Monday, January 26, 2009

When I Finally Turn 31, I Will Apply Myself Unconditionally to Math

It was a long time coming, I guess.
But having done pretty much everything else,
I'll finally be able to devote myself
to counting.

No, I won't create 'nuclear bombs'.
Won't be harbinger to any imminent human self-destruction.
Won't do no dynamite or trebuchets.
How stupid could one be?

I will do it for more selfish reasons.
You know how selfish I am, how selfish I can be.
I will count to forever expand my own universe,
around me.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Monkey News: What's Really Happening

Alright mates. Just received another important update from Carl Dilkington. So, without further ado, let it rip, Carl.

c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.

Got some new monkey news for you. I received this News through underground channels in the corporate world. A mate of mine works for a company that does projects with IBM, and he was charged with cleaning up the hard drive on one of the company's employees, Andy, who was fired recently. This disturbing news proves that there is something deeply wrong at the very core of our world's most important institutions.

So, there's this bloke, Andy, right? Got fired recently, no one is sure as to why. At least, none of the other employees what worked there didn't. But we may have some clues. My underground mate has sent me this file that he found while trying to clear out Andy's hard drive. It looks like an IRC log file. Here it is:

connection request received by
ident (ident found)
verifying rsa identity
irc_over_ssh connection approved.

Welcome to Conversations on this server are CLASSIFIED. Please ensure that any logging functionality on your client is turned OFF. Keeping logs of conversations on this server is a violation of your Identity Services Agreement and will be prosecuted by Law.

andy_tps: /join #haven
godbot: Welcome to Haven. mr_palm is currently not online.

andy_tps: i need to get in touch with palmisano.
@staciep: hi andy_tps. please don't use names on this channel.
andy_tps: sorry - where is mr_palm
@staciep: one sec. just deleting your comment from the server log.
andy_tps: hey there blueberry
andy_tps: you around?
blueberry: sorry andy, i was making myself some dinner
andy_tps: that's cool. just waiting to get in touch with mr_palm. what you
blueberry: ramen lol
andy_tps: lol. you're going to make yourself sick with that. you should come
over visit london - i'd make a delicious, scrumptous dinner for ya.
blueberry: rotfl. what would my husband say?
andy_tps: well, he can go stuff himself if he's leaving you eating ramen! ;)
blueberry: someday :/
@staciep: andy_tps - please join #mr_palm_haven. i've updated your privellages.
andy_tps: thanks staciep. blueberry - i'll catcha later
blueberry: l8r.

andy_tps: /join #mr_palm_haven
mr_palm: You got the report?
andy_tps: just wanted to give you an update on that
andy_tps: we don't have all of the info yet
andy_tps: but we should get it by wed.
mr_palm: This is bullshit.
andy_tps: i'm sorry, sir. the thai government is obfucsating our access to the
mr_palm: I need that information, Proctor.
andy_tps: sir
mr_palm: what
andy_tps: we're not supposed to use names on this server
do whatever the fuck I want. Like this
* mr_palm changes andy_tps's nickname to shitfest
shitfest: i'm very sorry sir
mr_palm: Shut up. I want to know about those thai plantain farms. NOW! Don't
fucking contact me again until you have the logistics.
shitfest: yes sir. i'm staying in over the weekend to get the info as soon as
i can.
mr_palm: Proctor, I have your house under surveillance. The plaintain farm
report is critical - my name is riding on it. If you don't have it in by
tomorrow morning, Proctor, I will have Mr. Cleese pay a little visit to your
wife and daughter.
shitfest: sir. yeesir. i will do everything i can.
mr_palm: See that you do
* mr_palm quit mr_palm_haven (kill)
* shitfest has left mr_palm_haven

shitfest: /join #haven
godbot: Welcome to Haven. mr_palm is currently not online.
shitfest: blueberry?
blueberry: ? who the hell are you?
shitfest: it's me, andy
blueberry: lol. shitfest?
shitfest: palmisano changed my name
blueberry: ooo
@staciep: please don't use names on this server, shitfest. this is your second
shitfest: sorry. blueberry - i need a special favor - msg me

