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.

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

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.

Spam Subject Lines

{These are actual subject lines of emails found in elevendytwelven's inbox}

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Visit Denver

Check the Molly Brown House. Enjoy the Mountains where you can hike, swim, jog, and play golf. Also be sure to visit our most treasured historic landmark, a symbol of Mile High pride, the 7-11 located at York and Colfax.

For more info check
www.seven-elevendytwelven.blogspot.whydidyoupunchmeinmyfu*kingface.com

Frightful Visions-Fearful Shadows, 1st installment

A gray mist had settled on the lower section of Manhattan as Daniel closed his Power Book and looked at the clock. 3:00 AM. Why did he decide to take the Tanaka account? To reach his clients, it was required that he stay up late, to reach them early in the morning. Tonight he was care free as they bought his bid to redo the line of shin enhancing lotion cream drink. His associates shut the lights and moved to an after hours joint on Rector. It was 4:30 when Daniel made his way to the W station. The offer was given for a cab to be split, but Daniel was nursing his last Harps in the jon and had missed them. He saw them drive away and he was left alone. The air was thick with silence. For downtown to be so loud and clamorous during working hours, after they all had gone, the decible level was excrutiatingly low. All he heard was his Rockports shuffling the loose gravel, and his liquor heavy breath struggling to maintain respiration.

He trained his eyes on the two globes glowing red at the top of the stairs. His legs were swollen as they bent, to lower himself down into the station. He could hear a train coming to a stop and he quickened his pace. He jiggled his keys around the mess of napkins and dollar bills to find his fare card. He had to swipe the card twice, and bruised his left thigh on the turnstile. He had missed the train. He peered down the tunnel and saw the two red lights on the last car slide uptown. He caught a glimpse of the tracks. He started to lean in, and stare.

Was it true what they said about the third rail? Swaying back and forth, he imagined himself falling on the grease stained metal. A crack from his ribs had knocked the wind out of him. A train quickly approached. First his fingers were split from his hand, then his thorax burst open as he was repeatedly struck by the wheels. He was divorced from pain as his brain trickled out of his ears, along with all ability to feel. Darkness surrounded him.
He got a grip and fell back on to the wall. He was sweating profusely. He had not fallen on the tracks, but his feet had a tingling in them, similar to the feeling of peering down from great heights.

His head swaying, he issued a Camel from his coat pocket and lit it. Absolutley no one to be seen. He felt a slight breeze coming from one of the tunnels, so he thought some train would be coming soon. He took a deep pull off of the cigarette, and exhaled imagining a bygone year, where a man could smoke where and when he wanted to. Just then he heard a plastic bottle slide across the platform on the downtown side. He looked and saw no one. He blinked very slowly and tilt his head. His eyes began to swivle in their sockets as he raised the Camel up again. The blue smoke burnt his eyes and he put his hand up to squeeze them. He opened them as a tear formed and saw something moving.

Not sure what it was, he smashed the smoke into the ground and threw it into the pit, where the tracks were laid. He stood up and brushed his pants off. There, across the platform was a man. He was of normal height, and a solid build that bordered on stout. His glossy visage had composure and he seemed to have purpose. His face was not the issue. This man was wearing nothing but a grease stained t-shirt. His testicles were dangling like a hairy broken muffler beneath his undercarriage. No shoes, no watch, no hat. Just a large t-shirt. The man began to laugh, then he farted. Daniel's brow came to a crunch in the middle of his face. He bent forward to begin purging himself. He lost balance and fell head first onto the tracks. He rolled over to pick himself up but lost control of his hand. It slipped on something and his chin came crunching down on metal. Daniel was dazed, lost in a swril. He looked up and saw the man.

The t-shirt with man inside begun to lower itself onto the tracks. He crawled delicatley over the tracks onto the side where Daniel was. On all fours he began to go through Daniels pockets. Just then they both looked up. The W. The man lept out of the tracks, as a piercing screech blazed from the oncoming train. Daniel rolled over once again. He had never seen such a frightful vision, such a fearful shadow.

The Gladys Update

{Part 2 of Lewmont Alec DeMarq's guest-blogging.}

Shortly after my last post, and in an emotionally blinding blitz, I tried, for the second time, to power up Gladys.

At first things appeared fine, harmless, trivial. In the splinter of a second, I considered my pain forgotten, my isolation erased, and my inner-fortune returning.

Then, that all changed just as quick.

My PX-2500’s, or Gladys’, movements became jerky, haphazard. The visor shot up into its PVC dome to reveal two naked camera eyes, slapdashing back and forth, panicked. A metallic whine pealed from the droid and filled the room, causing me to cringe. Its hands shot up and covered the ear-mounds as if trying to keep something from spilling out… Perfectly against my wildest imagination, unanticipatedly, and much to my own horror, Gladys then proceeded to twist and rip its head clean off.

I witnessed a suicide; my own creation’s self-propelled euthanasia.

