Wednesday, May 31, 2017


the insides of all rooms are blue. President Comey is directing the world's finest military with his feet in the oval white office. there are three joysticks but he only has two feet. his assistants are chiding him, telling him to use both feet but he feels like hot-dogging it and uses one.

Comey: send all the tanks, planes, and boats. empty the load, there's gonna be a fresh batch after i testify next week. my bro Mueller told me it was okay. y'know Bob and i go way back, we're congenital twins but i got all the tall genes.

in swerving the joysticks all the way to the right Comey breaks his large leg and has large pain.

Comey: (muted) fuck i ain't goin out like this. is he on the line?

assistant: Putin? always. you mean Bump?

Comey: hey buddy, gonna watch my show next week? what the heck are you drinking i can smell your breath over the phone in your response to me? i thought i'd call you to get some pointers, you're the reality king. what makeup do you use?

Bump: sparkle shimmer.

Comey: nice. okay. just wanted to touch marine bases. say hi to Joan for me.

and Comey hangs up on his shattered knee.

Comey: Joan was my ex-wife.............well, that's all i can do.


the insides of all rooms are blue. inside the residence of Ari, her family is sitting down for one last meal.

Ari: i've set the plates and i feel the bump.

her husband: let me get that for you.

Ari: too late. is spaghetti okay, gang?

the children are silent.

husband: always was.

Ari: it's missing something. cheese?

husband: pistum. purchased a shipment from that hip new barcade that opened up.

Mike Manley enters the house. although it seems in slow motion it's in real time. Mike lunges for the husband's head. the husband gets in between Mike and his wife. Mike punches the husband upside the head and he goes flying into the supper table.

husband: please, she's pregnant! i was protecting the baby.

Mike: i see.

the children are silent cos they've each eaten a scoop of spaghetti and it was so spicy it permanently sealed their mouths.

Ari: i have to go to the bathroom. a lot lately.

Ari shuts the bathroom door but the cats start scratching it.

Ari: i get it now. the cats don't recognize the act of going to the bathroom as private. they are baffled why you'd shield yourself from your loved ones doing this. they just see a family member in trouble and want to come in to help. or at least to see.

the cats nod to each other in agreement.

the cats: and while we're on the subject, contrary to popular belief, the smell of the cat litter is actually worse than the smell of the shit.

the husband puts a piece of Canadian bacon on his bruised eye and eats it.

husband: come to my garden with me.

Mike: no hard feelings, eh? what's your name, bro?

husband: i am but a simple farmer. and these are my peppers. my beautiful red peppers. this is what food needs. what life needs. these are my babies, my life's work, what i am most proud of.

the husband gets down and removes his farmer's mittens and sticks his nose in the blacktop soil. he inhales deeply and his eyes glaze over in ejaculative pleasure.


at the Vatican Bump is meeting for a third time with the Pope. Pope Joan.

Joan: so i was trying to forget you and i had it all set up. so this girl at Lush i knew was a witch in her off-hours. she was plump and tatted and had a fierce pride to her, i dug her. she goes for the sell-sell. she offers me a plain white bath ball but gussies it up by calling it Unicorn Bone.

Joan: that's horrible!

girl: sorry i mean Unicorn Horn.

Joan: that's worse!

girl: right, no animal testing. no fighting between any animals. um, it's called Snowcake.

Joan: i see, repurposing the insult so we can reclaim it again. brilliant. i'll take one. is the cute brown bag extra?

Joan: then my girl goes for the under-sell.

girl: these peach balls represent our anti-death penalty stance. 31 states still have the death penalty.

Joan: i mean i had to get one of those. you can't really refuse such a thing when it's offered to you in that way. and i thought about the death penalty all the while taking my bath. it was a stark washing. thinking about all those poor souls who are no longer with us and would never bath-bomb themselves. the prisons really can't allow any perfume. fellow humans who never had a chance at redemption or to prove their innocence. i thought about you as all that orange bathwater swirled down my drain.

