Wednesday, August 16, 2017


it is said you live a million lives during your life. but that number is infinity. for when you wake up, you have the chance to start over.

the boy: what happened? i remember some things, forget others.

the man: same. i fear we have forgotten what's most important.

boy: they won't steal our history!

man: who's they?

boy: isn't there always a they?

man: there shouldn't be. for surely even an ant sees as he looks up and gazes at the awesome umbral power of the sun affixed but moving in the heavens he is part of a grand celestial plan. with no beginning and no end. there is no edge of the universe it seems. how hollow he must feel in the hologram.

boy: or she. give it up for the her-ants. the aunts. they weigh a gram. if that. you're right. past thoughts are so ridiculous when put under the microscope of the present. that yellow monster thing was ridiculous. there is no future. for when you're in the future you're in the present. but the past will always be the past, locked in amber, crying in concrete, for they cannot move.

man: we were searching for a woman! well that part of us sure kicked in quickly!

boy: right. look, brother, they sponged off the red symbol that was here. do you remember what the symbol was? we're just getting the edges.

man: those bastards! how can we live on the corner? i say we confront them and demand answers with a spearpoint under the chin!

boy: hold your horses, i'd rather with a microscope. remember, the stars?

man: thank you, brother. you washed the hate right off the blades of this body of absolute ineffectualness of mine.

boy: you got nice broad shoulders. i sense the wind is going crazy. the winds are. flipping every which way. it is hot and balmy and draws us to that location yonder with the smoke.

man: more like lures us. bring your weapon. the fastest deterrent to war is a triangular stone.

the two run to the site with instinct as their only map. what they encounter is the grisliest scene in all of history.

boy: by the stars! they're all dead! did they not understand! they were to preserve life at every cost!

man: it's okay to cry.

boy: you're the one crying.

man: okay. the humanity! except they are grey-skinned. but it matters not skin-color or creed, we are birthed in space to love! surely this is obvious! the newborn suckles his mother's breast and touches eternity, eating the Milky Way with each swallow. the display here today will live in infamy in the future and the past. the sea of blood, sweat, and tears, and breaking bones dug in the soil all for a lost cause tells a pirate's tale of woe.

boy: hark! i sense a boat in the offing. is it? could it be? a survivor of this madness to breathe hope into our lungs once more.

indeed ailing but stirring in the pile of bodies is a limp befallen horse neighing hurtly and brandishing the air with his flared nostrils.

man: poor baby!

boy: our baby! let us haste! let us away!

man: does your head hurt?

boy: yes. our thoughts must be magnificent.

the boy leaps through the air with his black locks like a cape fluttering in the wind.

man: your hair smacks of Justin Bieber.

the boy approaches the horse and cares him under his arm with tremendous strength.

horse: my what big muscles you have!

boy: when we find our inner strength there is no mountain we can't move.

horse: and a philosophizer to boot. i don't weigh that much! but i neigh that much! i'm a girl by the way. La Nina.

boy: you're bleeding profusely.

horse: that's just my makeup. smeared it this morning. i'm fussy. i'll be okay. but please don't put me down.

man: what happened here, milady? it is a scourge that afflicts and never dies till death.

horse: i am god. to these people. well i was. when they stoned you two, that was their first encounter with violence. they were innocent babes but they quickly learnt the ways of civilization, the insidious nature of gaining sped-up power by merely forcing the submission of their counterarguments. it was only natural. freedom is a messy thing. it's one thing to be invidious, it's another to be insidious. the plague spread like a wildfire, infecting all their systems. a virus of their own making, created in a lab. the lab of lutumity, of their own experimentation on themselves. they're a hive mind to begin with so they were particularly vulnerable.

boy: i cannot stay still upon witnessing this. we are one. brother, you know what must happen.

man: i must do what i must do.

the man hurls a stone at the boy's knee, shattering his leg.

boy: *tearing up* the pain i presently experience is nothing compared to my brethren on the field. this is for unification!

horse: what noble sacrifice! you guys are certainly not like them. the same but different. you don't need to impress me anymore! you already passed the test when you didn't immediately cook me over your campfire into horsemeat burgers. which are delicious but disgusting.

man: burgers?

horse: best with cheese. here, save your leg.

the horse licks the boy's broken wound clean and set like it never happened.

boy: i am healed!

horse: you sure are, honey. you can use my leg. go ahead, take it off, i can survive on three legs. i've already done my walking.

boy: i feel so helpless, powerless, in the face of evil.

horse: you guys write? that helps me. i keep a journal next to my sugarcubes.

man: my bestselling masterpiece novels were all lost in the flood. of course.

horse: brilliant. music. it's kind of like writing. when words aren't enough. i'll show you. whittle down my legbone to shiny ivory. craft three holes with your blunt instrument. make that spear mean something. there you go, nice smooth strokes. let it bake in the healing sun. you have your very own pipe. the very first musical instrument in existence in fact. and i made your hammer into a knife. cut wisely.

the boy whistles a tune of unrelenting woe which shakes the cores of black holes.

boy: i feel better. i think.

the man notices the two tails on the horse.


in Cuba there is a flap over the flag. what to put up and what to take down. it keeps changing. but at the Embassy they're dealing with a more immediate problem. sonic terrorism. apparently the loudspeakers which still dot all the cobble streets in the seaside country are piercing the ears of the diplomats with the most destructive earsplitting noise at hellish decibels in history.

President Bump: is this your work, Vlad?