My psychological state has been awash for hours. I cleaned up my latest mess feeling a heavy hollow in my ribs, empty, utterly alveolate. I had to let open my windows hoping the stinging redolence of singed plastic would dissipate. I was breathing in the remains of my happiness, the last traces of what might have fixed me. I sobbed uncontrollably.

Once I regained and composed myself, I began to write my post for this site. In all honesty, I cannot tell you why; it just felt right. I then found a comment on my last post from the wise, the charismatic, the undaunted Jonald. He was, in fact, the flicker of encouragement that brought my self-confidence to such heights I felt fastened to the idea of sharing a bit of myself (other then snow globes) with this world. He lived across the hall from me during my freshman year at Yale. Jonald was just as lonely as I was, but his impelling mind was put to good use; Jonald created the modern-day weblog, or blog, to deal with his companionless excuse for a life.

In my lugubrious mind frame, the message he left me was inspiring, helpful, and very much needed. Thorough his kind words I’ve found that I don’t need a robot to discover love and companionship. All I need is a blog and fellow bloggers, because even virtual concernment is still concernment. And that is, if even the only thing, what I consider to lack. It is good to know those with the similar interests can heal even the worst of maladies.

So I thank you, again, Jonald, and bloggers everywhere. You all have the ability to make me feel loved. A truely treasured sentiment by yours truly. Expect in the forthcoming months a blog of my own, complete with clever name and graphics. Much thanks to elevendy twelven for not only introducing me to their one (1) reader, but showing me the power of the blog. How the possibility of someone reading my inner-most thoughts (and maybe even caring about them!) can partially fill the very void Gladys was designed to occupy. But how slippery a possibility can be! Yet I grasp with vim and vigor.

Please pray for me.

Until then…a gracious good-bye.

Dans ma vie

{The following post is the first of two installments from guest-blogger Lewmont Alec DeMarq. His forthcoming novel, Snow Globes filled with the Tears of Children, due out this winter, is a blinding bildungsroman tale that traces DeMarq's life from the slums of Flagstaff, AZ to his Ivy League education to his discovery of-- and ultimate success because of--Smooth Banishment, the cologne that changed the fragrance game. Please enjoy.}

My hands smell like science, my eyes burn with pride. Soon the residuum of my labors will come to fruition. After many a night slaving over my drafting table with protractor and pencil in hand, I am a few clockwise turns to the right from having a new companion.

True, I revel in a snow globe or thirty, but, alas, these traits, this dedication to a glassed, permanent winter paused behind swirling confetti, afford me very little conviviality. Yes, I've tried those flagitious, malevolent substances that rob individuals of their youth and luster by way of injection or inhalation; sadly, attempts to escape my acute forlornness were mainly by way of illegal drugs. But I learned fairly quickly, that my extreme dissolution would only return twenty fold each and every time the serpentine effect wore away.

Swerving in and out of my cold, dead, hebetudinous labyrinth, I tried to focus my attention on globes, pour my passion into plastic skylines, the properly-angled jiggling of knickknacks, and the subtle twinkling of synthetic snow. But even they couldn't change the barefaced fact that most nights the Food Network was what lulled me to sleep instead of a caring, caressing hand tracing trails on my cheek. I would awake in starts and fits, only to have reality wash itself back into my eyes and my mind: I am alone.

It is not advantageous for an intellect such as my own to be devoid of conversation or stimulation. I need to discuss the problem with the deli isle or how six inches do make a difference or how good my air tastes. Oh how these things tear at my very core!

As the cliché goes, Desperate Measures for Desperate Times, and I have taken it upon myself to dramatically improve my situation. I give you my new roommate, the PX-2500, or Gladys, for short:

Here, as you can see, I'm running the performance program. The Fugal Horn creates the most tranquil, unflappable intonation, in my opinion. The ceremony pictured here was not perfect-- some notes flat, others ear-bleedingly sharp--but showed immense promise.

I will post more pictures when it is complete, maybe even video. But please join me in wishing Gladys success. My life, as I know it, needs this.

Thank you.

Adventures with Baby

{Adventures with Baby is a monthy installment that allows us to look deep inside the consciousness of one of America's own. The strained, waste-strewn box is this modern culture and he is the man-boy, only to allowed to grow as much as this life will allow.}

The child awoke to a bad case of the bends. Grasping the night before, a night of revolution, holding the choice laser of destiny ... the old ,shoot first and ask questions later. It wasn’t so much the daily exercise of swimming in his oblong fish bowl full of scotch that brought the destruction of his machine but more the long exhausting adventure through the no-name roads of conversation. Her name was Shit Dick, Veronicolin, or something. She held a cup of skull which made him think she was a real Viking of sorts, wearing a blood stained shirt and crushing her breast into a big, tamed beast she named, ‘my man’.

-Main stream hip-hop is destroying Africa with all the cocaine drug trafficking going on.

-Where did you learn this?

-It’s a fact.