Bump: heehee, cool. like a Tootsie Roll pop. the orange ones are always the best. or a creamsicle.

Joan: that has to be the stance of the Pope. i can't allow any death. from the born baby to the boogeyman, i have to save everyone everywhere, it's the only way to remain square. it's not political. or maybe everything is political. which is insufferable. everything should be religious.

Joan: and then my girl finishes with the over-sell.

girl: yeah, these big-ass balls are blue with purple and coruscating stripes and feel elegantly erotic, like your skin is being molested by mohair. and you'll smell afterbath of dank desire.

Joan: so yeah i got that one cos it was the biggest show.

Bump: feeling better?

Joan: i dunk my head and can feel the vibrations of the whole earth. it's a very vulnerable position to be in. the damn phone can ring while you're in there, with the latest robo-call telling you you owe millions to the IRS and they'll garnish your wages if they ever find any and you can't curse back at the lady cos she's an automated message. a Cardinal can come in at any time. usually telling me i'm late for Mass.

Bump: why is your nose red? you've been sneezing hard throughout this whole telling of this story. concussive, earth-shattering sneezes. have a covfefe.

Joan: what the fuck is a covfefe?

Bump: coffee and tea mixed together.

Joan: i wanted to turn my bathroom into my own private Lush store. i wanted to live the life of a pope! you know, rich and famous! i had altar tables set up all around my gaudy tub stacked upon stacked with soaps of every color and shape. it was a washing wonderland, bathing bonanza, clean Christmas!

Bump: why are you starting to cry?

Joan: i have a little black-and-white tv facing my tub, we removed a brick and slid it in. i see one morning that you signed a billion-dollar deal with the Saudis. for some reason that was the scariest thing you've ever done. the way it was presented in the early news, the tone, it wasn't like the other red-banners, there was something quite sinister about that act, like you were driving off in your limo after signing away a billion souls.

Bump: it'll be okay. weapons are just toys in the end.

Joan: (starts to cry openly) I'M CRYING COS I'M ALLERGIC TO THE BATH BALLS! i can't have beautiful things! i can't be beautiful! i can't embrace beauty!

Bump: aw, get the Gentlemen out here to ferry you away.

Joan: (crying and wiping) i don't know where they are! i haven't seen them. the worse part is i have to now take a regular shower to wash away this sickness.

Bump: oh yeah, it's Saturday. their day off. they need a day off to get off.


at the house Ari makes sure to set the right number of placemats for her spaghetti surprise.

the husband: this spaghetti is too fucking hot! don't placemats represent bourgeois society?

Ari: does it matter? is something missing?

husband: pholourie, got a shipment of this trendy tasty food from the new barcade down the street.

Mike storms into the house. everything, from the antiquated paintings to the Mickey Mouse phone to the table and furniture and rugs and sofas and rugs under sofas and rugs on top of sofas and food and drink and lamps and hatrack and coatrack and swirling stair-railing, is blue with no stars. Mike flies out of his blue-jacket cape looking like Superman as he delivers the punch to the husband's soft chin.

before you can see those ripplings, Ari stops the men dead in their tracks. she punches Mike under the chin with her one wrist and blocks the back of her husband's head with her other wrist.

Ari: not the head, i need my husband's mind.

Ari: i'm pregnant, you idiots! it's further along than you think.


Goody Paul: okay we're here with a naked man in a pink hat, pink bowtie, and pink boots. you, let's see the card, you paint with your penis, balls, and butt. why?

Pricasso: i guess i wasn't potty-trained properly or something. my arse is like a dried apricot i have too many commissions.

Goody: okay and i'm out. you are a pleasant fellow but i can't do this anymore.

Pricasso: but i am a true artist, the definition of a soul who branches out from the pack of billions and blazes an own path. i am an original.

Goody: i know, and that's why i quit. i can never be like you. i can never be like me.

Goody hugs Pricasso between the legs and something special is born.

