Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Because He Pilfered My Bliss

My cousin threw a Christmas party the other night, and I initially didn't want to go, because he has a drug problem, and is often in the company of vaguely dangerous men. I was gonna blow it off and tell him I had a migraine, but feeling somewhat reckless from the built up boredom of winter, I put on my thrash face and went over.


Upon arriving, I felt overwhelmed by the amount of people already there. Dozens of beautiful women were walking around, and I could tell that most of them had drug problems, too, which somehow made them even more attractive. On the flip-side, a gruesome slut gauntlet guarded the kitchen, glaring at me through overly made-up eyes as I grabbed a beer from the fridge. I was able to avoid a conversation with them, but couldn't avoid their smell, which could only be described as a vortex of swordfish and rubber cement.


I stood by the stairs, drank my beer, and spied on a passionate conversation between a terribly skinny girl and a coked up Korean man. He kept yelling at her about not being respected, and how he couldn't stand it. She just stood there and took it with a weary face.

"No! I need more money! You still owe me 6 dollars for the meatball sub you threw in the fireplace!" he frothed. I couldn't control my laughter. The 'Rean dude saw me laughing at him, came over, and mumbled something in my ear about how much pain he could inflict upon me, about honor, and some other abstract macho bullshit. His face was bright red and glowing with sweat.


He poked his finger hard into my chest, which triggered the instinctual rage he desperately wanted me to feel, and I took a swing at his head. My fist connected with his left temple and his eye popped out. It didn’t even bleed. The eye just lay there on the hardwood floor, while the party-people stared. Time stood still and everything went quiet for a minute. Then the terribly skinny girl screamed, which caused time to start up again, and the empty socket vomited red gravy. Party over.


I finished the night alone in my apartment, with the lights off, eating ice cream from the pocket of the bathrobe I was wearing.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Carl Winslow's Corner: Mescaline Matters

Hello dream childrens! It’s your ol’ violent buddy Carl! Carl Winslow! It’s been awhile since we last spoke, and I’ve been mighty busy in the forest with my experiments. So far, I’ve successfully given 12 badgers Crohn's disease and drank a beaker full of meows. Cat meows enhance my animal communication skills, which are pretty good anyway. The other day, a caribou was talkin’ shit, going on about my eye pimples, so I pushed that motherfucker in front of a train. Ol’ Carl knows a thing or two about trains.

Also, I've been shape shifting, baby. Gotta be careful, though. Last time I got caught in a rusty trap. What can I say? The hunters loaded the trap with my favorite food - Dots. I couldn't help myself.


I was in the forest conversing with squirrels the other day, and an itty bitty medicine man tackled me to the ground and force fed me some mescaline he pulled out of a condom. I got high, children. My shirt burst off, as well as most of my back skin. During the first 3 hours of my trip, I suffocated six hikers in my armpit.


I was inside a floating cloud of clear smoke. I destroyed every tent in my path. Met some women whose tents I smashed. When they defended themselves, I laughed. Popped some rattlesnakes at 'em. Wuppaa!!! I’m not proud of it, but also, I am. My spiritual advisor, Neck Bubbles, demands blood. I obey.


Then I ate some sand and had to go to the hospital. Have you ever tried to chew sand? It fucks your teeth up bad. And your insides. My guts were in a state, children. Luckily, the doctors were able to open my stomach up and get that filthy sand outta me. Turns out I ingested four pounds of it. They also found a bunch of super bouncy balls in me, but I made the doctors put 'em back in. Most doctors are shameless thieves. They just want to take what’s inside of you, and those bouncy balls are mine! They can keep the sand.


Let’s see, what else?
-Burned a hole in my bed so the floor can see my ass when I sleep.
-Hid a bunch of money somewhere secret.
-Tackled a polar bear down a flight of stairs.

Oh, I almost forgot! I’ve been writing poetry. Here’s one I call ROBOTS CAN'T GET PREGNANT ...

Gonna dick your coochie hole!

Gonna make your ass explode!

Gonna take a dump, unload!

Gonna bake your face, Nicole!


Time’s up, kids! But don’t worry, I'm in your closet right now, wearing your clothes.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Glue Ghost

I was full-blown nauseous in the taxi on the way to the airport yesterday. The stench inside the cab was obscene. It smelled like a mixture of sweat, rendered lamb fat, and Nick Nolte's pussy. My interpretation of the stink's origin goes something like this...


...Greasy-haired Turkish man with red rimmed eyes awakens on a cold tile floor, naked. A collapsible poker table sits in the corner, with a brand new box of 64 crayons at its center.