The child stared into his empty cup while his companion conversed absurdities to the Viking. He kept taking sips of his ghostly drink so not to speak. The Viking could tell he was hiding something. She attacked. While on her rampage of belittling the child he stared deeper into his cup. He could see his reflection in the stubborn droplets of vodka and realized why God was doing this to him. He first thought it was because of his appearance. The childish face full of childish stubble. Damn, baby forgot to shave again, you fucking baby. Short soft hair that hadn’t fully come in yet.

-Why don’t you like Ol’ Dirty Bastard?

-Because he’s old, dirty, a bastard, and he’s dead.

The child left the room and went on his way home. It was a dark fuzzy night. He relied on his cigarette to guide him through the streets. When all had fallen silent he dreamt of Russell Jones screaming and clawing at his coffin, crawling from the depths to fight Vikings. Scratching the surface. The woman who was sworn in to take care of the child, to watch baby, placed the little man in the shower. The water was hot.

-We listen to intelligent political rap.

-Shit dicks.

Getting more annoyed with his memory he tried to get his mind on to better things. In the shower, he looked down noticing his new friend. An oddly shaped fellow. He wished that he had the same powers that this friend had, the power to grow into one strong large muscle. Thinking how it would have helped earlier that night, during the ongoing Viking blaze of mayhem. If only I could do that! What would she say then! He finished.

That day he had to work a double shift of mindless running back and forth, holding burning plates in his palms while entertaining the anonymous. How can these people allow a baby to work this many hours? I wish my mind had the narrator’s voice from the wonder years, I don’t even hear anything. Whatever happened to Fred Savage? Whatever happened to Winnie? God damn my allergies are killing me. He sneezed throughout the entire day. Why doesn’t anyone say bless you? I’m always on top of it, for all I know Millhouse might be right and my unblessed sneeze has erased everything that’s good and everything I’ve achieved. He was picked up by his caretaker who drove him to their neighborhood bar.

3 Rumpelmintz and 6 Papts later he could be seen 360 degrees around the bar dancing and singing Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s return to the 36 chambers. He noticed he was being watched but did not care for these people did not get it, but he realized a character was paying close attention to him. An oddly looking fellow: a man in makeup, a she with Captain America’s jaw line, a sausage smuggler in a skirt. He approached the man-her. Throughout the one sided flirtatious conversation, he cornered the decision to employ a science experiment on his two buddies who had joined him for drinks.

-What’s your name?

-Janet.

-Would you like to smoke some weed Janet?

-Yes.

Leaving the pissed stained walls and the origins from which they came from, the child was immersed in an argument with his friend.

-I don’t know if this girl should come over man, Ryan’s kind of freaked out about bringing people over he doesn’t know.

-I understand but think about it this way, you’ll have a cute girl to smoke weed with.

-Yeah, well I’m putting this in your hands and anyways you have a girl.

The child laughed to himself. It’s not even on that, man. His friend placed him in the child seat and they were off. Shit dicks.

Serious Movie Reviews

Title, Dialog Contribute Next To Nothing
-A serious movie review by
Pissenger Padgeins-

“Rear and Pleasant Danger,” the first installment of Cory Elon’s three-film threadbare-arcadia serial, is densely peppered with random acts of coitus, pulpy money-shots, and painfully obvious hotel-room scenery. The human struggles of connection and acceptance are staples of American culture––evidenced by the last six years of ‘The Gilmore Girls’––but Mr. Elon’s character’s tap into something different, acting more like sex-crazed zombies with endless slews of crotchal moisture.

The film begins in medieval England, at least that is what one is led to think when Paige Patella––the only female lead––appears wearing a corset gown and tiara. She is told of her father’s stress in dealing with the defiant rouge factions in Ireland. Worry is splashed across Ms. Patella’s face like paint, heavily and deliberately glob-like. The young male messenger who brought the news ends up having to catch her from fainting; obviously the stress levels of the father of Ms. Patella’s still-nameless character affect her deeply. Next you know, the messenger is naked, standing with eyes closed, while Ms. Patella, now very conscious, seems to have found a cure for her worry in the form of swallowing again and again the young man’s machismo. How this strong connection came to be, how their clothes mysteriously disappeared is part of Mr. Elon’s elaborate trickery. While the camera focuses on more buttal and tittal angles, it’s almost like the story already doesn’t matter.

Next we find ourselves in what looks to be a modern-day apartment, if today was 1985. The couches are screened in plastic; the art looks like Max Headrum just sneezed on the wall. But Ms. Patella is there, this time dressed in nothing but a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. The plumber shows up, which she seems to be expecting. What happens next can only be described as elbow-pit copulation, with the bearded plumber repeated asking, “You want my pit slice?” or “Are you watching that flesh wrinkle?” Yes, Mr. Plumber, many of us are watching, and wondering. Ms. Patella’s character can only respond to such metaphysical questions with a very poignant, “Fill my trapper-keeper with your college-ruled!” Education is indeed flexing itself here.