* blueberry: 'sup?
* shitfest: i'm scared. mr_palm said he's going to send Mr. Cleese to my home
if i don't get this report thing done by tomorrow. and i can't do it - there's
no way.
* blueberry: ooo. i'm so sorry baby. what do ya need?
* shitfest: i need something. some dirt. something on mr_palm. something i can
use at him when he threatens me again.
* blueberry: well...
* shitfest: do me a favor. you're right there. go up to his office will ya?
maybe try to find something for me?
* blueberry: ooo. i don't know about that... could be trouble.
* shitfest: i know, i know. but i'm dying here.
* shitfest: hello?
* shitfest: you still there?
* blueberry: well ... ok. i'll try.
* shitfest: thank you so much! omg, if you can do this, i'll totally divorce
that bitch and come over and take you away.
* blueberry: hmmph ;) promises promises lol. ok. wait tho - let me finish my
* shitfest: phew. thanks.

* blueberry: back omg
* shitfest: what? you find anything.
* blueberry: omg omg omg
* shitfest: what!!!
* blueberry: what were those reports he wanted again?
* shitfest: uh - some stuff about thai plaintain farms... and?
* blueberry: omg omg. so - i sneaked into the Enclave right...
* shitfest: yeah
* blueberry: i casually walk over to mr_palm's office
* shitfest: yeah
* blueberry: i looked around, making sure no one is around. then i peeked in
through the little letterbox window.
* shitfest: and?
* blueberry: it was monkey in that executive chair!!!

Friday, January 23, 2009

Fancypants (Part 3): Hand Dryin'

This part 3 in a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Judge Lee calmly washed her hands at the sink and then adjusted her coat in the mirror. She pulled the tweezers from her bag and, staring intently into her reflection, plucked out a gray strand of hair from the side of her head. Then, placing the tweezers back in her bag, she washed her hands again, took a deep breath, and turned around to the hand dryer.

Jackson stood there, waving his hands erratically under the blowing air. He looked like a homeless magician, his tattered sleeves flying about as his arms swung back and forth.

"Perhaps I should give you a dollar, Jackson" said Judge Lee sternly, staring at the man.

Jackson turned and smiled at her. "Why best of the afternoon to you, Harper," he said genially. "How was your lunch at this fine establishment?"

"Suzy Q's Diner is by far the best place to eat at in Jesup town, surely" said Judge Lee, without taking her eyes off him.

"True, true," said Jackson, turning back to his magical hands. "Though I wouldn't know much better on account of my meals being prepared for fit consumption by my fine lady friend" he said.

Judge Lee sighed. "What are you doing there, Jackson?" she asked.

Jackson pulled his hands from the dryer and walked over. He put an arm around Judge Lee's shoulder and guided her closer to the machine, which by now had turned itself off.

"Harper," said Jackson, "this must be the most efficient hand dryer I have ever seen in my entire life." He clicked on the dryer's button several times before it turned on, and then its loud whir filled the restroom.

"Just look at that," said Jackson, waving one hand under the dryer. The force of the wind blast caused the skin on his hand to fold and billow. "I have never seen such a wonderful hand drying machine in my entire life".

Judge Lee smiled at Jackson. "Surely, it is a most remarkable feat of engineering, Jackson," she said, "but you misconstrue the meaning of my question".

Jackson covered his mouth in horror. "Harper, please accept my deepest apologies, for I never intended such a vile transgression" he said. "Whatever is the hassle, Harper?"

"I want to know what you are doing, Jackson," said Judge Lee patiently, "in the women's restroom?"

Jackson's horrified visage melted into a wide knowing smile. "Ah, of course my lady," he said. "There is no cause for your concern, ma'am, for you may rest assured none of the intentions I harbour would be considered foul by any reasonable gentleman. Or woman, if it should so please you."

"Of course not, Jackson," smiled Judge Lee, "I wouldn't ever think so."

"No ma'am. I merely got wind of this fine hand dryer from lil' Devil Joe who sits at the front of the liquor store, and had to come see for myself."

"Ah" said Judge Lee. Jackson smiled back at her. "However, dear sir," she went on, "I have been informed as to your loafing around on that poor Miss Marjorie's land, and also of the dwindling of your estate. And what is this I hear about you sleeping in the morgue freezers? People are threatening to sue, Jackson."

"Sue?" asked Jackson, a geniuinely baffled look on his face. "Why, I have not heard tell of any Sue residing in Jesup for the duration of my entire life."

Judge Lee looked evenly into his face.

