Friday, July 27, 2007

The New Guy

{This is the story of a new co-worker of mine and how he came to work in book publishing. This is how he tells it, in third person. I replaced his name and the names of his family to respect his privacy.} New Guy was in the habit to live on the remote island awayed from the Peninsula of Kamchaska. Fishing in dwarf-ish lake from which we lived for the account were our unique means of the foodstuffs. The uncle, considered forward thinking of families because of residence in Quebec, learned us that we also could "shop" by the gross. The uncle brought to young New Guy and to family the old generator and the unusually long set of cables of the jumper. Uncle adjusted the portable right of the machine of an electricity front to the poor two houses of a beach of a bedroom and carefully connected them. To check a stream, the too-confident uncle brought a jaw of the free black and red ends of a cable together. The spark clapped between them, the uncle nodded in the agreement. New Guy was both in expectation of parents and supervision from an entrance, we saw that the uncle stretched a cord to coast of lake and thrown two ends of cables of the jumper in water. There produced a sad, muffled buzz, similarly to the fly caught in an interval in glass and the screen of a window. Then, as far as twilight of arriving night would show us, baby-ish patches of shining have begun the impact floating on a surface of lake.

It was the majority of a fish which New Guy and parents ever saw at once, more then annual value was easily there. The dinner now was served For ever. The uncle only looked out on his performance, any doubt, thinking that he made its good business in the help to family of his sister, his bank of destiny now spilling with a stock. Father, however, his opinion was shaken. All duties he should obey: the beginning morning fishes, constant search of the following good fishing strain, clearing to come home empty handed. Now he could leave his work in coal mine because family could eat. There is no more a closed soot mouth, dressing and eyelided. There is no more wheezing of him is itself to sleep. Father suddenly felt tears well in his eyes, maybe the world floated. In an instant of great delight, father left the party of his wife and the son, stirred a network which was always ready on an entrance, and passed to his suspending fish, measured extraction. New Guy and mother which compare in ecstasy, is proud observe him. The uncle still monitors water, trying to measure how the "a fish by the gross" technics demanded, when his brother-in-law resolutely walked past, to him now and to the future dinners.

It borrowed one minute for the uncle to understand precisely that father planned to do. Really it was a rumbling still-on generator which agitated him from his narcissism, looking through his kill. As he lunged to the husband of his sister, the uncle already knew that he will not make it, water would achieve father all over. Instant water lapped against naked foots of father, a muffle crackle and the person of aged years twisted silently in a pain and fallen to water. New Guy would remember movements father briefly made there on fine coast, imposing in the most thin sheet of water. It reminded of a dying fish, only on the contrary: alive water caused curvatures and struggle, not air.

Shocked, dizzy, scared: New Guy, mother, and the uncle were all these things. And as New Guy observed a shout of mother to her brother to switch off the machine of an electricity front, everything that New Guy could do was sit on the entrance and look out on lake, our lake, now dotted with dead. And dead father. New Guy knew, during that moment, that his unique choice should be leaving. Leave this place and succeed mother and fallen father.

Destiny was clear: New Guy would be included in the romance book publication industries. There, demons during this day set in soul could be that killed, and life postponed into the freedom.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Why no Jury Duty (longform)

{Sent today}

To Whom It May Concern:

As of August 13, 2007, I have been selected to serve my civilian duty as juror for the 12th District Court of the State of New York. This letter is to regretfully inform you that I cannot fulfill this obligation. I will have you know, however, that this decision is not made by choice, but rather by situation.

To fully explain myself and my reasoning for abandoning the task assigned of me by my state and city, I first must clarify a few particulars fantastic in nature:

1) Gnomes exist.

2) Regardless of what some folklore states, gnomes are not very reasonable or pleasant when there is a lack of sugar in their tiny bodies. Plainly put: They become quite irate and sharply rancorous with their actions and words when sweets are absent.

I myself believed neither of the above points until I awoke one morning, not a week ago, to a gnome sitting on the headboard of my bed. My eyes opened only to see the bottoms of two small leather boots gently tapping aloof not a foot above me. Wanting to see if I was dreaming my first reaction was to rub my eyes or slap my face or get some coffee; a movement of some sort was needed to reacquaint myself with the reality I’ve come to know where clock radios and caffeine take the responsibility of waking you, not the rapping of miniature feet. But my attempt at such a movement was disheartened at once. I found myself restrained to my own bed by fishing line. My fishing line. The spool lay down on the floor in knots.

The gnome above took notice of my jarring about and then went on to calmly whisper that I have been chosen to provide for him and his “ilk,” as he put it. He continued with words of quiet encouragement and reassurance of no harm as long as I participated willingly. Of course, scared for my sanity and life, I agreed.

As the hours passed I began to realize that an entire fleet of gnomes, with their pointed, floppy, mushroom-skinned hats and matching earth-made apparels, were sacking my home. I could hear things being thrown about, shelves crashing, glasses breaking, all while their weensy, breathy voices ricocheted through hallways that were once mine and comfortable. Finally, after enough time had passed that I was convinced this was indeed really happening, I asked the gnome above what it was they were looking for. “Powdered creamer,” he simply murmured.

Here, two folds of terror shot through me: 1) the audacity behind being restrained for a cheap coffee accoutrement and 2) I had and have no powdered creamer in the house. How this came to be, how my home––the home of a coffee enthusiast, whether expensive or cheap––came to be empty of creamer is another letter in itself, but suffice it to say that a certain significant person in my life left for a new batch of powered flavor for our morning brews only never to return. My personal life, like my coffee, has been devoid of smack and sweet-spice ever since.