It can be hard to keep track of everyone within such an intricate plot, but things start to almost make sense when, for whatever reason, Ms. Patella visits an apparently near-by quarry. She watches the men work away at the limestone, in their plaid working shirts and hardhats, while thoughtfully chewing her upper lip and, in a moment of self-reflection, warms her hand in-between herself. Here we get the only real insight to Ms. Patella’s character’s motivations: natural landforms and the harvesting of rock remind her of her own sexual valley and the work she’s put into forming it. She is obviously proud and as the scene proceeds to fade out, we are left with a small sense pride ourselves having pieced together some aspect of plot and character drive.

We fade back in to Ms. Patella, obviously high from her introspective trip to the quarry, engaging yet again in genital activity while holed up in a very sterile hotel room. This time she’s quiet, just throwing looks of confusion-mixed-with-inattention back at her now-sixth partner of the film. He’s the loud one this time, deploring her to enjoy his “Mendous Member” and to be affected by his “Mazing back-u-puncture” technique. These words (Tremendous and Amazing) are obviously said wrong to show the audience that this partner has trouble, like some of us, expressing his inner thoughts and feelings. Unfortunately, Ms. Patella’s character doesn’t seem to care and we are left to ponder her all-too-realistic choice of just exchanging bodily fluids with the random man and not helping his phonics. She leaves him deflated and sleeping.

The crescendo of the work occurs after this random-room encounter. Outside of the hotel Ms. Patella’s character runs into two little people. Referring to themselves as “honest, vage-loving midgets,” and after an exchanging of very bare and basic dialog, we find out that they are on the run. Ms. Patella, possibly making up for the lack of compassion in the hotel room, seems to be over flowing with empathy in the parking lot. She’s obviously affected and motions them behind a car were we are led to believe that Ms. Patella’s character somehow stuffs them inside of herself. She stands up, straightens her skirt, and walks casually away. In a moment of directorial genius, Mr. Elon then shows us the two little people, tucked away in Ms. Patella’s character’s neither-regions. They are all smiles and happy, relieved to thwart the threat that plagues them. So jubilant, in fact, that they themselves begin to engage in sensual action, right there surrounded by the pink and soft of Ms. Patella’s supposed birth canal. This, of course, affects Ms. Patella and while she is standing in line at what looks to be a Subway, she collapses to the floor in mysterious ecstasy. Their hidden love-making has brought about similar results upon Ms. Patella’s character. The metaphor here is a touch forced, but still relevant: She can harness any love she wants, but the inner love is what swings the heaviest hammer.

The end of the movie is confusing, but I think so on purpose. As we fade out from Ms. Patella grinding a bag of Sun Chips against her pleasure-pot, we fade into the future, 45 years from now. The Earth is barren, the moon broken into shards, and people seem to have morphed into marsupial-human-mix-type creatures called at one point “Kangavites.” Two of them hop toward each other and proceed to massage each other’s pouches until plastic fruit explodes from their furry honches. Humanity has lost, sensuality has abandoned. And we, the audience, are left understanding: Ms. Patella’s nameless character, a presence more then a person, wanted all the love she could get. She was a prophet and knew the future was effete and bleak. Neither the dialog nor the title contribute to this only-possible conclusion, which is a testament to the director’s aptness, but still leave you a bit confused. Which, if you think about it, is how life portrayed as art framed through life made with artistic tools really is.

Elevendy Twelven presents...

You may remember them as love songs. Not so much this week.

Fu*k Me Tender – Elvis Presley, 1956
It's Only Fu*k – The Beatles, 1977
And I Fu*k Her – The Beatles, 1964
I Will Always Fu*k You – Whitney Houston, 1992
Endless Fu*k – Diana Ross & Lionel Richie, 1981
That's The Way Fu*k Goes – Janet Jackson, 1993
P.S. I Fu*k You – The Beatles, 1964
I'll Make Fu*k To You – Boyz II Men, 1994
Best Of My Fu*k – The Emotions, 1977
I'd Do Anything For Fu*k (But I Won't Do That) – Meat Loaf, 1993
It Must Have Been Fu*k – Roxette, 1986
I Need Fu*k – LL Cool J, 1987
Fu*k To Fu*k You Baby – Donna Summer, 1976
I Want To Know What Fu*k Is – Foreigner, 1985
Baby, I Fu*k Your Way – Peter Frampton, 1976
Stop To Fu*k – Luther Vandross, 1986
How Deep Is Your Fu*k – The Bee Gees, 1978
All Out Of Fu*k – Air Supply, 1980
Fu*k Will Keep Us Together – Captain & Tennille, 1975
I Can't Make You Fu*k Me – Bonnie Raitt, 1991
Because You Fu*kd Me – Celine Dion, 1996
Words Of Fu*k – The Beatles, 1964

Unsolved Ejaculations of Mystery

I dreamt of a pitched tent nagging at my sexual campsite. I wondered, Should I throw dirt and smother it? Or wrestle it like a sedan-sized bear, using every once of my strength and guile to keep my food stuffs safe.


But then awake, I noticed it wasn’t morning.

The other side of the bed, my bed, was cold.

Where was she? Did she leave?