Putin: but of course. you really have to ask? i did nothing wrong. i can't help it if these banana savages can't appreciate the high art of unintelligible Russian opera.

Bump: yeah we used to use Skinny Puppy until he found out, i'm not one for lawsuits so i dropped it.

Scaramucci: everyone ready for some telera rolls? hot off the presses!

Bump: they look like vaginas. you doing Fox Mulder, too?

Putin: fraid so. he is my wives' favorite. he is so cool. y'know the Cigarette Smoking Man, whose real name is John Wayne, once did a contractor job for us.

Bump: i thought his real name was Batman. *mouth full* hey nix those moonstrip crackers, they're spacey and weird. speaking of, it's okay, Jared will be my next Mulder.

a beautiful Criollo horse basks in the golden-brown tropical sun. his meaty hind leg is lost in the light. he prances on the last soft green patch of soil and gallops stealthily to the Embassy. there he smiles and neighs


which sends a series of sonic waves to circle the heads of the loudspeakers and shatter them. the off debris litters the street. he makes sure to catch a glimpse of Mulder and wave before sprinting to the waiting waves of the ocean arms.

Criollo: hi Mulder! you're so handsome! i'm a girl by the way. this smile is genuine, not peanut-butter-induced.

Mulder: thanks, nelly. that was torture. i'm outta here. my teeth are motioning. i'm gonna go to L.A.

Scully: wanna come with?

Mulder: why do you suddenly speak with a British accent?

Scully: the waves, man.

Mulder: *on the phone* boss, the situation is getting dire. we need you to speed up the investigation.

Mueller: yeah but i haven't really got anything concrete yet.

Mulder: pin something on him ASAP. we need to excise this cancer before it metastasizes and spreads.

Scully makes the sign of the cross.

Mueller: where's Comey?

Mulder: Ashley came back. from vacation. with him.

Mueller: gotcha.

everyone is watching the World Championships. Usain Bolt is prone on the track of his last ever race, writhing in pain as his final showing. he winces and gingerly hops on his bad leg. he stares directly into the camera and addresses the Cream House.

Usain: Scaramucci, this is the leg of a champion. my leg. I gave everything for my country. i used it up till it withered and died. literally no more gas in the tank. spent. i refuse to be a part of your games. i will not be auctioned off for your fantasy. i will not slaute unless it empowers me. what do you have other than your stupid chickenlegs!

Mooch: hey yous know where i live, pal, if ever yous want to scrap. i ain't going nowheres!

Usain: i can't understand your accent.

Mooch: that's my line!

Usain: does my very existence make you uncomfortable, President Bump?

Bump: why is everyone mad at me all the time? i hate the press. except Philip Bump. i mean just the other day i got a riot on my streethands over a statue. a statue! i never actually wanted to be President. i just wanted a win. over a name.

Putin: i could help you with that.

Bump: no more pills, Vlad buddy, seriously, my old body was not made for this.

Putin: i would be glad to have my thugs, uh my team, of thugs, scatter across your beautiful land of purple and take down all the statues. smash all the idols i say. they're ghastly. and isn't that the religious thing to do? even the Jesus statues.

Bump: Jesus, too?

Putin: sure. i'll replace them with oily paintings of myself.

Bump: isn't that kinda the same thing?

Putin: you bite your tongue, Mr. President! that filthy tongue of yours lord knows where it's been. we're talking about portraiture of yours truly here. me. high art.

Bump: but like Robert E. Lee and George Washington were the same.

Putin: the same but different.

Bump: but who won? i only like winners.

Putin: Washington.

Bump: nevermind then.

at the raised dais instead of the National Anthem Nina Simone sings through the loudpeakers. at a local speakeasy nearby the real Nina Simone sits her flowered dress down, shakes her rump in her seat, addresses the crowd with a spry hi, and gets to work slamming her keys methodically with her flabby arms. she sings in a songy rap which predates hiphop by making it better as an example. it's a short song but it has legs. her dark skin illuminates a smoky cramped room full of nervous white college students gripping their glasses and glasses over their eyes and clapping while lipping droopy cigs and hash pipes. a sienna speech delivered with sear which scorches the spiritual. tells it like it is in periwinkle. when she finishes she is not black but one who wears the colors of a rebel. she announces, "that's it i'm done!" like she's not expecting anyone to notice or care. she storms out of her seat knocking it over and her impromptu teethy smile causes a ripple wave of excitement and dangerous energy to counter the darkness.


her sonic wave is a burst of energy which blankets the lands. all the lands. even in Cuba where instead of the loudspeakers Criollo sings it.


at the monastery Nina Simone's voice comes through loud and clear though no one occupying this house knows her name.

the hooded figure: who is this chanteuse which songstresses her silk into my eyes?

the Men From the East: behold the blue flame!

the blue flame projects the songbird in her native element, singing up a storm of past lives and past struggles as if fresh and new and current. and of a future time.

the hooded figure: she is our last Jedi.

the blue flame takes it upon itself to scorch Nina's name and notes onto the Sheikah Slate the church calls its canter.

the hooded figure: fam you know i never hide anything from you. i've been feeling down lately. i need to get my ass to a hot springs my body's killing me. but it seems all i have time for anymore is downing a few pills down my throat. i've essentially replaced the joy of water with manmade medicine.

the Men From the East: no worries, mate. you go take a leave and we'll hold down the smelting fort. every professor deserves a sabbatical.

everyone is hard at work melting down various stones and rocks in a huge vat in the center of the church in hopes of finding the perfect environmentally-safe-yet-effective longlasting eternal fuel for the penny-farthing which will take them on their long journey into the unknown.

on the last go-round before her break, wouldn't you know it but the hooded figure sticks an arm in there and hits upon a strange block of heavy corrugated iron that weighs a fortune.

