Monday, May 31, 2010

Four Hundred and Twenty Seven...

He nodded to her and said, "Hello Mrs. Jennings!"

She looked at him with narrow, hateful eyes, and thrusting a clipboard before his face, said, "Coach, do you know what this is!?"

He stopped and examined it for a moment, then concluded, "That's a clipboard!"

Mrs. Jennings paused and looked at the clipboard, then said, "That's right!"

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Four Hundred and Twenty Seven...

Screw you blog! I'm writing!

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Four Hundred and Twenty Six...


A conversation between two people who have no brain.

"Blurghduh duh udh!!!" said the moron with no brain.

"Dfdu fd ollwlw dblll...." said the other moron with no brain.

The conversation went on like this for several hours but it is better if we summarize what they said through exposition as they actually said nothing worth noting. See? Now we have skipped over several hours of pointless conversation through condensing it into only a few sentences and can move on with the second part of the story where they are both hit by a large truck.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Four Hundred and Twenty Four...

This is not a love song!

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Four Hundred and Twenty Three...

Monday, May 24, 2010

Four Hundred and Twenty One...

I honestly have no idea what this is supposed to mean. Makes no f*****g sense.

Sunday, May 23, 2010


Beautiful Vomit

The bright, glowing, power of the spherical blazing ball of searing orange flame crept over the ancient rustic mountain side spilling it's searing charcoal guts out across the slumbering trees and lifeless undergrowth in a blinding blaze of majestic glory. Trees the color of freshly tilled earth reflected the bright rays with gusto, setting the forest ablaze with light, color, love and life. Overhead the sky was gradually transferring to a bright creamy pink like that of a freshly born baby in a tub of electric strawberry ice cream, liquefied cow tongues, and pepto-bismol. Crusted, gnarled, dusty, dry hills rolled along below the gutted rays of the rising sun, then suddenly the hills jumped, freeing themselves from the previous night's slumber with a gentle turning and rumbling like that of a sleepy bear coming to life after a long hibernation. Birds chirped with such life and beauty like a thousand flutes as to challenge the most stirring compositions ever created. Dew set on the trees and reflected the blazing sun's soul as though a thousand tiny eyes were searching the future for an answer to their deepest hopes and dreams. A violin! Oh my God, a violin.

Beautiful Vomit Ver. 2

He woke to the sunrise. A violin! Oh my God, a violin.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Friday, May 21, 2010

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Four Hundred and Seventeen...

No time! No time! Ughghghhg.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Four Hundred and Sixteen...

When your brain explodes it is a unique feeling but can also be enjoyable.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Monday, May 17, 2010

Four Hundred and Fourteen...

I can't play video games anymore, I just can't. Something happened to me. There was a bright light...

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Four Hundred and Twelve...

Remember That Time When Yesterday But Now?

George was walking in through the front door of store and he began to said, "Hey Suzie!" and after he say that he sat down at the counter and think about things that happened just now. He began frowning and is sad.

Suzie rotates her body and turns around with a smiling face, happily, began to says, "What has happened within the last time I saw you George?"

George think for a time and then when he is ready he looked up and he start to said, "Not much Suzie."

"Do you like to have some free cheese cake today after you give me money?" She smiling right now.

George does not give answer to question but pulls out a piece of paper and wrote something down on the piece of paper, then he hand it into Suzie's hand and he says, "I wrote this for you just now but earlier than."

Suzie gasped and then she start to smile and begin laughing. She laughed because she has never had anyone began to write something for her before this time.

In the next day George is sitting at the table and he began to think about something that had happened to him the day before this one, which he thought he had to do something important. He scratches his head and thought hard. In the next moment he was sitting in his house and he began to picking up the phone but before he had began to pick up the phone he decided it was better to begin cooking dinner. Suddenly, as if instantaneously, the phone rings loud and he suddenly, like a bullet out of a gun, turning his head in the direction of the ringing sound and then is looking at phone before he began to start dinner. His dinner has began to start boiling and was boiling before this time after he turned on the heat.

After he picked up the phone he say, "Hello I am talking now."

It is Suzie from cheese cake store and she saying, "Hi George I am also on the phone and I am talking to you."

George began to become nervous because he never had talked to Suzie on the phone ever before this time except when he was talking to her just now but not further. He swallowing hard and sweat is now on him and then suddenly he is instantaneously saying, "Hi, Soozie."

"I thank you for note you give me before this time when we talk on phone."

"It was nice thing I do," says George and he begin to start to smile happily, happier than before in this time, which was not as happy.

"Do you want to go with me to dating event?" she asking.

"Oh, I do, I do want to do a date event tomorrow," George began to say and then he says it just now, suddenly. He is smiling.

