she started fucking with me. Her eyes never diverted from looking forward but she moved too precisely to block every one of my motions to not know what she was doing. I started to accelerate to pass her on the left and she, in her aimless, clumsy wandering, started drifting over to her left. So I changed direction and decided to pass her on the right. At that exact moment she too changed direction and started toddling to her right. The obvious excuse was that she was just too lost in her own little deluded old lady world to pay me any attention, but that didn't change the discourtesy of the situation. I was young, I had places to go, I had my strength and vigor. I wouldn't have it forever She was frittering it away by not bothering to be aware that she was in my path. Still I fought to get around her and still in her completely oblivious way she managed to thwart every effort. Finally my fury overcame my pre-conditioned notions of courtesy to the elderly and I just pushed by. She went sprawling down onto the concrete, bleating that old lady bleat like a lamb's cry. I was free. But by then it was too late. My time had passed. I was old and crippled and wrinkled. I was slow. I tottered as I walked. I was so angry that I didn't bother to get out of the way of the youths that crowded behind me. I laughed to myself as I gently changed my direction to block them. They stared at my back stupidly, impudent with their disbelief that I could be doing it on purpose. The fools, strong enough to take what they wanted and waiting for god knows what. Well, they wouldn't be young and strong forever. Out of spite alone, I'd be happy to watch it pass them by.
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HARD LUCK BABY
The baby sat in his crib yelling at his mother. Aren't you going to work tonight mommy? I'm hungry. The mother looked up in anger. Don't you know how much I suffer for you? I sell my body to men for food! The baby would have none of it. Don't give me that crap. You sell it for money half of which you spend on booze. I've seen you. I'm hungry. Don't be giving me those sad sack stories. Get out there and turn some tricks! I gotta eat! The mother turned an angry face. How dare you talk to me like that! But the baby was right there with an answer. How dare I? How dare you! How dare you bring me into this unstable environment. This is my whole life that you've frittered away because you couldn't bother to take the necessary precautions. Why didn't you pick a nice boy to have as my daddy? Why did it have to be that deadbeat jerk who ran off at the first sign of trouble? And don't give me that sob-story crap about being a prostitute. You only do that because you don't have the discipline or patience for a real job. They're out there. I've seen the papers. You just don't like being on your feet all day. Lazy bitch! And what about that doctor you were dating just a short while ago. Why couldn't you keep him happy? That was something I could have learned from. A little stability. But you're dumb pride scared him off. You couldn't even shut your mouth to make him happy. All your stupid holier than thou notions, where do they come from? What evidence do you have that you're such a princess? This whole situation is your creation. Don't give me that hard luck crap, I'm the one with the hard luck. At some point when you become an adult you have to accept responsibility for the place you're in. Now get out there and do your job! The mother turned wearily out into the street. The baby leaned back in its crib. It would soil its diapers, but mommy wouldn't be back to change them for another ten hours. She was too busy out wandering around making people feel guilty for the poor hand life had dealt her.
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THE ITCH
I had this itch on my stomach that I just couldn't stop scratching. I rubbed the tip of my finger against it again and again, feeling the hardness of my nail scrape and catch along the ridges of my flesh. Little hairs pulled back and the rasping sent flakes of skin fluttering all around. But the itch remained. I continued working my finger back and forth, sometimes switching fingers when the muscle cramped. The discarded skin started to pile up behind my nails, pushing them forward with a kind of pain that was muted, irritating and unbearable only for its nagging irritation--like an itch. After a half hour I had struck blood. It came up first as redness upon the flesh. Small spots where the high points had been sheered away. But the itch continued and so did the scratching. Soon, I had created a little trough in my belly. I continued to scratch. Deeper and deeper I went until the blood pooled up around my excavation like water does when you break the Earthly table. It sloshed out of the growing indentation, splashing up along the sides of my stomach and drying brown almost instantly. Down, down I went. Different layers of my innards were unearthed, penetrated, and forgotten. Perhaps an organ, perhaps an epidermal layer, it made no matter what they were as I passed them, only that they were gone and that the itch remained. Hours later, my whole finger was extended to its maximum length into the depths of my body. My back was arched to add further distance to the penetration. The itch still eluded me. I must have been a pretty sight. My back a good two feet off the ground. My scrawny legs pumping me upwards. My finger implanted into my stomach. Copper dried blood covering my chest and stomach. Abruptly the whole thing struck me as funny and I started to laugh. Believe me, the whole enterprise ended up significantly less messy than the last time I had a headache.