Men From the East: we've been recovering all manner of those gribbles outside in the hills. the horse she's been invaluable telling us where to stick our noses and snoop. natural hunters. but that's the first clump of clay that literally is the size of you.

the hooded figure: of course it turns into a working vacation.

the hooded figure travels to the nearby spa and dunks her head with her hood still on. the hooded figure dips the iron tablet into the frothy drink to a torrent cloud of hisses and mini-bubbles.

the hooded figure returns to the place of worship and removes the hood. for a minute to gather the last strains of the song. the smile emananting from that hood makes all the Men smile as bright as the sun.

rather than be showy with it the hooded figure holds the piece like a stick of butter.

the hooded figure: gentlemen, i present to you.....................................the Sword of Saad!!!

Monday, August 14, 2017


the curtain has been drawn. that means the curtain has been closed. but it can also mean the curtain has been opened.

1. is a weird sex face/orgasm face a total dealbreaker? the exact opposite. it's a total dealbreaker if you DON'T have an awkward O face. think about it. i will never see that specific strange expression you make with the droopy eyes and tongue hanging out and misaligned cheeks except when we're in bed. it's a special private moment together just the two of us share. that's romantic. don't bite your tongue tho that hurts.

2. do you enjoy having your balls played with (or playing with balls)?


3. have you ever hooked up with somebody based on their proximity to your smartphone location (tinder, GRINDR, etc)? thank you. i just smashed my phone. i don't want the CIA knowing where i grind. Apple is just a front for the CIA, right? i was never this paranoid before but then i started watching cable news.

4. you have some free time in the workday. blowjob or intercourse? bj can be giving or receiving. everyday at noon i gingerly step into the boss's office. the blinds are pulled, even that cute square one that covers the door window. then the bj commences. the boss is not in. this is my revenge on the system.

5. how long after having sex with a new partner do you have to wait before falling asleep? sorry i didn't answer this one cos i was asleep.

bonus: what's the dirtiest or sexiest text message you've ever received? GET FUCKED ASSHOLE (he wanted to fuck my asshole)


Friday, August 11, 2017



* sorry, couple, the house just sold.

* the previous owner left a note: welcome to your happy abode! it's all yours! just don't cut the tall grass. don't slash it with your sword. there are no rupees. or silver arrows or anything. aren't those flowers pretty? your landlord in life and afterlife, Ganon

* do not make a phone call in this house.

* there is no such thing as safe water. bottled won't help. it's all rusty pipes in the end. there's only one water which is pure, cos it's untouched by man: FIJI

* you stole the Salvation Army red kettle?

* death of a salesman...

* man: sex after a cold shower, that's my fetish.

* man: happy birthday!
woman: you remembered! what'd you get me?
man: this balloon.

* man: honey, Siri's acting up again!
woman: no that's the baby monitor.
man: we have a baby? honey, Siri's going crazy again!

* man: why you laughing?
woman: cos we can't afford this.
man: what are you doing with the tape there?
woman: interpretative dance. that was my major at Berkeley.

* woman: so honey i'm rolling white paint on the walls, how do you like it?
man: is white really a color?
woman: it's all the colors.

* man: honey i burned the eggs again.............the pan is ruined.........oh i forgot i'm alone.

* man: you're a nurse?
woman: no.
man: what's with the blue scrubs?
woman: i'm a painter.

* man: i wanted to go with the Delftware but we had no money so i went with the dust.

* man: you just had to wear your high heels didn't you?!!
woman: these are YOUR high heels.

* woman: makeup sex is my fetish. we have to argue first or i can't cum.

* man: honey i burned the meat again. the pan is ruined. what do you want on your pizza?
woman: filet mignon.

* don't tell that kid in the swing but her parents have been divorced this whole time.

* man: don't eat the paint, kid! that's my dinner!

* that wasn't a real house. it was a set. old Hollywood Western general-store facade. the Western went the way of the buffalo...

* man: is that my car?
woman: kinda. it's your father's car.

* man: what's in the two brown bags?
woman: his and hers bottles of wine...


happy weekend, my babies. need it to recover from that Princess Diana special. at least SNL is back, kinda.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017


the boy and man are at a crossroads.

there comes a time in every hero journey where a decision must be made. the hero or heroes in this case are in the middle and must decide whether to keep doing things the way they have been or strike out in a new unprecedented never-before-imagined way and forge a new note. slow and steady wins the boring race.

boy: this life thing is extraordinarily dull.

man: i can't help but imagine that it's not the same for others. in different stars perhaps.

boy: we need to speed this along. we must accelerate our journey. things need to ferment. your journal will dry up if not made moist by ink.

man: ink you say? moist is an uncomfortable word in any era.

boy: i am longing for a companion. no offense.

man: none taken. the grey weirdos just don't cut it. i haven't the heart to tell them. my loins tremble beneath my loincloths.

boy: yep, mine are roaring. mind recounting again your dream from last night? it'll help me dream this night. the night is still young. it's always young. there's not really anything else to do. there's nothing on tv.

man: ah yes, but you know i can only remember snippets. it's very frustrating why my heart doesn't work better.

the boy hands the man a fold of manila leaves inscribed in red.