Goody: okay, next. oh hello Andre Agassi. so you've been out of the spotlight for awhile. why return now?

Agassi: have you seen my wife? i did it so Djoker could complete the Slam. not the Grand Slam, the Slam of having all the former known players as coaches just for show. not being serious.

Goody: want to comment on the news of the day?

Agassi: um, that was sick. she was a good player but the Australian Open is dead. we better end this interview before...

Goody: Tiger Woods? *low-five* ma brother, how are you? turn around let me get a good look atcha.

Tiger: the ABCs should always be sung. if i were winning my 19th Major that mugshot would have been sought out and shot. people would have protected me.

Federer: hey buddy, how are you?

Tiger: security get Roger out of here i don't want to speak to him anymore!

Goody: security? i guess that's me now.


at the stage Dr. Greg Ghostell speaks for the first time in a long time his last time.

Greg: i discovered a way to predict the weather a year out. a year ago...


at the mountain Chris Cornell shares his peek with Jared Kushner.

Chris: money won't help you up here.

Kurt Cobain: nor luck. beauty is in the eye.

Chris shouts. Jared opens his mouth and his voice is heard for the first time:

Jared: BLACK BOLT....................

and his voice sends a devastating shockwave all over the world, crushing all of Canada, where everyone was swimming to.

Kurt: y'know i still think your line, Chris, is she lived like a mother...


the first fighter jet at the head of the oncoming joined army of all the platoons and pontoons in the world crosses its nose into the city limit and blows its nose. it fires. but it was merely inhaling. the silence is strong. the last ripples touch lightly the surfaces of all the resigned rain drops.

at the center of the town square the whirlpools converge to form a massive watery screen where is projected the NBA Finals thanks to a bored Zard. LeBron blocks the last lay-up attempt by KD which the Warriors were supposed to win. LeBron declares himself the greatest and Michael agrees, joining him on center court for a special trophyless ceremony. LeBron decides to run for President of the World with Jordan as his Vice President of the Universe. Michael doesn't run for anything. together they work to stamp out racism throughout the galaxy, so all browns, reds, and blues can live in harmony as long as there is breath in the blue.

the Earth is one big globe, one giant globule of whirling water, eternally eddying. most say it looks like a small quiet ball. from a further distance, however, it is said to take the shape of a teardrop.


the Zard is almost done, almost complete. he turns his magic staff off like a garden-hose wheel and sheaths the Sword of Saad for another time.

the Zard: you know why i am here? why every word i say is hung by everyone? it's because i can be seen. i think i'll take a jaunter over to the Sun and hop on that NASA probe. i want a Sun Sword! it's time for my vacation.


at Ari's house, the woman places a large bowl of pasta out in the center of her doilied desk. and calls her family over to eat.

the red Ferrari parked outside on the curb turns blue. as does the red dress Mike Manley is wearing.

from the studio Mike lays out his last report. in a blue dress and blue heels.

Mike: let's see if we can turn around that tape. remember, when you hear the roar, get indoors! Jackie Kennedy, signing off.

he races out the studio down the hill but you can only go so fast without a car. walking on heels.

Goody: hey, that was Jackie's favorite miniskirt! you sound just like her, man.

Ari: hot pasta. save the rest for me. i'm eating for two.

the little girl and two brothers and cats and Mike and the husband are all sitting equidistant to each other on the small square table. in the center the spaghetti bowl turns into a flame. they all stare at it and ignore each other. they roll a bag of rancid bleu cheese from hand to hand. the husband eats a stale piece of Jewish Rye bread. the red flame burns brightly against the blue backdrop of the world.


there's a ding at the door.

Ari opens up, Mike answers.

a man stands staring in a plumber's shirt too short to hide his asscrack with NO SUB FOR SUBBAN on the back. his asscrack is one big straight black line. he wears a Kevin Durant headband with a P that could be Pirates or Phillies or...