"Let's see ..." said Jackson, putting his hand to his chin, "my lady friend does sometimes give mention of a Sue Hurley down in Allenhurst ... but why would any soul down Jesup want to threaten her?"

Judge Lee sighed again. "Well, Jackson, come on now, I'll give you a ride home," she said, taking Jackson's shoulder.

"Harper, you know I cannot go back there," said Jackson with concern.

"Right, right" said Judge Lee.


"You know, let me buy you some soup Jackson" said Judge Lee as they walked into the dining room. "You look like you could use a good meal."

"Whatever for, Harper?" asked Jackson, confused. "Why, only two hours ago I feasted on a fine array of Southern cooking prepared especially for me by my wonderful lady friend."

"I'm sure you did, Jackson," said the Judge kindly, "I'm sure you did. But please, won't you have a meal if I sit with you and request your fine company?"

Jackson's wide smile returned. "Well, if you put it that way, ma'am, I would certainly be happy to oblige."

This part 3 in a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Monkey News: Shut In

More simian news from Carl Dilkington (c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.


There's this bloke right, been living in this estate for years. Never went out of the compound. His mum would call in and be like "Yea when you comin' over to see us" and he's always like "Nah, nah. Got a flu this weekend." He never takes his car out for a spin, never goes to the pub or whatever. There's girls askin' him out to protest the government and he's like "yeah, yeah".

So this dude, he's livin' a total shut in. What does he do? I mean, what does he do to let it all out, right? Turns out, he's a bit of an old tagger. Not a graffiti artist, mind you, he doesn't walk around with a can of spray paint and draw the dogs bollocks on walls. Nah, all he uses, right, is this marker he bought from W.H. Smith's, like, ten years ago. 'An artist's pen' he calls it to himself.

And he goes taggin'. Well, at first it was just signin' his names on walls and shit. He'd run around the apartment building, squeezin' into corners, like in the elevator, and then when he was sure there was no one around (cos the elevator was going to the next floor right now), he'd slip his name upon the wall. Very quick. Just like that. Then he'd smoothly hide his pen and stand at the door, cool as apples, and walk out. Not his real name, of course. Nah, he was too cool for that. He'd sign it 'BoxerBoy'.

So time passes on. He's taggin' away, right, but he's seeing - other people are noticing his coolness. Like, he'd be walking up the stairs, and all of a sudden, the dude from 2E - the one who went snowboardin' and that - he walks out. Says 'Keep it up killamonsta'.

And the girls. 3I and 5T, and their girlfriends on a friday night. He's just chillin' on his way to the 4th floor. You know, from the 3rd. And they just happen to come in. "Look", they say, "it's BoxerBoy! Right on, tagger!" He just keeps his cool, right and walks out into the 4th floor calmly, trying to find the keys in his pocket.

As he walks to his apartment, he sees this massive sign drawn in brownish-yellow paint on his own door! It's just two initials - D.K. Now he's all pissed. That just ruined the evenin' that. Yeah, he was a bad man, yeah he went around slappin' his name all over the place, but he'd never done it on someone else's door. Even in thieves and murderers there are ethics, he thought to himself.

But just then, who comes a'tinkling down the stairs but 6P. Dana Kelsington, beauty queen of the apartment complex. Dana drops her purse, and it lands by his door. She's like 'Oh, sorry, sorry".

But he's not havin' it. "Dana Kelsington, eh?" he said, nodding at his door. Dana gets up again and smiles at him. "Yeah. You're the tagger, aren't ya?" she asks. "BoxerBoy".

He doesn't know what to say. "Yeah. Kinda" he replies, his teeth straining against his lips.

"So funny" said Dana, walking down the stairs again.

BoxerBoy can't sleep. He gets up at seven to wash his face and that. It's her, innit. It must be her, he thought. Why else would she drop that purse right there? D.K. Dana Kelsington. She fancies me, he said to himself.

Next day, he wakes up early. "Let's make Dana some breakfast" he thinks to himself. "I'll leave it out there with a tag, saying "BoxerBoy. She'll have a right old time that," he think to himself. He looks in his pantry, yeah, and there's nothing. No eggs. No bread.

He looks in his fridge. There's some milk there. "Alright, good start" he says to himself. He takes the milk out, then, sees, on top of the fridge, he's got a box of Cocoa Puffs.