boy: see? this is why you must continue with your writing. document everything, it's vitally important. we're the only ones who care about this sort of stuff. the stars don't care that's for sure. i'll prepare the campfire indoors. should be alright.

the boy with his tail towel sweeps away the moist hide from their shower area, which is just a watering hole, to find a family of slimy unshelled slugs making camp there.

boy: ugh. another rug ruined. there is no justification. the animals were here first. i hate those creepy crawlies, gives me nightmares.

the boy rubs the lunula of his toenails together, howls at the moon, and sparks the fire.

boy: blue flame! that's new.

the man assumes the indian position.

man: ah yes, i remember now. how could i forget? we start off on a moonlit night much like this one is, except it's in the other place. i come across a particularly difficult piece of land to navigate. it's full of thorny bush and prickly personality. a fire set in an ancient stone hearth warms the area and cooks my pizza. that's the best pizza i have ever eaten.

boy: you are slacking, brother. the word is only as good as the word. you are the best storyteller of all time tho. okay, okay, i'll write it for you.

man: i slide between two giant hills, and i'm quite comfortable in that spongey grass. then i woke up.

boy: ha. but what does it mean?

man: anything i want. or you want. it's a snapshot of feeling. a thought divine that is perfectly willing to go on forever but our hearts can't take forever.

boy: i see. but it's more. it's always more.

man: surely. remember what the wind taught us? we must look at things not as the things themselves but as symbolic representations of other things.

boy: hills and hearth.

man: ..................tits and came to me in a dream. or perhaps i came to it.

boy: i see. the same but different.

man: it's telling us something. i posit that there are creatures out there who look like you and me but have slightly different parts.

boy: everyone has long hair tho, right? and a butt?

man: everyone has a but. womyn? we need her to survive.

boy: huh.

man: there is nothing warmer than pussy. a comic shall lead the way.

boy: as long as these creatures aren't like the greynimals.

there's a no-knock at the door. the Lutum are standing guard there but for the other team. they each hold up a rock in their slow hand menacingly.

Lutum: we are sorry. but we held a secret meeting. a conference in collusion. a confab if you will. but it wasn't confabulous. it was serious. i'm afraid we have come to our conclusive decision. unanimously after many votes. the only way this situation can continue is if we stone you. don't worry, it's not to death, we'll only sting you a bit. knock you out. you'll feel like you've had a long sleep.

boy: not gonna lie i could use a dirt-nap right now.

Lutum: this is the best thing for you. and for us. we can't have you relics from a predawn age running around here like chickens in our same space. it would throw everything off, derail our history early though it may be.

man: very paternalistic. but we understand. dems the faulty breaks.

the Lutum wind up like minor-league baseball players.

man: any last words, sonny?

boy: don't worry, the wind will protect us.

man: i'm afraid not. the wind isn't coming.

boy: i see. yes that's right, i forgot, the wind is only a concept. i love you, dad.

man: what does womyn make you feel?

boy: like you.

man: mine is more of an itch.

Lutum: you are outnumbered.

boy: ain't that always the way.

Lutum: may you forget who you are.

man: that would be a blessing.

the Lutum toss their rocks and the two humans are awkwardly conked on their heads.


it's Kim's special day. he is tidying up and making last-minute orders for the grand opening of his store. it's the only store in North Korea which sells high-end items. obviously only for big-ticket foreign investors and tourists, not the general public.

Kim: hopefully this will entice my Sarah! stupid tourists buy expensive goods they can get in any online bargain bin. buying stuff they don't need. been reading a lot of Freud recently. smuggled Sigmund in with my Superman comics. did you know Superman dies? i don't want to think about it. final touches. we even have those Redbottom heels and shit!

the massive cavernous abandoned mall is eerily quiet. save for the low hum of the escalators.

Kim: you can't appreciate the moldy maudlin melancholy of this place through a youtube vid, you really have to experience the sad scary up close. shoes stocked. perfumes purloined. sale signs displayed just for show. Twilight Zone freaky white foam heads with ears and necks but no eyes modeling the rice hats up. the rest of the world is either really gullible or i'm really bored. and now to call my beloved.


Kim: well that didn't go well. i offered that Palin puss a private tour and everything! i am so mad. i need to get my rocks off. with a white woman. i live on a craggy rock. i don't get it, isn't America just a series of malls? you guys love fucking malls! a mall is the very symbol of capitalism. i will have my revenge. i know what i'm gonna do. i'm gonna take away America's gum! yeah i see everywhere on your tv shows i watch on my private tv all the young people chewing gum and blowing their wads on the street instead of reading sensible communist pamphlets airlifted down into the sky from weird cloud boats instead of food. just you watch, America,


Kim pushes all the red buttons and the tubes come out of hiding from their caves. there is one very special missile Kim holds dearest to his eternal soul. a missile bequeathed to him from his grandfather when he was still in diapers. which wasn't that long ago. the young Kim sucked on this missile like a lollipop trying to teethe. he painted his name in red watercolors. the adults pried the missile from his gummy mouth and filled in the rest of his name. now it was time to bring the sacred gift out. and use it for the most holy of enterprises.

Kim: sex. this is for you, Sarah! i'm coming, baby! this is my own private missile!

Kim sets the coordinates for Alaska, swipes a cowboy hat from off his store shelves, and mounts the missile. he puts his hat on tight cos he really doesn't want to lose it in the flight, he wants Sarah to see him in it. he pushes all the red buttons again.


the missile with Kim on top sails rather gracefully for a while on its trajectory to snowy Alaska.