Phil: i'm Phil. are you the lady of the house? here for the breaker. how bout them Predators, huh? P.K. will surely bring Nashville together. N'Ville is alive again!

Phil gets low to the sub-ground to hear but to really show his asscrack. he tramples over some beets in the garden to get to the outside power-switch display.

Phil: yeah see there's a trick to this. you have to pinch with your fingers at the same time the 4th and the 13th breaker.

Phil: so getting ready for some posh nosh i see. Breizh. is that a cola or a beer? looks stolen. sweet-potato chips, love those on salad. huh. yeah. yep yep good stuff.

no one in the room speaks.

Ari's stomach glows. inside her stomach a little lady in a red dress begins to dance the flamenco.

baby: babies can never name themselves. well i will. i want to be called Martina, like the tennis player.

the power outage is over. all the lights come back on. the city dances in the dew of dawn.

the morning is unusually sunny. there is no Zard.

Monday, May 29, 2017


1. if you are on facebook, when was the last time you had to "unfriend" someone and why? unfriend is such a new unfriendly word. me. let me explain. facebook is the only platform i haven't tried yet. tho i kinda had to cos they kinda force you to sign up or you can't see the comments. so i have a profile that's perfectly blank. the first question they asked me is if i wanted to unfriend anyone. they explained the parameters of the unfriend: the rude racism, the flatearthers, the questioning of manhood, the servile slurs, the hair-raising harassment. i thought trolls were cute and had raised hair. the inability to know whether this person is serious or just blowing off steam. they fit the description of me so i unfriended myself. i got excited when i got a couple of female pokers but facebook explained to me that everyone online is male. y'know the CIA spies on you through facebook. they respond to you. or maybe they respond to you if you visit the CIA facebook page and leave a comment.

2. what are you addicted to? not being addicted to instagram. surely the stories will go on whether or not you use this or that platform. and whether or not they are over deadline. the stories will continue, somewhere. they write themselves, practically.

3. what are the first 3 things you do every morning? pump me some absinthe mouthwash, brush the last of the enamel off my teeth, and take a look at the cavernous pink wasteland that is my palate. it's really just a collection of holes now where the roots used to be. i will not have a mouth soon. it's like an alien ocarina in there. the winds flow freely caressing my tongue and forming sounds. i try not to think about it...

4. how lucky are you and why? not very. i just won the lottery. which necessitates me being a loner.

5. what is one thing you're embarrassed to admit you want to try? facebook

bonus: are you proud of what you are doing? no, but someone has to write these stories. dirty jobs, aye Mike Rowe?

take a moment out of your busy day today and think about why you are standing here.


Friday, May 26, 2017



* i always want to see fictional characters make it in real life, it blurs my two worlds together and justifies my existence. it's the Lucy Ricky Desi thing. here's to hoping Tom and Lalla stay married forever in an alternate universe.

* Lalla, what a name!

* Prime Computers? there's your problem right there.

* step into the '80s? don't mind if i do again.

* Tom Baker is EVERYONE's Doctor. i mean when you think of the general concept of Doctor Who, Tom's face pops up in your brain. the browncoat and the colorful scarf and the poofy hair. your brain is currently being controlled by Daleks...

* no one thinks of the other Doctors. i mean besides Eccleston. Tom was just ending as i was just beginning. his reign ended when i was 3. everyone in my generation's first exposure to sci-fi was Star Wars. mine was being captured by aliens.

* Romana: 17 seconds.
the Doctor: come on, it was longer than that.

* the Doctor: these computers that look like giant cassette decks are the latest in, uh, Earth technology. i'm sure they'll look different in the future........and i am from the future........i am future man.

* Romana: don't shush me, bitch!

* the Doctor: where's the goddamn TARDIS i gotta make a call!

* Romana: do you like it?
the Doctor: next time can we do it with clothes on? it's more civilized that way.

* the Doctor: i'd just like to say i appreciate the hat rack. i don't necessarily need to have a place to hang my hat, i don't really need to wear a hat, but all the same.