The Turk grunts and tears apart the crayon box, devouring all 64 crayons. A multicolored glaze coats his teeth. He pulls a timer out of his bare ass, and sets it for one hour. He ties a shoelace to the timer and slips it over his head. He walks outside, finds an abandoned taxi, and smashes the driver's side window with his elbow.

Once inside, he sits in the backseat and thinks. He daydreams about lopping the heads off of beautiful geese with a machete at a large family picnic. Women and children screaming. Dogs shitting. Fathers frozen in horror as The Turk writhes in the grass, bathed in goose blood, grinning blissfully.


His thoughts are interrupted by loud beeps from the timer. He pushes a button to silence the beeps, pukes a psychedelic rainbow of melted crayons all over the interior of the taxi, and flees back to his dismal lair.

...2 years later...

The Turk has been getting his shit together. Night school, new clothes, and a part-time relationship with soap. One night, on his way home from class, he spots the crayon-puke cab parked on a curb. It hasn't been touched in the 2 years since he defiled it. His spew is now dried, cracked, and crusty, though the smell is the same. He gazes upon the kaleidoscopic mess. The word "opportunity" flashes through his mind over and over.


He picks off as much of the caked ooze as he can, and sprays the interior down with Febreze. The taxi starts by itself. The radio starts playing the Reading Rainbow theme song at full volume...

"Butterfly in the sky
I can go twice as high
Take a look, it's in a book
a Reading Rainbow.

I can go anywhere!
Friends to know
and ways to grow
a Reading Rainbow."

And then he drove me to the airport.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Kobe Beef Curtains

I'm experiencing a surge of post illness positivity right now. All the gremlins have left mein digestive system, and I no longer feel like a garbage bag full of catfish. My brain is rejoicing. I don't know if it's an endorphin kick or just the relief of not having to treat my body like a tender foal, but I feel damn good.

I conclude that this positive mood is a gift from some celestial force that's telling me, "Hey there, my special little treasure. It's me, Glappy! You've survived another illness, and I've decided to reward you. Boom! This is what joy feels like. Pretty nice, huh? Don't get too comfy though, because it's not gonna last very long. Go on, eat up while it's still fresh, ya fat bitch!"


Onto another topic...

...I've been thinking about how completing a marathon is now a socially acceptable goal for boring people, and how it's considered to be an admirable endeavor. What a crock of boxcar taco tits! Contrary to what your glue-sniffing cousin says, lung pain isn't "fun". Those aren't smiles on people's faces at the finish line, they're the physical manifestations of torment and regret.


Unless you're training to outrun the apocalypse, I don't see the point. What's the upside, anyway? Epic blisters? Bloody armpits?

And for the people dedicating marathons to their dead relatives, I have some bad news - it isn't going to make your uncles breathe again, claw their way up from the grave, and give you Christmas presents. Even if they did, the presents would just be boxes filled with dirt. Dead people don't give good gifts, which is why I want to be buried with an anchor around my neck to prevent me from reanimating and going to birthday parties.


One more thing...


Smell ya later, my special little treasures.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Dying in a McDonald's Parking Lot

The sunlight is fading sooner and the nights are getting longer. The nights have been particularly long as of late, because I picked up a stomach virus, and my battles with it have been brutal. I now know what it feels like to have my peaceful village burned to cinders by a swarm of berserkers. Actually, it’s not as bad as the stomach flu I got last winter, but it’s shitty city nonetheless. So that’s my current burden, which will give way to some other burden next week. Right now, I’m not eating anything, and I have all the time I need to feed my irrational fears, and think about stupid things.


One of my biggest fears is dying in a parking lot. Stroking off or otherwise suddenly dying in the parking lot of a grocery store would be awful. And yes, I know that if I’m dead, it couldn’t possibly embarrass me, but I don’t care. I can’t let it happen.

My Hebrew school principal died in a McDonald’s parking lot. They found him slumped over the steering wheel. He had terminal cancer and was fading fast, so it wasn’t surprising that he passed. And even though I didn’t particularly like him (he kicked me out of Hebrew school), I remember hearing about it and thinking it was the saddest goddamned thing in the world. What an undignified way to die. And I thought about who might have found him - A customer? A McDonald’s employee? – And I thought about his family. How could they ever think about McDonald’s the same way again? I know I couldn't. There are McDonald’s everywhere, so the memory would be inescapable. Hell, every time I pass a Brown’s Chicken, and there aren’t that many, I shudder because I’m reminded of the Brown’s Chicken massacre back in ’93. (FYI: The murder site is becoming a Chase bank, which is a fantastic idea because ghosts love money.)