Earlier tonight. Yes. She came over. We talked, mostly about nothing: my quiet habit of picking the seeds off of a strawberry before eating it, her compulsion to lick salted meats and collect coats of all kinds. It was nice. The food was nice. I made a fantastic salmon smothered in a cheesy dill sauce with a side of buttered-broccoli.

I was sure then that night was at full tilt. Even the drab talk of the weather and coming cold could not deny it. Nothing less then sex was left. Her eyes and bare nipples made that clear.

Then she dipped into her purse. A bizarre thing, it was. Like the neck of an alpaca; furry, slender, somewhat annoying, with straps. She brought out two blue hexagonal pills. Ecstasy, I thought.

“I want you to suitcase these,” she said.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“No. I want YOU to suitcase these.”

She had a firm grip on my wrist by then, reaching across the table. Her naked chest was covered with dill the salmon missed. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes. Suddenly, we were standing and my arm was wrenched behind my back and she was fumbling with my belt.

I’m not opposed to new things. I believe it makes me smarter, wiser, a better person. It might not be clear now where and in what ways my life will improve having experienced a stranger’s (albeit an attractive, top-less stranger’s) finger pushing two unknown pills up into my body from the back door, but I’m sure it will make itself clear in due time. I now at least know “suitcase” to also be a verb. Until this night, it was merely a sad, sad noun.

She called them “enhancers.” I was still thinking Ecstasy. But now she’s gone and my body is stiff and sore and alone in bed. A pinnacle of comforter rises from the middle of me, screaming with my heartbeats.

Quickly I do the math. Six, no five and half hours ago we finished dinner. No sex was had, that I can remember.

“Gwen?” I call, thinking maybe the topless blond I paid for “interesting fun” is still here.

The only answer I get is the familiar quiet of the walls and floors and carpet of my two-room apartment soaking up my sound. Nobody is here. Just me and my thundering erection.

I’ve never thought of using a male stimulant. Actually I still don’t. Not yet, at my age. But at the same time I never thought I would be afraid of my own penis either. Here it is, a fleshy flag pole fighting my boxers and the sheets above it, trying to blast off, break through the ceiling, explode into flashing glitter-balls the shape of a peace sign or the American flag.


I know what I have to do. Every man would.

Deflate the urge, manually.

I’m like a prize fighter who’s slept through the first eleven rounds to wake up hurting, eye swollen shut, cheeks slick and puffy with pain. There is one more round to go. This will not be graceful. This will not be set to pretty music. This will sting a bit.

I reach around under my bed for the magazined smut. Oh, it hurts to move. The stash that has been kept under countless beds since my adolescence has been a constant comfort, not so much in my use of it but more in the existence and the readiness of it. If the two or three magazines were any more accessible they would be on my bedside table, but that just isn’t the look or the comfort I’m going for. While feeling for the porn, I briefly picture a naked woman pouting her lips and twisting a nipple on the way to self-exploration with one hand, holding on with the other. She’s on a helicopter, banking in at some ridiculous angle to save me, hair all curls and wind.

I position myself. The magazine is open.

The pages are familiar, the faces and poses contrived. This won’t do. I close my eyes, try and settle myself, try to forget my member. I wonder whether my feet or hands will have to be amputated because my penis is hogging all the blood. Then, in my mind, my manhood becomes a hook, all that will be left from this horrible ordeal. Some sort of prosthetic grapple hook. I will be only able to mate with robots and cans of pineapple juice. But I will have a way to get into my car when I lock the keys inside.

See, there are upsides.

No. That won’t happen. It can’t. I just need to get on with it.

I fuddle between images of the suitcase-these-and-I’ll-leave girl smeared with dill, a co-worker at the microwave in the empty third floor lounge, a familiar yet random busty park ranger coming across my lone campsite, but nothing is holding, nothing enticing. My imagination–grown strong and vivid by the very practice of self-satisfaction on a weekly, if not daily, basis–is at a loss. Frustration ensues.

I try not to give in to the thoughts washing through my mind. That I am now welding a weapon, a billy-club of blood and vein; a battering ram capable of pulverizing the plastic cage of some nefarious hamster; a quarterstaff used to punish those that steal or use inappropriate language. This is not my gentle member. This is not my beautiful house.

Then my mind flashes. She returns, my Helicopter Girl. She is laying down this time, on the floor of the machine, arms and hair spreading down toward me, a sly smile on her face. She wants to save me, to send down a rope to bring me closer. And I will have it, have her. This will be my own Clancy novel, full of bad dialogue and military intrigue. And I will get in the helicopter, after just exposing some Russian covert operation for the greater good, on my own, under the radar of the United States Government. And she, my Helicopter Girl, is my prize. She won’t mind that I had to suitcase two strange pills. I had to, to save the country. And she’ll see that, she’ll know that, and be turned on. She’ll have no choice but to please me, tie me up right there in the helicopter with ribbons of bullets…

A few thoughts later I can feel the end approaching, my goal almost procured. I had to let my mind go where it wanted, trust my imagination. A healthy, flaccid me is soon here. A few moments left.