Kim: i made sure to wear layers. i can see Russia from here! i knew this would work! if i know one thing, it's miniaturization.

the missile crashes into the middle of the ocean.

President Bump is having a midnight nosh of KFC in the Square Office with his Cabinet trying to get some work done. trying. but mostly eating.

there's a ring on the red Batphone. Scaramucci picks up.

Federer: will you?

the Mooch: NO

Bump: did you get the Ovaltine?

Mooch: and the chicken-fried bacon.

Gannon: i'm not falling for that again.

Mooch: yessir, served on a gold platter. French fries, uh freedom fries swamped in sauce Robert and a little shaved flanksteak. always put Swiss cheese on a cheesesteak, my butcher taught me that. topped off with a nice salad to make up for those two oatmeal cookies you always have for breakfast. downed with a glass slipper of Buckfast tonic wine.

Bump: that's a tall drink of water. i need all the tonic i can swallow, i'm very sick. who's the leggy blonde who works at the State Department?!!

Mooch: get off the tv and on to twitter.

Bump: nah, give me the phone, i want to call someone.

Putin: want some fentanyl?

Bump: maybe later, Vlad. hey, Bob. can i do a ridealong with you tonight?

Mueller: i'm mulling it over. no.

Bump: come on, baby. i love you.

and Bump hangs up.

Mooch: was that a crank call in the middle of the night?

Bump: no.

Mooch: prank call?

Bump: no.

the phone rerings.

Mueller: fine. if you promise to cooperate.

Bump: that's my middle name! on my tax returns. that's why i had it be a predawn raid. i was hoping you'd join me for some Denny's afterwards. i'm getting old you know.

the black car doubles back to pick up Bump. it chases a ghost down the alley and crashes into an apartment so quietly none of the neighbors hear. officers in flak jackets and missile-launchers and a huge log swell into the location like a flood after not knocking.

Manafort: fuck yous guys, i was taking a shit. at least let me finish up wiping my ass. there are poo splatters and shitcrumbs everywhere on the tile.

Bump: can you hurry this up, Bob? the Early Bird specials are starting.

Bump: what are you doing now, Man? what's the hold up?

Manafort: my finger caught a poop smear. i'm rewashing it with hard soap to get it off.

Mueller: smell it, yous.

Manafort smells his finger.

Mueller: if it still sorta smells like poo but more like gunpowder, that's good enough. you'll never get the stench totally out.

Bump: i've been there. come on, i got the Denny's menu on my phone. did you confiscate everything i planted in the apartment, Bob?

Mueller: i'm gonna pretend i didn't hear that. cos i didn't. i'm getting up there in years, too.

Bump: hey Man, i'll trade you your girl for immunity.

Mueller: come on, man, you said that right in my earshot.

Bump: okay, okay, fuggedaboutit. i wash my hands. time for launch. uh, lunch.

Mueller: whatever. i didn't ask for this. wait, i gotta make one more stop. it's on the way. Breakfast Row.

Mueller's car stops at the IHOP. Mueller arrests Tiger Woods, who is chatting up a hot waitress.

Mueller: at least make it look good, kid, you didn't even order any pancakes. staging is an art.

Tiger Woods: i thought this was the diversion program.

Mueller pushes Tiger's head underneath the bottom of the roof and into the back of the police cruiser's beige suede '70s seats ripped open with dried cushioning spilling out.

Mueller: watch your head.

Tiger: that's what she said.

Manafort: it's not worth it, kid. want a drink?

Federer tries to crank-call Mueller's walkie-talkie.

Bump: can i give you a kiss before we eat?

Mueller: what?

Bump: it's not a gay thing, i just want to show you my appreciation for all the hard work you've been doing.


at the monastic cave the Men From the East led by the hooded figure have been hard at work blooding and sweating and tearing their way through legion blueprints and maps and sources of energy in their effort to create the perfect machine to carry a long distance into the fly of space, to the furthest outreaches, to a time where they'll meet their heroes.

the crew are excited on this particular day cos they think they have their rocket secure. all the boosters are affixed and the fuel seems to be limitless and environmentally-friendly. the congregation hold hands in a circle around the launch site. the rocket with the little engine that could shoots straight up in the air with a force of vigor that knocks the stones around. it reaches high into the cosmos cutting all space clouds in its path. before burning up in the atmosphere with a whimpering explosion.

defeated, the hooded figure takes a load off on a nearby rock. the hooded figure lights a cigarette with a match and smokes it from a stem. still able to conceal the hooded figure's identity while puffing on the cig through the black hole which fills the face of the hood.

one of the Men From the East joins and puts his arm around the hooded figure's two shoulders.

Man From the East: never realized how small you were. you're our size! you cut such an impressive figure when you're up on stage for Mass. we're sensitive to our smallness. our little man! our beautiful powerful little man! you're one of us! can i have one? what are those? Virginia Slims?

hooded figure: wacky tobaccy from my pappy.

Man: just kidding, i don't know brands. i just like tennis. never smoked in my life.

hooded figure: did you hear that? i sighed internally just now. the plans are all wrong. the vehicle we need to build is a stagecoach. that seems redactive but it's true. i saw it in a dream. modern technology is a failure. we must never give up, no matter what. perseverance. eternal perseverance is the quotient. it's our special sauce. it's no secret. we must be resolute in the face of our rustiness. use different parts. that is the strength of our little club. it's so easy to throw in the towel. instead of dying, we must sleep.

the two pray on this meditation in silence.

hooded figure: i know you're probably not in the mood for music now but...