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THE BIG BANG
Buck Heinsaucer aimed his death ray blaster at the evil alien horde. He took a deep breath, inflating his skin tight waxy space suit so that it stretched across his impressive physique to maximum effect. "What do you think Laser?" He said, speaking to his busty blond assistant. "I think it's time we give them the goo." She replied. Buck grinned. He was going to be giving plenty of goo that day, some telegraphed, some a sticky surprise. "Ho you evil space aliens! The united federation of the planet Earth has decreed that dictatorships are contrary to the edicts of humanity! You must dissolve your organization!" The aliens looked at Buck with their one greasy eye, "But we haven't had any kind of strong central government in over a thousand years. Sure it is a dictatorship, but it is a good dictatorship. Within a month of captain Artag's rise to power the number of hospitals has increased by seven hundred percent!" Buck didn't even hesitate, "an unrelated coincidence, prepare to die!" He let loose with his death gun, the aliens crackled and sizzled like fried eggs. "I love it when you play tough Buck!" Laser cooed, Buck grabbed her and held her close. The proximity of their rubbery suits made a squeaking noise. Buck took a fork out of his all-terrain pack and stuck it into the charred corpse of the monster. Freeing a morsel, he plucked it into his mouth. "Hey baby, what say we go back to the ship and combine the first letter of this object with the last part of my name?" He held up the fork. "What purpose would mixing letters serve?" Laser asked dumbly she rarely caught onto anything. Buck just smiled, "there's a purpose baby. It's how universes are created."
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THE GORILLA AND CARL
Beast master Carl just loved that gorilla. Sometimes he'd climb into its cage at night and try to learn its ways. He'd take off his brown zoo uniform and grease himself up. Then he'd slide through the bars and revel in the feel of dirt and vegetation against his moist and hairy ass. Goliath just sat and regarded him with what Carl couldn't help but interpret as a look of disgust. Still, he wasn't deterred, and he continued rolling around and making hoot, hoot noises until the early morning hours. During the day, Goliath would just sit in his cage and stare out with lonely eyes into the sky beyond the bars. Sometimes kids would come up and point excitedly at the sight of Goliath. Goliath would always watch them come out of the corner of his eye. He was patient, like a hunter, and when they were close enough he'd shit in his hand and throw it at them. He'd gotten very accurate during his time of captivity. He was never punished. They just assumed he was too dumb to be doing it on purpose. At nights, Carl continued to pester Goliath. He'd crouch down behind him and continue with his incessant and irritating hooting while he picked at the lice on Goliath's back. One time Carl sat down in front of Goliath as if he wanted the favor returned. Goliath used his thick and hoary finger to give Carl a prostate exam instead. His probe produced the first truly monkey sounding noise out of the peculiar little man. Carl jumped through the bars and sat there rubbing himself with a hurt look on his face. Goliath laughed, but of course Carl didn't know hot to interpret Goliath's behavior. One day Goliath got fed up and left his captivity by his own means. Carl was crushed. The gorilla had been his whole responsibility. He sat there naked all through the night and in the morning he decided to just take Goliath's place. He'd observed the gorilla enough to know what to do. Unfortunately the happy parents didn't take to well to seeing a naked man masturbating in front of their children instead of a real gorilla. Carl did everything he could think of to prove he was the next best thing, but the security guards came and drug him out of there anyway. Nothing convinced them of his gorilla prowess. Not even shitting in his hand and throwing it at them.