"Excellent" he says to himself. He washes a bowl, and puts the Cocoa Puffs in. Then he pours a load of the milk in there. "Right. Breakfast" he says to himself. He takes the bowl of cereal, and goes out and to the elevator. "6P. Right" he says to himself. On the sixth floor, he wanders around for a bit. Is it 'P' before 'Q'. Or 'S' before 'P'. Darn alphabet, he thinks to himself. Why should there be all this 'order'?

Anyway, he finally finds 6P, tucked away in a little corner in there. He walks up, and put the bowl on the doormat. As he straightens up, he smiles. "She'll like this," he thinks to himself.

So, like, two days go by right. And not a word from Dana Kelsington. BoxerBoy's gettin' all frustated and that. The blokes on his favorite internet chat site aren't turnin' up. Finally, he's like, FUCK IT. Pulls out his pen from W.H. Smith, and walks out to do some taggin'.

He walks into the elevator and waits for the doors to close. Once they're shut, and the elevator is moving up, he turns around, ready to put his name on the wall. But he stops in his tracks. There, painted at the back of the elevator in yellow paint, in massive letters, is a message - "Thank U".

"Cripes", he thinks to himself. "That was pretty fucking big." The elevator opens at the 6th floor and he walks out. And now, who does he see, but Dana Kelsington, walking out of 6P, with her little pet chihuahua.

"BoxerBoy!" she says. "Keep it up, mate!"

He rushes back home. He doesn't know what to do, really. Alright, obviously she fancies him. Obviously she wants to get together. But why all the faffin'? Why the games? What should a bloke do, really? He thinks about it, and he finally figures, 'whatever'.

Whatever, yeah? If she won't say she fancies him to his face, then what can you, then, really?

Fuck it, he thinks to himself. Just let it be. It's not going anywhere, obviously. So he just goes on with his life. His mum calls in and asks "Yea when you comin' over to see us", and he just goes "Nah, nah. Got a flu this weekend." Never takes his car out for a spin, never goes to the pub or whatever. There's girls askin' him out to protest the government and he's like "yeah, yeah".

Things go on, just as normal. But suddenly, one day, someone slippes a little message thru the bottom of his door. He's lying down, but he hears it - cos the snowboarder and the girls in 3I and 5T are gone away on vacation, aren't they? Everything is very quiet now. Just him and 6P in the building. He runs over, opens the note up.

"Cheers for the Cocoa Puffs, mate" said the note, "but I think it's high time we get together.

"Yes!" he says, raising his fist in the air. About time the daft bird got her shit together.

"Let's meet in the elevator, 10pm" said the note.

He looks at his watch - it's 9.44. Hurriedly, he runs about. Washes his face. Showers. Rubs his cologne on. Then, packing up his pen from W.H. Smiths, he buttons up his coat and walks out of his apartment. He waits there, in front of the elevator, till it's 10. Then he, very casually, right, opens the door, and steps in, backwards, to get some charm in. "Let's not look her straight in the face," he says to himself. "Let's just, very slowly, turn around."

He turns around ... and there's a monkey there, staring back at him.

He lands on his arse at first. Then, picking himself up, he tries to straighten himself up. "What's going on," he asks. "Where's Dana?"

The orangutan looks back at him, kind of confused. Then it taps him on the pocket. He doesn't know what it wants at first, but then realizes it want's his pen from W.H. Smith. He gives it, figuring, whatever. He wants some answers. So, the orangutan takes the pen, and writes on the wall.

"Those were some bloody stale Cocoa Puffs, mate. Got something new?"

Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent

Monday, January 19, 2009

I miss the way she messaged me,

She'd say the cutest things,

Make me feel a little out of line,
But I guess I got too out of


Can no longer stand your bullshit farce,
Cos that is all that you are,
Agreeing will not help!!!!


She'd show me her thumbs littered with smileys,
I never could return that feat.
In retrospect, I really sucked!!!!!!!!!!


In retrospect, I overall sucked,
in overalls, ollie sucked,
do a trick like a skateboarder
for a laugh.


In my brain, she's still kissing me!
she says funny things and I please her.
she's my friend

forever ...


Saturday, January 17, 2009

Fancypants (Part 2): Rattlesnakin'!

This part 2 in a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Sylvia noted a small piercing in the toe that Doctor Chesterfield seemed to have missed in his autopsy. Upon further inspection, she saw that the puncture oozed a strange amber liquid. Not blood - it was something else.