* the Doctor: i saw one of these beauts on Gallifrey. or well actually it was an Apple.

* Romana: it's terribly interactive.
the Doctor: not everything is sexual, Romana.
Romana: no, it can measure your scarf length.
the Doctor: that measurement doesn't count, i was in the shower!

* Romana: get yo hand out my face, bitch!

* the Doctor: books and ships, real Picard stuff.

* Romana: does it know how to handle a woman?
the Doctor: what?
Prime: marry the girl.
Lalla: i accept.
Tom: wait this isn't in the script.

* Aliens: the name, Doctor, of the Supreme Computer.
the Doctor: never!
Romana is tied up.
the Doctor: that is really hot but i still won't tell you!

* the Doctor: i use this magnificent machine to find medicine for my ailing two hearts. what will you use it for?
Aliens: porn.

* Romana: help! rubber Godzilla!

* the Doctor: i slapped my head so hard my hair uncurled.

* the Doctor: what do you want?!
Aliens: to buy one.
the Doctor: she's not for sale!


happy weekend. i bought a Lush store this afternoon. i've had the sniffles ever since, sneezing up all that unicorn-horn-glitter in those bath bombs and gold-nugget-piece soaps and caterpillar loofahs.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017


at the tequila bar the fifth waitress in a week is trying to handle her patrons and her patience. she manages to calm everybody down with her calming voice. she soothes with a song, an impromptu off-key version of "Something There" from Beauty and the Beast.

waitress: i even managed to add that little half-laugh quirk when i sang "no Prince Charming."

crowds: yeah but next time where the poofy yellow dress.

the bar is broken from the stormwater but there's nothing anybody can do. this is their sanctuary when times were okay. so this is their home away from home, cos many don't have a home to return to, or never had a home when it was sunny out. they had a house complete with a fitted SunSetter but not a home.

ironically the waitress is most genial when she's preparing glass upon glass of Angostura bitters.

crowd: we want something to drink!

waitress: you've come to the right place!

crowd: any coffee?

waitress: no sorry, Starbucks drowned.

crowd: you're genial. ow, too sour. don't add any more bitter. what's your name?

waitress: it says on the nameplate. Carolinny.

crowd: make it weaker, less strong.

waitress: ice?

crowd: it's the same strength only waterier. the last thing we need is more water. make it sweeter.

waitress: that's my middle name! we need warriors is what we need. they're sending Comey's Cavalry to help us! here are two packets of half-cane.

crowd: Comey? is he from New York, too? another bastard from New York! cancel the Coasts we say! let us hem ourselves in, the heartland hem.

waitress: insulate, cooperate, navigate.

crowd: well now it just tastes weird. it's like unnatural. its inherent amaroidal is pushing through this invasion of its privacy, no way it's gonna let some temperate toothsome get in the way of what it's always meant to be, disgusting dishwater.

waitress: hey! i paid a lot of money for this Dragonfly Chai. show some respect for the American worker. the reason you don't like it is cos you don't like to try new things. you've preconditioned your mind to reject it. so of course you spit it out. if i've learned one thing in life is that you should always swallow.

crowd: the fact that it's stored in those weird heavy lugubrious wide brown glass bottles with the thin spout glass so thick you can't see its contents that you think it stores experimental anti-syphilis powder from the 1920s makes it worse.

waitress: relax. there's nothing you can do anymore. there's nothing we can do. there never was. this was inevitable. all you can do is close your eyes and take a drink. it will seem like a sip but it's really a swig. think about your deepest desire. if you believe hard enough, if you truly believe, it will come true.

the crowd holds hands with their thoughts. the piano by the side which rusted shut begins playing "Saints". it only needed to be plugged in again. man those jazz pianos sure sound different when they're playing Mozart as opposed to Bach.

the bottle turns into a giant dragonfly which flies freakily around the mirror in the back of the bar and takes down all the streamers into its buzzer. it spits at the crowd.

waitress: relax, spit is just water. i knew that would work. collectivism is cool. it especially works when you got a crowd.

crowd of patrons: hey, why is my Spanish omelette blue? what's your name again?

