Wednesday, August 23, 2017


the man and the boy travel with the two-tailed horse. over ridge and natural barricade and some lutum-made barricades on a countryside increasingly heating up.

horse: i need not ride you the entire way, young one.

boy: but your leg.

horse: oh son, you have your whole life ahead of you. conserve your strength. i am older than your sun.

man: the Yellow Monster?

horse: sure. but it's not that scary once you get to know it. i know it's big, bigger than even i'm used to and i've done a lot of traveling. it's not the usual size is what i'm saying. but it's all science in the end.

man: i have much to learn here.

boy: what is science?

horse: love.

boy: you have traveled off this rock. we are of the stars?

horse: that's for me to know and you to find out.

man: must be. it couldn't be any other way.

horse: i'm afraid if i talk more you'll begin to lose interest on this rock you're on now. that would be a tragedy for this planet and the solar system. it's all a system i'm afraid. just know i'm not talking out of turn, hell naw i ain't going back to those dark ages.

boy: fair enough, noble healer. we trust your wisdom. y'know you're easy to talk to. no offense but i like you more than the wind. the wind never deigns to talk to us. he is either dumb or devious. by dumb i mean mute, not stupid.

horse: it's still offensive.


the man points raggedly up at the black sky as the gigantic sun takes a bite of the moon, showing off its massive teeth in the chomping process.

boy: did you see the Yellow Monster's teeth!!? they were massive! off-pointed and gnarly!

the two-tailed horse bleats.

horse: excuse me, i've never made that sound before. this is a shock even for me. aye, the teeth are made of rare brown-elephant tusks, glowing obscenely in the gauzy haze of light he's created for himself.

man: i didn't know we had a moon! i never saw it.

horse: not anymore. it was permanently obscured by the awesome power of Mr. Monster. now this planet is fucked without that gravitational pull. we got maybe four more days or so of spinning.

the Yellow Monster: FEED ME, SEA MONSTERS! i need to eat. i am always hungry. i must maintain my corona at a billion degrees!

horse: you're worried about your waistline? honey your hips are fine. leave us alone!

man: don't eat me, man!

the three scream and shout and holler and carry on and shriek and huddle together in an anxious circle.

horse: o how i hate the sound of a scream. it signals utter pain and helplessness. and i don't like to be without help. we must stick together. i don't like seeing that in living things, my stomachs ache.

the boy pricks up his spear and the man pricks up his ears waiting for the next message in trepidous anticipation.

the sun stands there motionless. or sits there as the case may be.

the boy: i don't know what's creepier, when he talks or when he doesn't talk.

horse: did you get a look at his beady eyes?

boy: he has no eyes!

horse: that's not good. i've seen this before. he's not spiritual, he has eyes but he keeps them closed. he's stubborn.


horse: not me.

boy: sea monsters? hey you know where there's a water source? that's the one thing that's been sorely lacking on this trip.

horse: sure, the waterfall down the road. never mentioned it before cos i thought it was too high for you one-tails.

boy: come on, man! this is no time for native ridiculousness. of course we can make the jump. hey, can you jump?

man: i c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c- i'm too frightened to move.

boy: at least don't be clumsy in your speech. fine i'll carry you. vamonos!

the Sun: LUNCHTIME! always noon. i'm feeling quite peckish today. as you can see from my prominences, i am quite prominent. if i don't get a nibble i'll coronal mass ejection!

the three tag each other and race heads-first into the drink. the long silvery slivery falls don't end for some time as the trio stumble over tree outcroppings and branch sticks.

horse: isn't nature wonderful? you must always appreciate the greenery while you can.

boy: or when. almost there. always be our barrel, mama.

horse: eh, flying is overrated. ah, polka. i remember the strains of my parents as a youth. polka has ALWAYS been old peoples' music.

man: but will i hear the music of the spheres again?

horse: o quit yer bellyaching and use your tummy to make a flop.

the three make a super saving splash in the verdant pool of the finish. the horse glides gracefully down on her controlling two tails. the boys crash hard.

boy: we'll be safe here. suns hate water, right?

man: has to.

horse: is this a bad time to bring up radiation?


at the Conor McGregor/ Floyd Mayweather weigh-in, tempers are flaring. but it's all for show. the crowd seems to be more raucous than the competitors. but it's Dana White who's egging them on.