Maybe it’s the thought of dying alone in a flat concrete wasteland that makes me anxious. Maybe it's the soullessness of modern commercial landscapes and the horror of being defeated there. I don’t know why the prospect makes me so sad, but here I am, thinking about it. And it doesn’t make me feel any better.


Monday, October 12, 2009

Eating Sad Cookies

Another dispatch from the front lines of the NEST OF GRUMP...


Ah, nothing like some depression to kick start the fall. Nothing like waking up to screaming shitheaded children, playing in the streets like dogs. Nothing like the hatred for my neighbors, even though they’re just living their lives, albeit in the most annoying way possible. And the dumpster on the street for construction junk, the one that’s right outside my front door, yeah, having the whole neighborhood heap old furniture and hamburger wrappers upon it to the point of overflowing is fantastic. Smells nice. God, I hate everyone and everything. And I hate that I hate.


Waking up guilty is an awesome feeling, too. Not being able to fall asleep until 7am and waking up at 3pm with most of the day gone makes my heart swell. Not that I had anything important to do anyway. Maybe I’m pissed because all these people are running around like they’re happy and I don’t feel like that at all. Yes, I know that a lot of the people I see are far from happy, but I just can't help projecting my uneasiness around like birdshot.

And yuppies with no visible flaws anger the shit out of my ass. I know they’re just as insecure as I am, but it would be nice if they could at least show some outward manifestations of it. Gimme some sad eyes, slight limps, dry hair, stained shirts, and scars. It makes me feel better.


There are only a few times a month when I feel like everything is alright. When my body, mind, and surroundings are aligned and in order. But it’s short-lived, maybe a couple hours long. These moments include meeting someone new that isn’t full of shit, reading or watching something that causes genuine laughter, hanging out with a few friends outdoors, and taking a refreshing dump on a lazy afternoon. These are my only joys.


It’s amazing that I’m friends with anyone, actually. I’m a privileged moody prick filled with potential that I never act upon. Oh look, over there, it’s a glimpse of the person I could be if I tried harder. He looks happy! That was a fun little exercise! Oh dear, look at the time… I’m due back at the gloomy van of hogshit at 8. You see, I’m taking a three month roadtrip of indecision and guilt-induced diarrhea. It's gonna be more fun than watching a tampon commercial!

Ahh shit. I’m just depressed and bored and don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t want to drink or take drugs. I don’t want to watch a movie or TV. I don’t want to take a walk and get more pissed at the people I see. I’d like to move away deep in the woods, but I’d get sick of that, too. Sometimes being alone is nice, and other times it gets to me and I pace around my apartment like a caged animal.


Depression. It’s a vague term, but it applies to whatever I’m feeling right now. I’ll lay it out in simple terms. I harbor deep hatred for my fellow man. I can’t stop thinking negatively. I don’t want to do anything. All choices are rigged. All paths lead to nothing. Where the fuck do I release this darkness? Inside a cop’s mouth? Honestly, I don’t know what I need or what I want. And it frustrates the hell out of me.


Friday, October 9, 2009

5 Not So Hilarious One Liners

1. Well excuse me, Condoleezza Rice!


2. I love you more than God loves earthquakes.


3. Here's a photo of me and Oprah in the dark...


4. Opposites attract ants.


5. Reggie White Power!


Tuesday, October 6, 2009

You Were Like Crack, Randy


Psst... You need some Randy Rock, yo? Easy, buddy. I'm completely human. Check my throat. No cyborg parts there, right? It's cool, man. But not really. You didn't check my chest, did you? It's all machines, man. I'M A FUCKING CYBORG!!! RANDY ROCK!!!


Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Tupac: Legacy of Sexual Satisfaction

I am a cracker. This can not be disputed...


I am a sesame flatbread cracker eaten by Tupac, who is alive and well, wrapped up in a cozy quilt at his cabin in the Yukon. His entourage is small these days, consisting of 3 wolves, 2 Inuit, and a long white bone whom he calls Todd. But Todd isn’t just some random bone. He was once a mighty femur belonging to a headless gorilla that wandered the Pacific Northwest, trying on different heads, going berserk when they didn’t fit. They never fit.

He must have decapitated 300 campers and their families before he died while bathing in a waterfall near Vancouver. You see, his neck hole was always dirty, and it needed to be cleaned regularly. And during a routine hole wash, a sturgeon managed to get stuck in his chuckhole. The thrashing fishtail-headed gorilla choked to death.