Man: i could dance...

the fingers of the hooded figure snap and the cave is filled with


hooded figure: the city is safe. the city is safe tonight. the city of our dreams.

Friday, August 4, 2017



* the whole left side of my face is bleeding out so bear with me

* got some invokana in me so i'm better. no actually it was Vanquish. PLEASE consult your doctor first.

* this is my dream house. Frank Lloyd Wright meets Stephen King. one motel light in a dense forest surrounded by Maine fog thick as peas. the environment carved into the woodsy abode instead of the other way around. steely oak beams. for folk who want to get away from the suburbs.

* i only wear socks now. there is no more need for shoes in society if you have a computer.

* that's Robin's kid. this will make sense later.

* you know you're rich when the guardrails on your staircase are made of bulletproof glass. i never lived in a second-storie house in my life. i never knew what it was like to have my own set of stairs. i never experienced that odd room that's formed in the box underneath the staircase, you know the one, so small only a troll can fit in. no room even for a light. it's supposed to be for rags and sieves but trolls don't like breathing in dirty air, they have big sensitive noses. opened only with one of those rusty keys with no handle shaped like an uppercase L. L for lucky. if i had met my troll, my life would be different now.

* Robin is not gonna go easy on you...................cos you stole Robin's husband and had her kid. that kid in the bedroom? that was supposed to be Robin's kid.

* attacking the hill like it's Robin's stupid face and stupid hair

* crushing the flats. flat like Robin. you have a nicer shape. your body is bodacious. show your butt again.

* that's model sweat...

* breaking away from the pack...the peloton if you will

* that friend in the other city? she's keeping an eye on Robin for you, in the other city.

* this is how you make a better life for marrying up.

* son: mommy, why is my blanket yellow? i said i wanted red like Superman.
woman: can't, red is Robin's favorite color.
son: how about blue then?
woman: you want to be like Linus?

* my husband goes barefoot like me. that's what attracted me to him.

* who is this girl?

* jigglies and a red knob: CLICK HERE

* that red knob stops North Korea's missiles.

* seriously tho i wonder about that cavernous Peloton studio in New York. i mean these are obviously Broadway actors who pedal in the dark for hours in front of a green-screen screaming out your name to keep you motivated. it's weird for them.

* before there was Lance there was Greg LeMond. he was the big fish, the superstar, the Olympian if it wasn't for Russia, the three-time winner of the Tour de France. he was the big bike everyone rode. i distinctly remember this Taco Bell commercial from my youth: CLICK HERE

* Greg LeMond hates Lance Armstrong with the fire of a thousand suns. he despises doping. Lance stole his spotlight and irrevocably destroyed the sport. a sport hanging by a thread anyway. oh well, there's still Floyd Landis.

* the one person i feel most sorry for in all this is a man whose name i know not of. but he's the old British guy who commentates all the big cycling events. you can tell from the falter in his voice when he speaks of the sport's rich history he loves bikes more than himself. he once regarded Lance as his kind of son, the man who would propel the sport finally into fame. but it was infamy rather. he called Lance "the Texan", the cool man in the cowboy hat. but this beautiful British soul is crying today into his motel pillow as he has seen his sport and the Event once described in dulcet French landscapes and windy windswept roads and flowers and congratulatory kisses and Robin Williams on the sidelines smiling and cheering on, reduced to a laughingstock.

* relevant: CLICK HERE

* Robin would have found that funny. Williams.


happy weekend

Wednesday, August 2, 2017


the man and the boy have had enough. but there's nothing they can do. they have to keep living despite their objections.

boy: this constant need to gather food is bothersome.

man: no, it serves as a break to our rambling thoughts. it reminds us that we are not as yet stars. plugs us back into our humanity. and gives us a chance to talk. you never talk anymore.

boy: what more is there to say? i admire your relish of the word, my comrade in skin, but i'm afraid we need a decoder, not just the symbol. humanity you say?

man: i heard it in a dream.

boy: human, how ghastly. the wind works overtime, coming to us in our sleeps through the tunnel between our ears.

man: to that useless grey mold in our heads.

boy: aye, we live by the heart.

man: we could always hunt.

boy: yeah i dunno. seems like a slippery slope to a dark path. i don't want to end up eating you.

man: you won't kill me, brother, we are on a higher plane than other first wanderers in other biblios, i can feel it. i feel the wind close to our cheeks, lapping them. don't you feel we already have one wing?

boy: the second wing, that's where they get ya.

boy: any luck deciphering the red cross?

man: i love sleeping. not cos i feel rested afterwards, for the dreams. the wind comes to me vividly there than outside our cave. it speaks in a language i can hear. it's extraordinary how the wind guides us.

boy: yeah just a heads up, the red cross is fading badly. it's the monsoon season or something, non-stop rain, i mean it's getting ridiculous. this isn't small talk, weather is everything.

man: please, don't ruin our pleasant chat. i don't even want to think of the Yellow Monster. overcast skies are better. cooler. the thing is not a thing in itself but of what it encompasses. you see? think of it as circles. a large circle and a small circle, together. the cross represents another thing. we tend to take a limiting view on things. we should do the opposite, take the expansive view.

boy: don't blame me, blame these bodies.

man: thus the cross is another object. and the key to our journey

boy: our crisis

man: is to find the wielder of this object. i have long felt in my bones that there is another. don't you?

boy: yes. before i had bones. the same but different. a missing puzzle piece. completes us. when we cannot on our own.