She reached over the corpse for a syringe lying on the side trolley, when there was an odd humming noise somewhere behind her. Slowly, she placed the syringe back on the trolley and turned to look. There was nothing there - only the quadratic arrangement of freezer doors staring back at her. Four chambers on each unit, and they had two. It wasn't something you'd see advertised on the mortuary building sign, but everyone in forensics was mighty proud that Jesup could hold up to eight bodies at a time these days.

"What in sam hill..." said Sylvia, to herself. She cocked her head to one side, trying to define the noise. It was almost intermittent - the humming blended with the freezers' buzz, and only occasionally pitched a little higher, or lower, which was when she could hear it.

She looked briefly back at the corpse, and, satisfied that it didn't look keen on exercise at any near time, crept slowly to the freezers. Putting her ear to the doors one by one, Sylvia listened for the strange hum. Finally, at chamber number five, she stopped. There was definitely something humming in there. Sylvia stood at the freezers, her ear to the door of number five, listening. Occasionally, she turned back to check on the corpse.

It blended with the hum of the freezers, but again - once in a while - she would catch a slight change in pitch. It almost sounded ... human. Like a man's voice. Finally, rolling her sleeves up, and with a cry of "Lord help me", she grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. Frosty mist uncurled in her face.

"Why, best of the evenin' to you, Miss Plath" said Jackson genially from the freezer chamber.

Sylvia, having recoiled with a shriek, put her hand on her breast and screamed into the freezer. "Jackson! God darn it, Jackson. Not again."

"Whatever is the hassle, Miss Plath?" asked Jackson. He was crouched up in the chamber, his legs crossed in an awkward way, and hands folded as though in prayer.

"Jackson, the director has been over this with you plenty now. How did you get in here?"

"Why, I merely gave Jeremiah the evenin' off so he can get dressed up to take Mary Lou to the county Ball tonight" said Jackson.

"Jeremiah's taking Mary Lou?" said Sylvia. Then, shaking her head, she said, "Whatever, whatever. Now, you get out of there Jackson".

"Honestly, a grown man sitting himself down in a morgue freezer," said Sylvia, taking Jackson by the arm and pulling him out. "I might have thought you were six years old."

"Now don't be angry with me, Miss Plath," said Jackson, climbing down tenderly. "I was sitting on that chair over there, taking care of the place, when she asked me in for the pleasure of my banter."

Sylvia sighed. "Who asked you in, Jackson?"

"Why, my lady friend, of course. She lives in there. Said she was feelin' a little sleepy this afternoon, and asked if I'd tell her a story to set her into bed."

"Jackson," said Sylvia, "She's gone. She's not in there anymore."

"Come on now Miss. Plath," said Jackson, smiling, and reaching into the freezer. "If she's gone, then whose hand might you say this would be?"

"That's old Dame Grimsby, Jackson. She had a coronary earlier this mornin'. Come on now, Jackson," she said, taking his hand.

"Dame Grimbsy?" said Jackson.

"Yes," said Sylvia, "now, come on now. Yep, let go off poor lady Grimsby's hand, yep, now, come on."


"What was that humming noise I heard in there, anyway?" asked Sylvia, as she led Jackson out of the mortuary.

"Well, my lady friend - "

"Dame Grimsby" interjected Sylvia.

"Uh," said Jackson, looking a little confused, "Dame Grimbsy, she fell asleep in the middle of my story."


"Well, so I set myself down to do some tantric yoga, meditatin' on her pretty face" said Jackson, smiling widely now.

This part 2 in a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Friday, January 16, 2009

cosmic surgery

the Ridiculous is everywhere.

"With only the chanting of my hands and a nary flick of the end of my nose,
I can transform that penis on your forehead
into a third eye ..." he declared, mysteriously,


unto the employees of the 'common firm'.
Common firms are everywhere,
each of them branding themselves unique,
claiming they're part of some or other niche,

some 'newfound disruptive force'.

One of the employees,
who prided herself on her subversiveness,

"But what if it's a vagina? What if it's not a dick, on the forehead?"

The Ridiculous considered for a nanosecond, then supplied:
"Then you shall be the mouth on the forehead.
Bitching eternally and ethereally like the cunt does.

Ha ha ha."