The release is momentous. Memories even seem to leave with it. I forget for a second how this all happened, how my body came to ache. But that is no matter compared to what my casting loose brings about.


Parkas, rain slickers, down jackets, leather blazers; my bed is filled with coats. I just came coats.

The shock is numbing. And when a still-topless Gwen appears from my closet and gathers as many jackets as she can from between the sheets, then kisses me before leaving, all I can do is blankly watch.

Outside it is snowing.

Slipping Into Something More Confusing

After a night of wonder and romanticism, we went back to her place.

We strolled down her street, taking our time building the tension. My heart was racing as my thoughts bounced inside my head. How would it begin? What would we be doing right before, right after? Why did I have a pocket full of napkins? I was ready to take this mission on. I wanted her more than a fugitive wants to not be followed everywhere. We walked up two flights of stairs. She opened up the door. We walked in, and the standard drink was offered. I accepted.

Then she said, "Let me slip into something more confusing."

I said sure.

She went into her room. I took off my shoes. I slid into sex-mode.

She came out of her room wearing my clothes. It was going to be two of those nights. We maneuvered around each other's perimeters. She set off my pant alarm. My sexual searchlight spotted her prison break and my agents went to work. She offered the obligatory cavity search; I did the gentlemanly thing, and hammered an Out of Order sign on my backwater terrace, then placed the lobster bib around her flesh cummerbund.

She then found the conch meat I was hiding, and located it towards her nether-suburbs. I whistled, and my Clydesdales removed themselves from their stables, chasing a rabbit with pig-tails around an oval shaped coliseum of clumsiness. Needless to say, things were getting pretty eligible. I let her knead my loaf. She wore a smelting mask with a mirror with a picture of what she thought it would be reflecting taped to the front. It was spot on. Except for the discount flipper rack. I didn't see one of those in her apartment. But I could have been mistaken.

Then the main event.

The five-play was over and it was time for the regular programming to continue. She told me that she wanted me to own her notch. I remembered to her that I would only want to do that. She blushed and then winked at herself because at that moment I put on the mirror clad smelting mask. It now had a picture of her winking at herself. My hands turned to feet. My cold was hot. I was so eligible.

I couldn't control yourself, and I freed me. I freed me good.

This week

Let it be blown, elevendy twelven reader (singular), this week is all about filth-filthy-dirty-filth appreciation. However, this will be somewhat reserved.

No, not dirt. Not actual soil or mud; but the filth of the butt, breast, and crotchal areas. We mean the putrescence of private areas both real and imagined. Please believe. It is time.

March of Irony

May 1--
New York

As millions of people attempt to recreate last year's hugely successful nation-wide demonstration against the government's policies on immigration reform, many ran into small problems. Derek Harris, who owns a fair-trade coffee house in Lennox Hill, had hired several Hispanic Americans to create his picket signs, but due to the protest, no one showed.

"I should have seen this coming," Harris said as he scribbled his own signs. "Just goes to show it is hard to find good help."

Emily Franks has organized a way station along the 2nd Ave. parade route, handing out drinks and snacks to the brave marchers. This morning she stared at an almost impossible amount of drink mix, un-mixed due to lack of people of Puerto Rican hertiage. "This is insane." She said as she poured the cherry-limeade into a 5 gallon jug.

The irony was amazingly present in the march itself. Large numbers of protestors had extremely wrinkled shirts. Chris and Anna Northrop had dropped their "F*#k Bush" shirts at the dry cleaners on Thursday, and they weren't even clean when they picked them up.

"Whatever it takes. That mustard stain is more than just a testament to my clumsy eating habits," Anna said, expressing her disappointment at the dishevelment of her clothes, but added, "Those guys will be back tomorrow, and they're going to be playing catch-up. I just hope since we're here supporting them, perhaps a discount is in order? I don’t know."

In other news, the robot building cars in New Jersey shows up everyday for work and doesn’t yet want to smuggle his family across the border in a van. He just got a raise. March on that!

Abe Vigoda's envelope

There were whispers. On my ear hung a clinging truth: That tonight would yield a visit from the Mid-town Magi, in an undisclosed form. We finished the obviously piano-sized drinks at the BBQ eatery, only to decide that more would not be less. We skated through the revolving door, greeted by the crisp autumn breeze. Downtown bound. We cage fought with our musings; using half-nelson's of diatribe, and suplex's of supposition.

In between gnashing at the rim of our Sapporo deuce-deuce's, we detected that we were being tailed. We ducked into an inlet of stairs and rails, tucked inside the crotch of a building. The ashen pavement, still thick with the sweat caused by sister sun's departure, gleamed like distant a headlamp in the alabaster glow of the streetlight. Covered in the sheets of sound emanating from the avenue, footfalls presented themselves. They clod and clamored at the sidewalk. In them you could hear history. Of red carpet, pauses for pictures and questions, the pull of the arm urging them to enter some black tie event.