His body floated some ways before a group of teenagers found him. They got high and took pictures with the rotting corpse until it wasn’t funny anymore. Then the wolves arrived. They left only bones. The leader of the pack took the femur with him as a souvenir of their rare find. Then it was off to Tupac's cabin.

Tupac likes wolves and wolves like Tupac. And when the lead wolf set the gorilla femur at Tupac's feet, a covenant was undertaken. The wolves signed a 20 year binding contract to serve as the exclusive watch dogs for his Yukon compound. And in turn, the wolves gained studio access and microwave privileges.


Todd received his name on a night when some drunken polar bears were being way too loud, disturbing Tupac's sleep. He grabbed the femur and struck their rowdy bear skulls with graceful flair, receiving oohs and ahhs from caribou nearby. Acknowledging their admiration, Pac bowed courteously and went back to bed, leaving a wake of polar bear blood behind him. Before going to sleep, he thanked the femur for its loyalty, declared it to be his new ally, bestowed the name Todd unto it, and licked the bone clean.

Pac, the wolves, the Inuit, and Todd live in the Yukon to this day, with enough love to fill multiple lifetimes. On the real.


Friday, September 11, 2009

Flashlight Rash Night

I bought a 10-pack of flashlights yesterday at Home Depot. Seriously. As you can tell by the photo, they have since become a burden.


I saw these babies sitting on a shelf by the checkout lane and thought, "Who the fuck needs 10 flashlights ?" And then I saw the price tag - $10, and thought, "I need 10 flashlights!"

I sat alone in my car afterwards, feeling intense buyer's remorse. In fact, it was so intense that I passed out and began dreaming about a faraway place. A place where I'd never have the chance to make idiotic purchases. A place with waterfalls. And loose native women on horseback.

I smile a toothy grin at them, but my teeth are made of little flashlights that shoot beams of white light into their beautiful eyes, blinding them. Another native woman shows up. Except this one looks like the sound of Mr. T's laughter. Peculiar. Oh great, now there's an arrow lodged in my neck. Here comes the blood...

...I was awakened by a security guard knocking on the window of my car. "You can't sleep here, sir. It's midnight. We're closing."


It's been a weird summer.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Fear the Worst: The Truth About Obama (With Action Figures!)

Look how quickly Obama turned into an slouchy, obese, shrugging, plastic faced mute...

Nothing says take me seriously like action figures, masks, and horrible impressions.

Hold on... I get it now. These "birther", "death panel", and "liberty" kooks are essentially teenagers. Teenage minds trapped in ugly, flabby bodies. And they really hate their new black stepfather.


Here's some equivalent translations from kook to teenager:

"He's not an American citizen!" = "You're not my real father!"

"They're trying to take away my guns!" = "They're trying to take away my videogames!"

"I miss Ronald Reagan." = "I miss Kurt Cobain."

"Global warming is bullshit!" = "Hand jobs are bullshit!"


Friday, August 28, 2009

Colonial Teen Diary

Fredericksburg, Virginia

July 18, 1694,

Father put tree sap all over my penis today. He said I was sinning too much and needed to be taught a lesson. So I went out by the creek, stuck my prick in an anthill, and let the ants go crazy. It felt really good. Then it didn’t.

July 23, 1694,

Searching for flint in the cavelands today, I came across a bear's nest. She was feasting on a beehive. I kicked the hive out of her mouth, and ran away. Fuck you, greedy bear!


July 25, 1694,

Father made a bucket today. It holds ever so much water. I put spiders in the water sometimes, and peek at Father when he drinks it.

July 29, 1694

I asked mother why sister smells like farts. Mother said sister is becoming a woman. I think it’s because sister rubs hogshit on her dress to ward off the Indians.


August 2, 1694,

Gathering wood in the forest today, I came across a baby swaddled in a nest of branches. It had a five-pointed star carved into its forehead and was dead. I love gathering wood.


August 4 1694,

Father taught me how to fish today. We stood at the edge of the river and threw our lines in. Father was very quiet. Then he explained to me that he was very sick. I laughed. Father drew his knife and cut my face all bad. I hate fishing.

August 8, 1694

I put oatmeal inside my peehole today.

August 11, 1694

Huggles is my dog. She had puppies today. Misshapen, brown puppies that smelled like sister’s dress. Something was wrong with them. They didn’t move at all. I tried feeding them some milk, but they wouldn’t respond. Father saw me doing this, and stared at the ground for the rest of the day.