"Don't gloat you sexist pig," said a new challenger, "what about me?"
It was wearing a deep velvet coat of azure,
stance defiant in this torrid flaming wind.
"You gonna put both a dick and a cunt on this forehead here?"

The Ridiculous laughed. "Oh no, oh no. You see ... the ear, is a very complicated apparatus ... evolving, over time ..."

Monkey News: La Princesse à Paris

Obliviously inspired by Carl Pilkington's 'Monkey News' segments on the Ricky Gervais podcasts, a dysfunctional nearby (in so many ways) to Pilkington, Carl Dilkington, began sending missives to me. Here is his first attempt to 'flesh out' (on) the genre. (c. May 2006)

Alright mates,

Got some monkey news that you may not have heard yet. There's nothing new going on right now, as you well know, but this is news from the past sort of thing. You can't really air it on any shows, because it may be sort of controversial and that, and it hasn't really been let out into the open much cos of that. But that's why not everyone knows it. More like some underground monkey news, if you get my drift. So anyway, without further ado:

This goes way back to 1997, in Paris. There was this photo journalist who had a bit of a gig there and needed some wheels to get him around town. He's got a few notches 'gainst his license, so he goes to a private car service, trying to get a car to take him around for his gig, but it already being pretty late in the evening, the woman there was like, "No, we haven't any drivers left tonight, they're all gone home by now" and that.

He tries to talk her into it, asking if there might not be someone she could call up or summat. He says it's kind of an emergency, and he's got some important work to do. So at first, she's not having it, but he keeps going on an on, so finally she gives in. "Well," she says, "there's one bloke might do it." The photographer is all like, yeah yeah, I'll have him, and she goes on, "But there's only one problem".

The photographer's pretty antsy by now, "Alright, whatever. I'll take him, what's the problem?"

"Well," she says, "he doesn't drive a car."

The photographer is rightly puzzled. He asks her what he does drive, and she says a motorcycle. It's got a sidecar on it, she says, you can go along for the ride and still take your pictures. The photographer isn't too happy with that, but there was nowt else to do at that point, so he tells her to sign him up.

They sort it out, right, and half an hour later, the photographer is speeding along on his way down the Paris streets. He finds he rather likes this arrangement, cos all he has to do to get the driver in the right direction is tug at either corner of the driver's biking vest, and he would turn that way. Soon enough, he sees a limo driving past them and he gets the driver to follow it. While they're catching up, he rummages in his photo bag, pulling out his cameras and flashes and batteries and whatnot.

Finally the bike pulls up alongside the limo, and the photographer tells the driver to maintain speed. He points his camera at the tinted window at the back seats of the limo ... but all of a sudden the window comes down. He's a little shocked, cos he didn't expect them in the limo to respond, right? So he lowers his camera, just to get a second take and that. It's Princess Diana, sitting right there, staring back at him! He knew who it was going be. No surprises there. But he didn't expect her to pull her window down to take a good look at him and all.

So Diana takes a good look at him, right, at then she pulls the window up again. Just before her face disappears behind the tinted screen, she turns to her driver and mumbles summat. Diana's driver turns around to look at the motorcycle. He sees the photographer, who by this time is looking right bamboozled. Her driver then looks along the sidecar and to the front of the motorcycle.

Last thing Princess Di's driver sees - it's a monkey driving that bike.

Alright then, that's the coverage of the fact as best I know it. I know there's tons of people out there who prolly won't believe it, and may even be offended. But that's how the News works, innit?

Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Fancypants: Why the Darkness was Agnostic & (Part I) High Falutin'

This part 1 in a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

why the darkness was agnostic

beneath the slush of that leper dog's mange

rolled a man with the flyest pants known this side of the world.
antarctica was cool as hell, yet a mere mirage next to him.

conversations with germs and dirt
never brought him down, or threw hospitals by his way.
sat sometimes in the morgue freezer with his dead lady friend.

despite darkness akin to a cave in mourning
those sunglasses would never come off.
he'd wear them along with his fancy pants n' jive with the demons eyein' his soul.

sun shinin' off maggots in his toes
wind in his hair, flies in his teeth, he'd stroll
into miss marjorie's garden of thorns to rend the flesh from his bones.

High Falutin'

"Mightay sorry to rustle you from your sleep, Jackson," said Officer Woolfe, as
I joined her for a stroll. "I wasn't akin to your being around at this time of day."