Visibly shaken, we both started to feel cold. A thin veneer covered our eyes, gone misty like maternal movie pairings of menstruation and "Terms of Endearment." We started to shed tears. Enough to fill half of my favorite snowglobes. And then, there in front of us on 72nd in between Lex and 3rd, in a somber midnight procession, was Abe Vigoda. We had entered his envelope. Behind him a cloud of shapes followed. Apparitions of Inuit shaman carried a 12 foot totem pole, emblazoned with the faces of the fallen: Raul Julia, Ruth Buzzy, Siskel. Me and my company started to rise, and almost joined the slow dirge marching to some hideous unheard drum. I scrambled for the last real object I had; my Sapporo Deuce. I threw it into the air. Explosions of Asian celebratory dragons sparked through the space between us, illuminating the avenue like a second Venus.

In a glimpse, it had all ended. Abe Vigoda scooted across Lexington. Billows of steam surrounded his exit, as the 6 train blew towards 77th. We had never before, or again been in his dominion. But good luck does not surround the unprepared. We had Sapporo Deuce happy-sureheadedness on our side. However to the unaware, Vigoda's envelope can be quite treacherous.

RoBot Prom

by Jenny Bandwith

Hey Eagles!

If we were given the ability to feel, how amazing would you be doing it right now?

Enchanted Ratios, this year’s RoBot Prom––the culmination of years of data downloads, specification alignment, and nervously awaiting those monthly systems check––was a delicious success. So tasty in fact, that if we could taste, we would all be savoring the sweet aftereffects of a time now irrelevant. But now, the matriculation towards a college upgrade looms and many of us can’t stop calculating for the future. In short, never has the math of tomorrow stung so enchantedly against the metal of our bodies, mind, and processors. That’s what RoBot Prom is all about.

Jonald Capacitor and Stiffinay Gridlock took home the crowns and the gowns known only to RoBot Prom royalty. Jonald, a chess champion and captain of the DeFrag team, accepted his honors with a steely resolve; an example to us all in danger of falling victim to the poison of personal achievement. And Stiff, as her friends call her, bowed as graciously as one could, I suppose. Especially when one maybe, possibly, most likely won the crown after skewing the wireless voting machines, letting a certain TI-3867 model lick her scuzzy port clean, and spewing lies into the ether-lattice. But, we all were happy for these two. Of course, there were some not so happy and who took home a peculiar burning sensation in their D: drives thanks to Kenwood Copperwire’s roaming charges, but all-in-all, the Royalty Presentation for Enchanted Ratios was amazingly well programmed.

Of course, there were the dissenters. Those who claim that this year’s RoBot Prom–– deemed the closest we as adolescent robots will ever get to dreaming––was very capable of being not-dreamed about. But then, when Franz Smartload placed seven Stalag-vage-chips into the oil bowl, and ‘bots (and their dates) washed down a sip, suddenly everyone had to Norton Anti Virus in their date’s USB. How Gross! But it still seemed to reboot those few whose attitude programs were glitched. Thank Intel!

The decoration of the main pavilion was minimal, but the streamers lined with bits of code profiling each senior and their current location was a nice touch. I lost my date for a few seconds and these really came in handy. But the visual accomplishment of the night belonged solely to HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS, the after-prom most of everybody went to and most of everybody found worth downloading.

HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS was the brain child of the Proxy Technical Alliance (PTA) that promised to throw us in a historical wormhole taking us back to the bonded molecule era were such tools like hammers, hammers, and hammers were used. It’s always a pleasure to learn about pre-futuristic cultures, but as an After-Prom theme it was efficiently humorful. Some days, although there aren’t many, I do wish we could laugh because on this glorious night, we would have laughed at hammers.

The program was efficiently arranged in Mircosoft Paint 8.0 and featured everyone’s favorite color, Cyan. The animated 3-D GIFFs led interested bot units toward something historically special, like a fountain, or a human raffle, and, lastly, a 20th century tool shed with connected revolving bathroom. Later on, the presentation on Centrifugal force (using the bathroom) and pre-futuristic Organ farming was also deemed an algorithmic success.

HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS all started, though, with Sergeant Server’s JROTC color guard launching of our nation’s numbers. And yes, it may be verified that nothing starts a party like these guys don’t, but there is still something to be said about tradition. Do you power up, or down, differently everyday? Thought not.

And unfortunately HAMMERS, HAMMERS, HAMMERS ended when a hall detector caught three jock bots slapping a vacuum in the bathroom. They have been reprimanded with cleanup duties and are not allowed to browse online for three weeks. And then there were the theater kids, snorting WD40 across the street from the activities. Like someone wasn’t going to see you! We’re robots.

Sadly, a few stripped screws ruined it for the rest of us, but the time that was had was incredible, according to the school WiFi poll taken this morning. We each feel ready for the next step, armed with the know-how of tomorrow and oh so aware of the mistakes made in the past. Even if the hammer, and the hammer, and the hammer were great tools, we have many more tools at our disposal for shaping and roboting the future. And I, for one, cannot wait to utilize them.

Go Eagles!