Conor: no more eggs for you, Dana. hardboiled makes them too easy to eat. like pills. your stomach is starting to show.

Floyd: yeah, close your mouth, White! how uncivilized.

Conor: look who's talking, scientist.

Floyd: you called me a monkey.

Conor: no i said i was a monkey. you know with that walk i do where i swing my arms like they're jelly behind me.

Floyd: i ain't jelly. why do you do that?

Conor: it's my billionaire strut. i do it cos i'll be a billionaire after this fight.

Floyd: can never have too much money. it's the sour science believe me. hey how do i get into that UFC racket of yours?

Conor: should be simple now that Jon Jones went...apeshit...shit...sorry, it's just sad. i like drugs, too, but my drugs are steak 'n' eggs.

Dana: steak?

Conor: NO

Dana: i'm happy.

Floyd: why you looking at me like that?

Conor: this is the stare-down.

Floyd: why you talk funny?

Conor: that's just my accent. hey do you get butt blisters when you do sit-ups? they hurt like hell. i can't go to the bathroom.

Floyd: use the big pillow you use for your back when you read in bed. your butt won't be sore and you'll transfer the pain to your aching back.

Conor: hype. thanks, man.

an hour later, a call is placed to the home of Conor McGregor. Conor is lounging on his bearskin rug by the fire smoking a pipe and contemplating Camus. iron flakes blow off the log smoke of the fireplace into ash and land on his scruffy beard.

Floyd: hello? dude, why aren't you at the ring? the fight is now. Tiffany Bump is staring at me and it's making me uncomfortable.

Conor: *folding his book* oh i'm sorry, bro. were we supposed to actually fight? i thought it was all a promotion, i'll be over in two Scottish lamb shakes. i'm hailing a black cab now.

little did Conor know that the cabs in America were not black but black-and-white checkerboard on yellow. Conor wastes another hour playing chess on top of a car roof.

Conor: sorry, sorry. thought the city would be dark by now.

Floyd: it is dark. it's Vegas.

Conor ends up beating Floyd in the fight with a sneaky roundhouse kick to the teeth. Floyd suffers his first and only defeat but Conor suffers, too. all the boxing bombs landed on Conor's arms make them so flabby rendering them inert he can't even do his signature walk as a victory dance.

Conor: the chess focused my mind and the flanks flanked me. but I still lost! what's the point of gloves? just bareknuckle it, y'know?, there're no gloves on the street. never thought i'd be boxed in like this. keep your boxes, i want to be me. if i can't do my billionaire strut what's the point?!!

the two men weep profusely and hug each other with their boxing gloves still on in consolement in the middle of the ring.

at the weather channel the station is abuzz with no new recruits.

Goody Paul finally gets his own hour. he smiles for the camera.

Goody: and it's air you can wear. and...and...if it roars stay indoors! and...and...oh i've just been handed a paper here. the...Mpemba Effect? the hot freezes faster than the cold? okay, stop the presses, no, no, shit this. Mpemba? you totally just made that up right now. you making fun of me and my blackness? yeah i'm from Africa and your head is on my spear! oh okay you wanna see real steam? WHO'S THE MOTHERFUCKER THAT MESSED WITH MY COPY LIKE THIS!

wife: that would be me. *raises hand*

Goody: sorry, dear. where is everybody?

wife: all the interns are gone. everyone has left. the Eclipse is a sign. science is useless. it's the end of the world and people just want to hang out with their families.