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BITCH SEASON
That small fraction of the population which makes all the noise. They remind me of when you can't get the temperature right in your car. You don't notice the ninety percent of the time when it is perfect and you are comfortable. Those hours just slip by in dreamy fantasy. But the rest of the time when it's too hot or too cold. Unbearable. Those are like the bitches. They're defined by their bitchiness and they're always relegated to the same social rolls. They're never significant, but they guard the gateways to significance. They're the secretaries and the appointment makers. They sit there and are totally competent in remembering everything except for that one little loophole which your friend the doctor or publisher, or president has worked in so that you don't get mired down in the system. "Just tell Betty I said you could come in whenever." He'll never believe what a bitch she is. She's always kind as sugar to him. But you've got to fight your way through her. "I can't allow you to go in there. No, I can't call him and ask him. No I won't leave a message." So you knock her down and run by. Drunk on that miniscule aura of authority that they think they grab a piece of through proximity. It's time to call open season on those fuckers. I've got my license. I've got my rifle. I've got my Buck knife. I've got the bitches all scouted out. I'll just prop myself over their desk and wait. I'll pump her full of lead and toss out her stinking innards right on that executive gray carpet. Then I'll parade around town with her body strapped to my car. Why didn't anybody think of this before. Bitch season. Dem's good eatin'.
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FUCK PEACE!
Somebody's got to tell me who that dumb fuck was who started that whole "Peace" movement. Now you can't turn your head without seeing some bullshit, rich, covered-in-jewelry, talking rock star turn to the camera and flash his fifty-thousand dollar teeth and say, "Peace!" Usually all this is prefaced by the fact that there are a lot of people suffering in the world and they need some help in order to "feel good." So let's all say a little prayer, "Peace!" That arrogant prick is wearing enough jewelry to feed Africa for a year and he's saying "Peace!" Of course he wants peace. He's got enough to fucking eat! That guy out in the desert that he's so concerned about--he doesn't even know the little prick is wishing him peace because he doesn't have a TV. But what the hell is "Peace" supposed to mean? Don't resist? Accept your position? Put up with all the bullshit? If it was me I'd be saying, "Revolution!" Why don't we wish the starving people of the world revolution instead of peace. Peace doesn't change anything. Peace is just putting up with the same old shit. Revolutions make things better. Check it out. It's been documented. Maybe those asshole rock stars that act like they're so concerned are worried that if they gave the real message, all those starving desert people would come gunning for them. Well here it is baby, REVOLUTION! Fuck peace! I'm hungry.
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PLAYING BASKETBALL
We were playing basketball. We had ten guys that were all running around franticly yelling and sweating and reaching for the ball. I was on the far side of the court trotting down when I looked up and saw this old guy striding through the midst of the players right in our game. They all sort of slowed down to accommodate him. He was just walking along, taking little baby steps, oblivious to everything, most notably the fact that he was fucking up our game. It took him forever to cross the court. He could have easily walked around but he chose to go his own way. Interrupting us. He'd hardly stepped off before we were playing again. We never really stopped, it was only a lull, and soon the game was back to its previous, frantic rhythm. I didn't think much of it until the old bastard appeared on the court again about a half-hour later. I don't know where he'd gone to. With as slow as he was walking he couldn't have done any reasonable task and returned to his lazy game interrupting crawl across our court. He was crossing in the same direction as before. Still totally oblivious to our playing. It pissed me off this time. What if one of our guys failed to see him and inadvertently crashed into the old senile prick? What if he knocked him to the ground and broke his hip? I walked up and said, "Get the fuck off the court!" He looked at me all smug and old and superior. "Don't talk to me like that young man!" Of course he stopped walking as he said this and started wagging his protrusions at me. I motioned for the ball. I wasn't going to listen to his stupid rant. We played on. I was looking to tag that bastard now, but he'd smartly shuffled off the court. I'll make space for people if they make a reasonable attempt at courtesy. I don't care how old you are or what you've done for anybody, nobody has a right to make a nuisance of themselves like that. I hope that old bastard wanders out in front of my car sometime. It ain't my responsibility to accept wear and tear on my break pads just because he can't be bothered to keep himself out of harm's way. The end is inevitable when you start acting like that, it don't matter how much righteous pride you've got.