It took the team of gnomes only a few hours to come to the conclusion I had known already: no creamer. At this realization, the gnome who was my company for the morning was called away by some unseen mumble-hiss. Next thing I saw was a swarm of ten to fifteen gnomes struggling, dragging a bread knife down the hall toward me and the bedroom. They only made it halfway until each one collapsed exhausted, panting, their curses sounding like the rubbing of a thousand insect wings. Then they gathered themselves again for another task: a wooden spoon. This time they progressed stoically to the door frame of the bedroom then, again, fell to the floor too fatigued to continue.

Afraid, I tried to tell them that someone would be coming soon, hopefully, with creamer, that it was on the way, but they only ignored me, throwing up their minute hands as if to bat away the lies I was hurling at them. The group limped back toward the kitchen and, again, I had to endure the sounds of my belongings being tossed and broken. When they came back into my view a few of them where carrying a white-topped orange plastic bottle with amazing ease. The gnome that woke me had a fingernail-wide grin on his face while he walked toward me, I could tell even through the beard. I braced myself as they climbed the bed, completely unaware of what was to happen next. As the small, bearded men crested into view, I finally saw what it was they were hoisting: Bubble solution.

The next few hours of my life are ones that will forever change me. Parts of my soul have died; aspects of my person dissipated like wet footprints in summer’s heat. What happened next, what these mini-monsters did to me, was completely unforeseeable. They climbed all over me, on my chest, my face, in my hair. Their feet sunk into my skin, their breath smelled of upturned soil. One of the gnomes positioned himself by my ear and whispered, “Just tell us where the creamer is. You think we’d come here if you didn’t have any? We know you. We know all about you.” Then the four who were standing on my face pried open my eyes, two to an eye. The bubble solution was maneuvered on to my chest and then the rest of the group burrowed under my pillow and propped up my head. I was staring at a bubble wand, its circle filled by moving, soapy colors, with eyes pulled open. It might as well have been the barrel of a gun. Two gnomes from behind the screen of iridescence then took deep breaths and finally exhaled. Bubbles, hundreds of bubbles, hit my eyes.

Torture. It’s the best word to describe it, what I’ve been though. Even now, I’m still tied up, eyes raw and red. At this point, I bet I have enough soap in my eyes to blow bubbles out of them, from the inside, my thoughts acting as air. Please know, as of this moment, I am dictating this letter to you. Like a game of Twister, a gnome is hoping about and contorting himself on the keyboard of my laptop so that this letter will reach you. It is the one favor they will grant me. They have no intention of letting me go, or believing me when I tell them that I have no creamer. This ordeal, though maybe far from over, has pained me greatly, but the prospect of maybe surviving this only to go to jail for failing to attend to my civic duty of juror, truly deflates my entire being, soul, body, and mind.

I pray for your understanding. And also creamer.


Yours,


Selfstonishment

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Zebra manufacturer cookbook manual


{Keeping the spam poetry going. Simply succulent.}

Helicopter sandal bagel press with a quail mansion wrist band. Elephant squish car door handcuffs put spirit guns to cockroach doctors. Enigma machines encode typewriting synthesizers. Yes? Starship dentures, artificial teeth pop. The pickle jar drum set sound makes neon light pea shooter ointment. Blowtorch spritz bottle. Loaded gun bazooka sofa. Gorilla stabilized penguin toe?

An enclosed basketball court dancer rabbit sniff in an south dakota russian neighborhood park playground. All for a civil war army aircraft snow blower. The World War 2 reception birthday present was given in the bowling alley furnace still attaching the pine tree feeding tube. Teacup can opener hairbrush? What an unreasonable question for a softball butterfly.

I have bookcase pantry gymnasium access.

Look to the toot beep rhino lighthouse and listen for the unicorn honk. My shoe lace bass canoe rock climbing appeases costume wrestling tackle mask goaltenders.

Wanna see through my magnifying glass projector sunglasses?

Or partake in my baboon body part armchair?

Fresh out of the water glue bubble bath, one might tutor genius eardrum hardware hammer tools. Under the dummy bikini patio ceiling light, self's limerick panel abdomen landing gear touches my cardigan armhole walnut.

See you at the balance beam workshop.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Spam Subject Lines

{These are actual subject lines of emails found in elevendytwelven's inbox}
- John Kerry has approved your mortgage!
- For example, avoid leaning away from the speaker and folding your arms which can be interpreted as a lack of interest.
- Lenore Martin on or exhaustible
- Morris time and a half molest
- Aurora Correa by ron or selector
- Mary Calloway her methylene the sanford
- Lina Alvarado I roulette the residue
- Helga Tripp A typeface he quipping
- Queen Carr I epistemology the bulk
- Bette Lloyd Be revet of volleyball
- Ken Connelly I my cashmere
- Pansy Gregory As in sensuous
- Grisham Doretha Re: My darling.....
- Christiana Since the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the old world order
- Elise Payne The barkeep as destruct
- Ariana Still Happy With It All
- Is it burlap
- so baneful, so bugle
- sex can
- I as venereal
- straightjacket self-explanatory
- so resentful a rodent
- you a winner!
- no one can tell. Pterodactyl
- be my waterline
- you salvation of tusk
- In-laws titillate
- vaporized scythe
- do you think Bush is a gay?
- once the angle of the blade is ruined, you might just as well throw them out
- It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul
- this best move success made people only boulder
- hotel pakistan want embassy missing using bomb defensive might

And, lastly:
- Her hairy white fancy bra prepares for fight and their red cat is thinking.