man: yes. a fellow star. to complete the ladle of our constellation in the galaxy sky. so it may shine the brightest.

boy: i dream of this person a different way.

man: speaking of, the dream speaks of our relationship.

boy: whoa, hold your horses!

man: horses?

boy: the greynimal?

man: ah. maybe.

boy: how's your writing coming?

man: along. going. you realize i'm writing the very first book.

boy: those papyrus pens are cool. the very first library is all yours. this cave is a little drippy, but books need to be kept damp to last, right?

man: it's my personal diary. full of missteps and musings. a little cliché i know.

boy: oh no, this is an action-adventure!

man: so anyway, you're my son.

boy: i don't believe we're human. there's gotta be something more to us than that.

there's a knock at the door.

the boy answers the doorbell by whooshing away the leaf carpet around the entrance hole. there before the confused but courageous couple are like 43 or so greynimals all with their googly-eyes trained on the two who are too tired to react.

boy: you like my spear? wow, coz, get out here! there's like a whole family of these grey animals at our front door, tracking mud in from the doorstep. we appreciate that. keeps our neighborhood sturdy. an entire army! an empire of these things!

they are the Lutum. they move in unison observing the man and boy with a scientific fascination that burns with religious fervor.

the Lutum: we are the Lutum. we are not animals. you are the animals. YOU ARE THE MISSING LINK!!!

boy: the what? look, sorry about your pal the other day. we were hungry. so sue us.

the Lutum have not stopped pointing in unison.

the Lutum: your existence changes everything! in our philosophy, art, and science. we now see our world in context with the grander universe. we are like your cousins. where is your ship?

boy: okay fam, i like your fingers. hey cozzin, get the fire going, we have company barbecue! i'd offer you guys something to eat but that previous grey animal ran away.

boy: wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute. hold up. hold the phone. hey, are they our missing star? the same but different? that which will perfectly light the perfect darkness?

man: you tried to whisper that in my ear but the greys all bended their bodies to enter our ear canals, the space between our ears. their bodies are like a clump of grey mold.

Lutum: what miracle. and we all breathe the same kind of air. tell us, where did you come from?

man: tell me, what do you know of a red cross?

Lutum: are you broken?

boy: plainly. tell me, do you have anything to eat? conceiving of this more as a potluck. do you have any of those, what are those called? wheat thingies.

Lutum: bread loaves.

boy: you read my mind.

Lutum: we don't eat bread. we eat burnt toast.

man: ah. huh. never thought to use the fire like that. genius. come in.


in the well of the Senate, there is a lion in the room. but security is not called. nor animal control. this animal takes his time, stretches out his jaw, and roars so loud the white stone walls shake.

John McCain: this may be my final statement. on the matter, unless you guys bring it up again. this past week i have thought harder than in any previous week in my life. if only my head was playing along and kidding around. it's lasting cos it's the last. you don't think about things until you think about the end. because only through ends are there meanings. and this bill is mean.

President Bump: i should have been nicer to you, John. i pardon myself for that. i was new to the politics game, i didn't know the rules. i just wanted a win.

Pence: sir, how about you join me here in the well of the Senate and do some of the gladhanding with me? y'know, the shaking of hands? and the ribbing to get the Members to do what you want? the arm-twisting. sometimes you actually have to physically twist an arm. and actually poke someone in the ribs. i'm not advocating violence but you gotta get their attention.

Bump: speaking of members, time for my scheduled daily masturbation.

Pence: yeah don't put that on your twitter. keep it boring, like you ate an apple.

Bump: i don't have time for all that, my hands aren't up for it. what's your name again? you're not another son are you? besides wouldn't it be weird if i was there in the Senate well, like just another joe schmo chopping it up? that would look weird. i'm having supper.

McCain dramatically raises his arm with all the might of a steely soldier, takes a long dramatic pause, forms his hand into a point, and thumbs-down with backbreaking delight. there are audible gasps in the cavernous room, one from one Scaramucci letting out an Italian wail.

Scaramucci: YO

McCain: i am quite bemused inside doing this. revenge is best served like hot soup, bragging and red. they criticize me for being a gloryhound, for seeking the spotlight, in it only for the show. well, they're right! i deserve this! i'm cool after all i've been through. i'm the living embodiment of the Nietzsche stronger quote. that's why i listen to Nine Inch Nails! yeah i think about it first, but i also think about how best to insert myself into the play in the most thrilling role. i'm my own best agent!

McCain walks to the center dais of the room and dons the Emperor's golden wreath laying there in symbol. it's real to him and John is transported back to Ancient Rome. there, Scaramucci is quite literally his lapdog, barking by his side.

Scaramucci: woof.

McCain: i feel the leaves on my head. they are grapeleaves, not thorns. i see clearly through this eye. young man, what do you know of courage? of true sacrifice?

Scaramucci: i'll never be whacked. no matta what any mook says i'll never leave my dream gig.

McCain: the job is up. you're all talk. you'll never know what it means to be a mensch. men are jerks in circles. real men walk the open road alone.

McCain takes his thumbs-down, which has been thumbs-down this whole time, and plugs it into Scaramucci's eye.

Scaramucci: ows that smarts!

McCain takes his thumbs-down and pushes it into a plum pie, a little-known Ancient Roman delicacy. his thumb spears out two plums and he wags the prunes in front of Scaramucci's face.

McCain: you know why the crowds down there cheer for me, young man? not out of fear or craziness. they recognize i was willing to sacrifice my life for my people. are you?

Scaramucci: respect the family. respect your elders. respect the don.