Goody: can't. gotta work.

wife: how bout some sympathy for your woman? long suffering. i was so pumped for this. i wore a cool Eclipse T shirt with the 9 phases. just as i'm about to witness this once-in-a-lifetime event, without a telescope mind you, a damn cloud covers the eclipse area for exactly two minutes, the exact length of the damn thing! afterwards, once the eclipse is over, not a cloud in the sky of course. sigh, wasted marriage to a meteorologist. somebody didn't want me to see. now i'm in the 9 stages of grief.

Goody: well damn, ma'am! i'm sorry. forgive me. humblest apologies.

suddenly the lights go out.

Goody: blackout, very funny. it's the Eclipse, Eclipse prank, hardy har har har. i can't anymore. this miserable job is a black hole. i'm out this bitch.

wife: hey wait for me!

Goody: what do you want to eat for your anniversary?

wife: your butthole. but this event will never have an anniversary.

Goody: witch you crazy

at the Vatican there's an infestation. the Pope hangs on by her tippy-toes on the bar of the flying trapeze attached to the golden-domed roof of her palace bathing room over her giant gaudy luxurious bathtub of fake ivory. huge slimy fuzzy worms the size of sand seals have taken over the tile of the tub. pissed on their territory. and hers. they have no eyes and slither their gray cum all over their trails, spewing toxic chemicals all over her towels on the floor.

the Pope: eek! i can't stand these things anymore! these slugs have saturated the air with their thick puce puke. i have nightmares of these things. they come to me in the night and attack my pillow, sliding into the casing. they move deliberately like an army slowed by conscience. there's nowhere in my house i can rest! worst of all, they're killing my shower experience!

Justin Bieber: have you ever considered that those harsh-smelling soaps you get at LUSH are the problem? especially that gold-nugget one. it reeks of perfumed puffery.

the Pope: that's very bright of you.

Justin: btw i don't mind seeing you in all your glory. you are the Pope after all. i'm more mature now.

the Pope: clothes are the enemy. they divide us. yes the concept of nightmare snails with no shells niggles at my wiggle. baby snakes seething with sin. it's like they're the only animals who are able to survive such a noxious atmosphere. the soap smell beckons them to come, only their mephitic brand of beast, the only ones who withstand these fuming fumes on their skincrawling faces and atop their agonizing antennae. they sense it and dare show around this place. ugh! i'm getting rid of soap! i shall never be clean again! but that doesn't get rid of the problem. it's already too late. where's Kirsten?

Justin: on CNN.

Kirsten: hi, baby! i'm live right now on CNN! see me? *waves* you're so cute when you're naked.


Justin: our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. that was easy.

President Bump is with Putin at the crash of the navy submarines.

Bump: has the rum ration been lifted yet? that's the only regulation that matters.

Putin: concentrate on other matters, sir. do you want me to give the speech?

Bump: it's all yours.


Jules said...

The idea of the moon chomping into the sun appeals to me for some reason. Not the other way round. Now THAT'S an eclipse.

McGregor is compellingly insane. Is there a Phoenix bet on this fight?

Clothes are totally the enemy. We should all be naked but with our own moisturising, glittery balm bar from LUSH.

Nobody can save us. Maybe Bieber, I dunno. Save yourself. *)

the late phoenix said...

MAH DAHLIN IT'S A TRAGEDY!!! FROM NOW ON I have to finish my chapters on Thursday mornings. for some aggravatingly stupid reason blogspot won't let me finish it if the page gets too long. or if it's after midnight. the damn thing autosaves every second and won't let me type naughty controversial words. computer Gremlins up in this. i hate computers. machines have been the bane of my existence.

it's the moon's revenge for the sun thinking the moon is cheese. the moon thinks the sun is cheesy. nacho cheesy. ideas thought up during an Eclipse are the best, that's where Pac-Man came from. and the Zelda moon. and the Mighty Boosh moon.

Conor will somehow win cos i love his Irish accent.

i've turnt a bit on LUSH. the bath bombs are still rad but avoid those gold-nugget soaps with the overpowering scent. they literally corralled over family upon family of worms to my tub every night for months.

Bieber saved my soul. i'm his baby, he said so in his song to me. what i'm saying is Justin Bieber is my dad.

love ya *)