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BEATING THE MEAT
Halleluiah, today I had an epiphany. I walked by a hot chick and felt no inclination to fuck her. I think I've finally done it, I think I've finally reached the end of that unhappy thread. Looking for new experience, testing the sexual waters, delving deep into the pool of perversion. I've done it all by now. I started like everybody, jerking off to magazines and movies. Then my first feelie, sitting on the school bus. My first kiss, my first blow job, my first fuck. I could actually stand to be with a girl for about a year or so back then. They all became old. Eventually you start doing kinky shit just to stay interested. Sex in public places. Sex with a girl who isn't your monogamous partner. Sex with your partner's mom, sister, best friend. After a while you're only aroused when it is something truly extreme. A random encounter in a bar, on a plane, in a restaurant bathroom. At church, at the doctor's office. Then you move on to two at a time, then three. Bondage, brutality. It all gets old. You start doing truly weird shit. Fucking the produce in full view at the supermarket. Going to jail. Your first homosexual encounter. Then you move on to animals. But now I've finally done it. Triumph. I can't even get a hard-on anymore. I've broken the sexual curse that binds all men. I've won. Or maybe it's just by default. That dog that I was trying to trick into fellacio the other day just bit my prick off and ran away to bury it. Have you ever cut your cock when you've had an erection? It's like old faithful. What a hard, hard, world we live in. A man can never win.
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A LOSS AT LAMBEAU
There was this guy sitting in Lambeau field with his bright yellow Packer's construction hat. It was made to look like a hard-hat, but it was probably made out of light plastic so it wouldn't do you any real good in any conceivable situation. He was wearing it with a certain kind of dignity. I couldn't help but wonder what a construction hat had to do with Packer football. Maybe it was just that construction hats are tough, worn by people doing tough things. But then again the hats they wore were actually functional. This guy must have been about fifty. All wrapped up in his green jacket. The water pouring off of his ridiculous packer construction hat. This was probably the only place he could wear it. He'd look like a fool or a retard with such a thing on his head in a bar or restaurant, but in Lambeau field he fit right in. He was like a big kid who wanted to dress up and who loved his packers so much that he didn't care that he looked ridiculous. He just didn't care. But as he sat there dejected in the rain you could kind of tell that the Packers must have lost. He still had his dignity. He still held himself with a kind of regality. It all made the scene worse some how, the fact that he was so capable to deal with it, horrible in a way. He was virtually motionless, staring ahead, not trying to run away from anything. He was collecting himself, as if from a horrible shock. Maybe the situation would have been better if he was just a drunken jerk jumping around and behaving like an ass. As it was, you could tell this guy was in full control of his faculties. He didn't dress up like that to be part of the party, he loved the team. He loved them like a ten year old boy. For those moments on Sunday, he was a ten year old boy again. He allowed himself that because it magnified the joy when they won. He allowed himself to be vulnerable once a week. The rain trickled off his silly hat and he sat their resignedly remembering why, as an adult, he had grown into the habit of not getting his hopes up too high. Now he had to walk home looking like this, with nothing to intoxicate him and make him forget. But he'd walk home with his chin held high in that weird belief that it was necessary. It was a penance he had to pay. He'd take his knocks and carry them like a man. He was playing make-believe, and he'd play it again next weekend. Because when the Packers won, you didn't even think about what you looked like. You felt like a kid, and if it took wearing a silly hat in the rain on a losing afternoon to get there, well, it was a small price to pay.