McCain: know your place. you're not at a garage.

Bump: can i take him now? i'm here to pick him up.

McCain: go ahead. just teaching him the basics. Three Stooges and stuff.

Bump: helicoptering homework, head of the dragon and such. a parent's job is never done. Mucus?

Mooch: please call me the Mooch, sir.

Bump: on tap?

Mooch: women? food? oh, Starbucks Honey Coffee, greasy chicken, and those pastas that look like little hats.

Bump: i love oil. policy?

Mooch: photo-ops at Crocodile Bridge, Stassen, Kimitake, Brody's Castle, and Original Do Bob's. then you have to do the hijabi thing. don't worry, i'll craft the legislation and give you the credit, i'll jot something down on a napkin at the caf at lunch, don't worry about it. fuggedaboutit.

Federer: and don't forget the Prell. did wonders when i had long hair. perfect for helfies.

Bump: Scottington High?

Mooch: sure.

Gannon enters the tableroom disgruntled and snarling and turning up his pig nose in disgust.

Federer: why so bleeding heart? your beating heart broken, is that the matter? haven't found Link yet? he was at Wimbledon. yeah, saw him on Centre Court. he was mad cos all of the grass had been cut so there were no gems or jars to find. no bushes for him to whack with his sword. nothing to chop.

Bump: Link blamed Honda Lawnmowers.

Mooch: chicken's here. hey Gannon, suck your own cock.

Gannon: what?

Mooch: lick the bones off your own chicken. the greasier, the gooder.

Federer: hey, check out my balls. look at these cute speakers made entirely from fuzzy tennis balls. how many?

Bump: you sell these? sure. but why?

Federer: there is literally nothing left for me to do.

Federer starts to sing.

Federer: Scaramucci Scaramucci can you do the Fandango?

Mooch: NO

the Pope is enjoying some naked time with Kirsten Powers.

Kirsten: there you go, i installed it myself, your own rainfall showerhead.

the Pope: Squeal!!! i love it, honey, takes me back to my missionary work in Brazil.

Kirsten: but why are Comey and Ashley Parker under your shower?

the Pope: i'm the Pope, darlin'. can't be the only one without a mistress. some healthy competition will be good for you.

Kirsten: but why are Scully and Mulder under your shower?

the Pope: cos they're cool. and they're conducting an investigation. while naked. so they can swim better.

little does anyone know but the water being supplied for the Pope's private shower is coming from a massive explosion of Greenland's underwater icebergs punctured by the spokes of the Statue of Liberty's crown. poor Lady Liberty is stuck, trapped underwater by her piercings.

Mooch: Vlad wants to take you on a sightseeing tour of the Kremlin.

at the NBC Studios, Lawrence O'Donnell is finishing up his fifteen-minute---the entire first segment--- monologue, the topic of which is what exactly Putin has on Bump.

"no one knows," Lawrence concludes breathlessly, dramatically pausing and looking up to the darkened studio's lights and lifting his leg like Hamlet.

his special guest tonight is Bump. sitting across from Lawrence in the studio. which looks weird.

Bump: can we hurry this up? i gotta be somewhere. so these mooks come up to me in the stands while i'm cradling game chili and say the grass here at El Clasico is the good shit. i was like, yeah, America! Link was complaining that the Wimbledon grass was bad. oh, and Chuck Grassley, i know you're watching, Grassley, your ass is grassley and i'm the Honda Lawnmower. thank you.

Bump and his family, not Jared or Ivanka, take the bunny ferry to the bus in Moscow.

Putin: are you sure you want to take the bus?

Bump: yeah what's wrong with public transportation? my son works here. the bus ride gives me leisurely time to think.

needless to say the sight of the two leaders of the free world on a bus gives the normally-dead-inside passengers a jolt. it just looks weird. one of these passengers is Tiffany Bump. but no one takes out a camera. no bombs of any kind, photo or otherwise.

Bump has finished crafting his tweet for the evening:

i don't like people

Bump smiles.

Putin: would you like your in-flight snack? invokana. it goes down smooth with vodka soda.

Bump: Liver Aid and a little New York Cheddar nosh will be plenty, thanks.

the parties arrive at the Kremlin, all shiny with the sounds of Russian babies cooing and playing.

Bump: this place is a dump.


the beige cave is where we find the Men From The East and the hooded figure dancing up a storm while they hammer away with stone tools in a montage.

hooded figure: my fellow craftsmen, we have built with craftsman tools racing cars, cars, triplanes, and cars on top of triplanes. this cave has been our workshed. our sacred garage. along the way we have prayed for alternative sources of energy and we have been granted them because time is of no consequence within these walls. we are blessed with cross and fire. the blue flame tells us all if we stare longingly into it long enough. and hard enough. we find that the moment our eyelids get heavy and our pupils get droopy is when the visions come, dancing on top of the blue flame with twirling skirts of sparks. like Jedi holograms. we learned last night that we were looking at this all wrong. everyone has their version of reality. so it's not all one big circle. the totality of reality is really divided up into two circles, one smaller than the first one but of equal value. these two circles work in tandem to grind the universe. two completely different versions of the same show. we have the original circle in our possession. we must get to work on this smaller circle.

the Men From The East all ooh and audibly gasp, pointing at each other.

Men: did you get that vision? did you get that dream? cos i didn't. no? you? no? none of us? just the hooded figure? okay.

the hooded figure by herself plays the


the hooded figure: understanding wasn't built in a day. the road is long. i had a good sleep last night.