"Think nothing of it, Virginia," I replied, taking her hand. "Miss Marjorie kindly offered me leave of her garden until such time as I feel inclined."

"Well, she sure is a fine picture of Suth'n hospitality, that Miss Marjorie is" said Woolfe, looking around as she walked.

"Finest thorns in Georgia, surely. Why, I have not been here but four months, and already I'm yielding high spirits."

"Mighty right, Jackson, but you always did have a thing with high spirits" laughed Woolfe.

I smiled back, remembering the small moonshine business I ran in the woods as a child. "Why, you have me addled by your meaning there, Officer," I replied.

"But Jackson," said Woolfe, looking around before she faced me again, "that sweet Miss Marjorie, she's done thrown a mighty fine conniption back at the house.On account of you, from what the maid says."

"Virginia, please - join me here at this settee," I replied with concern, holding my hand out towards a small blue couch that sat in between two magnolia trees.

We walked over and Officer Woolfe sat down, smoothing her pants. I pulled out a bottle of Amaretto brandy from under a bed of vines, and poured a glass for her. "Jackson, Miss Marjorie - she's not too happy" said Woolfe, taking a sip.

"Whatever is the hassle, Virginia?" I asked,

"Jackson, Miss Marjorie, she says you've been rilin' her garden a little too long for her tastes."

I covered my mouth in disbelief as she went on. "She says that for the past four months, you've been doing nothing but loafin' around here, n' ruining her flower beds."

"Why, I never ..." I exclaimed. "Are you certain Officer Woolfe? My understanding was, Miss Marjorie being partial to my good nature, had given me leave of this garden. Why, I was certain it does her some good, having a respectable gentleman like myself but a kitchen call away, might any trouble come knocking around. Her being a young widow n' all."

"You have maggots in your feet, Jackson," said Officer Woolfe, sitting up a little too straight for my morning eyes.


As she led me down the path, Officer Woolfe asked "What happened to you Jackson? You were nothin' but the richest damned man any which way from Jesup town. Why don't you go back home?"

"Can't go back there, Virginia, you know that" I replied.

"Needs a little fixin' up, sure - it's been a year. But go home, Jackson. Fix it up."

"Can't go home Virginia. Look now, look here - why don't you drop me off at the hospital. I feel something of a headcold coming on, n' Doctor Chesterfield may have a little pill or two to put my way."

"Can't take you to the hospital, Jackson" said Officer Woolfe.

"Why ever not, Virginia?" I asked.

"Jackson. The mortuary director called me last week. You really must stop sleeping in the freezers" she replied.

This part 1 in a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Friday, January 9, 2009

My Day After New Year's

I did not know which day was the actual 'day after New Year's', so I woke rather confused. Yesterday was the New Year's party, so today, the 1st, must be the day after, wasn't it?

Not having this basic foundation, I was unable to jump-start my New Year's resolutions. How can one stop the binge-drinking when one does not know when to start stopping? Or indeed, when to stop starting, and continue?

I had planned to buy food from Boston Market as part of my new scheme to reduce spending. No more caviar or real Kobe beef filet-mignon for this little lord. Nobody can say I was not motivated. I even walked down the street to the outlet, and, standing outside this vendor of American comfort foods, inquired of an ornamenting pauper what day it was, and if it was the 'day after New Year's'.

The pauper, shivering there in his little pauper's corner, only looked back sullenly at me with beady little pauper eyes. I placed a dime in its hand, entertaining the possibility that it was coin-operated, and posited my inquiry again, but only elicited a disgruntled shrug from the cad.

Disgusted I walked home, feeling helpless at being unable to fulfill even such a simple vow to myself. I sank into bed with a phial of gin and began to imbibe while watching reruns of Letterman.

Somewhere between Crispin Glover's cocaine-induced interview of yore, and a skit about Jay-Lo's buttocks, my friend -- a doorman at a nearby building -- called me up. I started to cry into the phone, telling him how useless it all is.

"Dude," he replied, "you're supposed to start the resolutions on New Year's day, not the day after!"

A gleam of hope glided through my mind, but quickly tore to shreds. Then it cautiously gleamed again. What day was it? "Is today New Year's day?" I ventured into the receiver, voice trembling with tremors (and tumors). "I mean, yesterday was the party, so I don't know ... is it ... "

"It was, until five minutes ago."


"Yeah, it's the day after New Year's now."