The date in the next day happens and it is not good because it fucking sucks. George smile and glad to become free of Suzie from after this time forever.


Thursday, May 13, 2010

Four Hundred and Ten...

Hurry, Hurry!

Jim woke up in the morning to the monotone buzz of his alarm clock. There was a news story. Four dollars for seven hamburgers. The mail came late. The dog slowly ate his toast. The red door splintered in several places. Sex always caused problems. Seven pieces of half-eaten cheese were left on the plate.

"What are you doing today?"

While picking the apples, a large explosion knocked him to the ground. He wondered what he was doing in the basement. It was a difficult time of day. The shampoo smelled sour. Everyone spoke at the same time, a few of them even yelled. Legos covered the floor. A torch could sometimes be called a flashlight. This plan was of no help to anyone but they followed it through anyway. The knife slid out of his stomach quite easily. The party had gone well, better than expected even.

A large hill could be seen in the distance. Television programs neglected to cover the sporting event. The computer ate his home work while he slept.

"What do you think it is?" she asked.

He took a deep breath and said, "This will have to do, Boss."

After pouring the soda out, he felt better. This was justice. Yet, there was no choice really, still they made it work. Time was passing him by at an alarming rate. The computer screamed. She was conversational but he did not want to be in love. This was it. The final was on armadillos and no one was prepared.

"So, this is where you've been hiding," he laughed.

The dog was not sleeping but dead. The refrigerator hummed.


A sad song played.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Four Hundred and Nine...

Ridiculous Literature Rant

"You know when fluoridation first began?"

I absolutely love this character because he is an excellent portrayal (in a funny way mind you, which I love) of what happens when people give up informing themselves on their own and doing their own investigating and instead have their heads filled with crazy, uneducated ideas, which is very relevant to today. He might as well be ranting about death panels.

I was re-reading 1984 today (yeah I said re-reading in a sad attempt to impress you, better than that though, a friend told me about a friend who read Catch-22 every year) and, back to the point, there is a part in the book where Winston, the main character, is writing in his journal, and it reads, "If there is hope [wrote Winston] it lies in the proles." This is one of those lines where you just have to stop reading right there and go do something else for a while because it blows your mind out the back of your skull. You really have to read this in the context of the book though because it just hits at the perfect time. It's an incredibly powerful, hopeful line and I think one that has a lot of truth to it.

I love Orwell because you can tell he really cared, I try to care -no strike that - I'm just a guy who whines a lot, anyway, Orwell is great because of the extent he took his obsession with human rights and the plight of the common man. This is what makes him more than just some guy who wrote an incredibly amazing book that is way better than whatever the fuck your favorite book is so there and furthermore I'd say I hate on enough things as is so it's probably for the better that I embrace any work of art with anything approaching feelings of love, besides it's not for the totalitarian message, I love this book more for the well presented relationship between Winston and Julia that breaks your heart, the precise, economical writing and descriptions, and the fact that I can't breathe for the last 90 pages of the novel, than for the heavy underlying social message, it just so happens it's about something on top of all of this awesome, and that something happens to be a BIG something.

This is why it's the greatest novel I've ever read. Orwell didn't just rest on the fact that he had a really neat idea, because he actually cared for the characters in his story, much like he cared for the plight of anyone under oppression. What makes Orwell so great is his journalistic side, he really didn't live in his head nearly as much as most writers, I'm generalizing here but I'm pretty sure it's a safe one, because lot of his fiction was very much grounded in reality, well, never mind, all writing is essentially. I can't a think of a lot of writers who have created a fake world of poverty based on personal experience. Tell me if you know.

You also have to love Orwell because he openly admitted he wrote for narcissistic reasons and that it was the laziest pursuit anyone could take up. He had no delusions of grandeur. On top of this he wrote Politics of the English Language, which every writer, every human being really, should read at some point in their education. God I wish David Foster Wallace had read that thing, then maybe he wouldn't have killed himself. Also, I don't want to hear about these new contemporary writers masturbating for 900 pages, that's a bunch of shit. Yeah, Joyce did it but he's Joyce not some young punk kid who can't get enough of the words he writes. Shit, what a crock. 1984 is infinitely smarter than Infinite Jest and it's 1/3 of the size and has twelve hundred billion less syllables. Oh, and at least 1984 has double quotations for God sakes! Wait, a lot of books have double quotations! Gosh, if we're going for cute stylistic choices why don't we just stop capitalizing and butcher all the useless words?

If it takes you 1000 pages to tell your story, you're doing it wrong. Why stop at 1000 then? Why not 2000? Or 4000? Clearly plotting is of no concern to you, so just go hog wild, make a book so huge no one can pick it up, include every fucking detail of every moment of every stupid, pointless character within a 100 mile radius.