August 12, 1694

Last night, Father was whispering to his musket, and Mother told him to shut up, so he went outside and shot himself in the face. I buried Huggles' puppies with Father. Our family is destroyed. Colonial America sucks.


Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Birthday Party

Last year, my birthday fell on a Saturday, so I decided to throw a big bash at my folks’ summer home in Wisconsin. I made fliers and told everyone I knew about it. Word traveled fast, and around 50 people showed up. I knew half of them.

The people I didn't know seemed alright, though. Rowdy, but cool. There was this one guy who must have had a dozen vests on. A shirtless teenager showed up with a shitload of amazing records that he played all night. A Mexican girl with a broken leg set up a tattoo station on the kitchen table. People were dancing and getting fucked up and touching each other. The party had an altogether positive vibe that couldn’t be fucked with.


Around midnight, there was a loud knocking at the door. Three strikes, with what could only be a mallet. My guests were startled. They looked at the door, at each other, and then at me. I hesitated until some girl whispered gently in my ear, "Open the fucking door." So I opened it, revealing a 7 foot tall black man. I knew it was Patrick Ewing instantly, because he was wearing a Knicks uniform and his entire head was soaked with sweat. He smelled terrible.


“I heard it was your birthday,” he said, putting on a gracious smile and walking in. “Can I use your toilet?”

“Sure, Mr. Ewing. The bathroom is down the hallway to your left.”

“Thanks, and please, call me Patty Trick.”

“No.” I replied. “Just go to the bathroom.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and the party regained its frenzied energy . Some jackass got hold of my dead uncle’s wheelchair, sat his girlfriend in it, and pushed her right into a wall. Blood streamed down her face as she laughed. And the party continued.


After 45 minutes of toilet time, and still no sight of Patrick Ewing, I knocked on the bathroom door to see if he was okay. The door was slightly ajar, and I had a bad feeling deep in my stomach, but I went in anyway.


Patrick Ewing was sprawled out in the bathtub, dangling his massive legs like he was lounging in a hammock. He was eating peanut M&M’s by the handful. His throat and eyes were puffy and swollen. I asked him if everything was alright.

“Not really. I’m allergic to peanuts.” He tossed another handful of M&M’s down his ever expanding throat. “And chocolate, too.”

He was wheezing badly. I went over to the tub and crouched down to get a better look at him. I could feel an intense heat emanating from his face. I touched his moist forehead. The motherfucker was burning up! I quickly turned the shower on as cold as it went.

Patrick didn’t like this at all. “What the fuck?! Turn that shit off! My M&M’s are getting all wet!”

Then his eyes rolled up into his skull and he started to convulse. Badly. His hot swollen brain must have finally had enough. It was seizure time for Patrick Ewing.


The circuits that controlled his limbs went berserk. His beefy body shook the room. His hands clenched into tight fists that battered the tile around the tub. A wild right foot caught me in the ribs. I curled up on the floor and couldn’t breathe for a while, but I kept an eye on the giant loaf of wet thrash. The shower was still raining on him, and he started thrusting his groin violently in the air. The whole scene looked like an extremely fucked up R&B video.


I got my wind back, and was starting to get up on my feet when I heard something I hope to never hear again. Imagine the sound of a thousand pencils breaking at once. Patrick Ewing had shattered his pelvis.

The pain must have flipped a switch in his bulbous head, because he stopped convulsing and maintained a perfect stillness for what seemed like an hour. His bloodshot eyes remained focused on some far away object that I couldn’t see.


He turned his gaze at me, and the look he gave sent shivers down my spine. I bolted towards the door, but his massive paw grasped my shirt and I was jerked into the tub with him.

The shower was freezing. He clenched his teeth as he spoke, half scared, half furious. “My groin is all caved in! It feels like gravel in there. Did you put kitty litter into my crotch?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t think I can get up. Help me. Please help Patty Trick."

"Believe me, I want to help you." I replied. "I want to see you walk away from this. I want you out of my bathtub. Just tell me how, and I'll do it."

"Bring me a fresh bag of peanut M&M’s!”

I promised him that I would. But I never did. I just kissed his misshapen forehead and left, closing the door behind me. He was too far gone.


I went out to the living room and told everybody they had to leave. With my wet clothes and tense body language, they complied readily. After the last guest left, I locked up the house and drove back to my apartment in Chicago.

I got a call from my dad a week later. He was pissed. Finding a putrefied mound of gargoyle flesh bloated in your bathtub is a bummer. After I explained what happened, there was a brief moment of awkward silence, and then we both started laughing.

I love birthday parties.