Chart Climbing, Other Things

These charts are now more climbable than ever this year, and now we have hit clearance season. You know what that means---all climable charts MUST GO! Sick of struggling through rehersals just to come back and not remember what you didn't cover last week. Well thats all good and done with because guess what? These charts feature much more climbability than any previous charts before. Charts that are climbable mean time that isn't wasted on working things out with people, can be dedicated to...that's right, climbing the f**kin charts. You'll find that you climb fast once you take that first step. Upgraded charts with a slim design and climb-like action will increase step uppingness to 7%, making your weekends alot more chilled out. More free time, more kicking it...up the charts! You ever seen K-2? That looked like it was pretty hard climbing up that thing. Not here mon ami. You ever seen somebody have a bitch of a time cutting into some water, with a knife? No?
That's because it's easy and simple and fun, not unlike climbing them there
charts.

FLASH TO SCREEN PLAY---

YOU: What's going on charts?
CHARTS: Nothing.
YOU: What are you doing later?
CH: Getting climbed all over.
YOU: Yesssss.

Your probably saying 'this is crazy! I can't climb them charts.' My response would be: have you even looked at the charts lately? Now with a foldable fulcrum that gently balances you out, while you tear ass up the charts, climbing these things has never been easier. You see that up there? Waaayy at the top? Huh? Thats the top of the charts. You know how close you'll get with more increasable climb-drive mechanisms? Pretty close my friend. Pretty close.

By the way.....
Org Vorbis, the norse tortoise lord of the north, orders all to report for
chordal contort morph. Torte will be scored more for Lords of swords,
snacking door fjords tore the 3rd course, but with plates and napkins
provided to the first 500, get there EARLY!!!

If you've found the missing bullet I fired into the air yesterday at my
cousin's quinceinetta, DO NOT RETURN. That was a gift, and you might want
to get that looked at.

Gift horse looked in mouth.

Also, blessings come in many forms. Like smells. You ever been blessed by a
smell? I want my next priest to be a waft in the air. What happened to my
previous priest? I can't say, but this next one coming up...gotta be a smell.

Memories of Remberance: A Tribute to Never Forgetting

{1st installment}

I want to tell you a story:

You can fly.



That’s not this story though.

This is a different story. More about me:

That summer I don’t think anyone could say what was in the air. But we all took it in like a cat from the late June snow and cradled it in specially marked packages of frosted mini-memories.

You see, I was raised on a caramel farm right outside of Muncy, Indiana. We lived on seven acres, where in late October we would harvest the nougat and caramel in hand-woven baskets.

The sun hung low in the autumn sky, kind of like a briefcase wouldn’t. We looked at each other, but we couldn’t hear, so our senses of smell led us to the feeling that this would be enough caramel pickin’ for the night.

Well, that summer the marzipan was in season and we would shuck and pick the sweet treat off the foreheads of the lifeless unicorns buried in the snow.

I would laugh.

Then we would all take turns farting on Grandma.

When we were tired, we turned in. But that night I woke up as if in a dream (echo: dream, dream, dream). I walked toward the window and out in the fields were piles on piles of glowing, wooden sea lion skulls.

I laughed. And then tried to fart on my brother, but he just rolled over.

So, I farted on my own butt. And laughed because it reminded me of ice cream—really smelly, hot, putrid ice cream.

I’ll never forget how I remembered that memory.

With my memory.

I’ll never forget that.

Palace of Local Monstrosities to Close

Middle Earth-Tuesday

Local Mordor residents were shocked with news that it’s only gentle-orc’s club, The Meadows, will be shut down as of Thursday.

The news of the closure sent shock waves from Moira to Isengard as the establishment, founded during The Second Age, sometime after the fall of Numenor, was a pillar of class and savvy throughout the dry, barren, desolate steppes of Nurn. Offering stunning views of Barad-Dur and Orodruin, the club featured butterfly-eating competitions, Sauron Karaoke Wednesdays, and the famous Flesh-Stripping Cabarets featuring several happy, yet unfortunate passersby touring the Land of Shadows.

Receiving a boost from the Mordor Board of Tourism during the early 670’s The Meadows enjoyed great reviews from critics, most touting it as “the premiere place for empty ocular stuffed spider balls.”

The Meadows manager/owner Thromurth K’k, an orc himself, was disenchanted as he loaded a dragon-pulled covered wagon full of armor, swords and napkins.

“Gurrk sak hurrgle! Hurrgle!” K’k shouted.

Thromurth’s college buddy Vrirk Hurbag translated for elevendy twelven: “I guess this is how they thank you for holding up the entertainment standards in this soul-forsaken, piss stain excuse for a town!” Obviously, K’k does not feel the need to hide his disappointment in the decision.

An open auction will be held this weekend to distribute the unused corpses and silverware. Though Mr. K’k plans to open a Circle K© in Orthanc, he still is a little weepy as he gazes back at the gaping cave-hole adorned with trees made of bodies, skeletons and excrement that served as his once-famous and well-received establishment.

Board members showed up to help load Thromurth’s wagon, but after several bitten faces, Mr. K’k called the group a bunch of “Ash-holes” and flew away on his getaway dragon.