I'd also like to mention that 1984's plotting is pitch perfect, comparatively it makes White Teeth look like Zadie Smith just vomited the words and story of her novel out for several days then sold it off as literature. Sorry, that was unnecessary, well, while we're bashing White Teeth, I also would like to mention that White Teeth is the first book I've read where I skipped to the back and read the last page just to be done with it. Sorry, now I'm just digressing and spewing venom.

I should read Ulysses someday. You know, I think if Orwell ever read White Teeth he would vomit for several days. This is undeniable. I wrote this without coffee. I actually don't hate Zadie, she's an incredible writer of digressions that don't matter (which I love if you had not guessed) and I've read some things she said in interviews and cheered, she just can't tell a story. I apologize if I offended anyone's favorite book, if it makes you feel any better I have several slivers in my finger and they are quite a bother, furthermore I am losing my hair and you are likely not so no matter what I say, the jokes on me. Orwell had wonderful hair. Sigh...

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Monday, May 10, 2010

Four Hundred and Seven...



Sunday, May 9, 2010

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Friday, May 7, 2010

Four Hundred and Four...

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Four Hundred and Three...


Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Four Hundred and Two...

"Are there any morning papers yet?"


"Too early?"


"A sandwich? Thanks."

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Monday, May 3, 2010

Four Hundred...

George grabbed the bottle of whiskey, poured half of it down his throat, half down his shirt, then he side-armed that empty bottle through the enormous window of his 43rd floor condominium, and a moment later he went chasing after it.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Three Hundred and Ninety Nine...

Basketball is a Sport I Played

The coach with the buzz cut kicked the locker room door open and screamed, "You all suck!"

Twelve sullen, exhausted boys turned and looked, no one said anything, all too sad, scared maybe, to say anything. Not that they could argue his point.

"I said you suck!" he repeated, "How could anyone play basketball so sucky!? I've seen women play better basketball - and I hate women! I killed my wife!"

The smallest boy raised his hand.

Coach turned his beady eyes on him and impatiently said, "What!?"

He turned away sadly, whimpered, and rubbing an enormous black bruise on his shoulder said, "But, I didn't sign up for basketball!"

"Well that's too-" he stopped and stared at him for a long time, eyes narrowing, then screamed, "What do you mean you didn't sign up for basketball!? I don't care if you signed up or not! You're here now! So deal with it - and play some better defense or I'll break your legs!"

"But I just want to make art," whined the small boy.

"Art!? What in God's name are you going to do with art!? At least sports will get you in the local paper! At least sports will get you chicks! You know who makes art?!"

"Well my mom likes to-"

"Fags! Fags make art!"

The fattest boy on the team emitted a loud moan and burst into tears. Then another boy started crying. Then another. Yet another. Even the team manager started crying. Eventually everyone was crying pitifully. Their sobbing echoing throughout the locker room. The coach slid his hands down his face, stretching his cheeks to their limit. The janitor appeared from one of the bathrooms stalls, where he had been cleaning diligently. He threw his scrubby brush on the ground, and said, "I hate basketball! I like paintings!" The coach slapped his hands on the side of his head and screamed at the top of his lungs for several seconds. His screams joining the muffled sobbing, forming a melodramatic symphony of sorts.

Clenching his fists at his side he said, "Shut up! Shut up! Everyone stop crying!" then pointing to the janitor, "And you, janitor, you're not even part of this sucky team! Clean those showers!"

The small boy threw up several times. The puke cocktail consisted of cereal and Tuesday's lunchroom spaghetti. After he finished puking, he fell off the bench, face first into his own vomit. He curled up and rolling back and forth in his vomit, he cried for his mother and lamented the existence of basketball and peach baskets.

The fat boy chewed voraciously at his hand drawing blood. The janitor picked up one of the benches, lifted it above his head, and screamed, "Fuck the system!" then tossed it across the room.

The coach dodged the flying bench, grabbed the small boy, picked him up off the ground, and threw him against a locker, and into the boy's face, he screamed , "It's not going to kill you to play basketball you fucking pussy!" The boy shook his head back and forth in disagreement. His face went white and his body shook violently in protest. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he died. The coach groaned and tossed him aside, he could always find more small forwards.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Three Hundred and Ninety Eight...

"I... I don't know exactly how to put this, sir, but are you aware of what a serious breach of security that would be? I mean, he'll see everything, he'll... he'll see the Big Board!"

-General "Buck" Turgidson

Ahhhh, so funny. Catch-22 still takes the cake as far as military humor goes.