*group crowd cough and sneeze*

crowds: we feel drowsy, like we could sleep forever...

waitress: Coysheena. gotta love Seuss. Seuss is soothing.


at the Vatican, Bump is getting ready for his audience with the Pope. she signalled to him that she liked him by putting up the American flag on the Holy See pole. in one of the many gilded mirrored halls Bump gets lost and is confronted by Special Counsel Robert Mueller.

Bump: *hands in pockets* gotta go, Bob, hot date. i respect you but you're a Wiccan. and you look like a witch. a female witch.

Mueller takes Bump by the hair and caresses Bump's face, hands, and oily feet. he takes the dollar bill from out of Bump's pocket and caresses his own pocketed face with it.

Mueller: Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. it's over, Mick. you slipped, Mickey. as they say in my tradecraft, you're dunzo. oh darling Mick it's over, i'm Mueller. everybody likes me. Mick my poor fool. baby i'm Mueller. i'm Mueller baby. the buck burning a hole in your pocket stops here. i pee on it to douse it. there's no escaping me. i am the wall you always wanted, the wall you can't penetrate. i'm Mueller and i love you and you're going down and i'm unimpeachable.

Bump: stop touching me it's weird. you're the first person in the world to ever creep me out. stop holding my hand we're not in grade school anymore! *fixes long tie* you ARE impeachable, Bob. i've got evidence. i've got tapes. i can fire you. in fact *points long finger* YOU'RE FIRED!!!

Mueller: this isn't a tv show.

Bump: yes it is.

Mueller: on what grounds?

Bump: for cause that's what. you colluded with the Russians.

Mueller: i'm sorry, baby, do you forgive me? make it go away, baby, and i'll make it up to you. i'll make it worth your while, like you'll get first dibs at the prison caf before general population streams in for lunch and some guy gets killed by a tray to the back. baby baby baby. this is a lover's spat, a pal quarrel. tis a budding bromance.

Bump: GUARDS!!!

three old-as-fuck gentlemen with kindly eyes and puffy pizza-filled lips approach and shake the Special Counsel's hand. they look as if they had never left the walls of the Vatican since toddlers.

Bump: no, where're the guards with the halberds and colorful yellow chessman skirts and weird hats that look like Swiss Miss braids?

Gentleman Guards: *in Italian* you made fun of soldiers and they went to Baby Jesus Hospital to cry. you call them pansies.

Mueller: okay, okay, i'll leave. but i leave you with a gift. i don't want sex, sex is the very definition of lying, i want the truth. here, take my balls.

the Special reaches into the front of his pants and pulls out two balls where his balls are, two bath balls.

Bump: no thanks.


while a man with a strange tan takes a vacation, the real President is busy fitting his dress blues on and ordering the first battalion of the Naval Fleet to attack the Zard. he tapes a fake beard onto his cleanshaven chin and kicks up his legs on the Oval Office desk and breaks down the far door with his feet in the process.

Comey: attack the South!

all ships around the world heed this call, not just America. do you know how frightening it is to receive a call from the President of the United States when you're an ensign sleeping in a makeshift mosquito-net hammock of banana leaves on the deck of a clunky wooden Philippines submarine woken up in the dead of night? especially since Comey tends to blow into the mic when he calls.

Philippines soldier cleanshaven with last name Pacquiao: i thought we were gonna destroy Venezuela in a surprise ambush.

Comey: no this is the world leader, not your puny leader we don't fund. your leader is lying to you. lies cost lives. equipment is not excess. lines of open communication are better than lines of open attack. preferable even. enough with the games, lives are at stake. i've always said, do nothing and institutions will crumble on their own. this is a global pandemic!

all the ships from all the Navies of the nations converge at the spot where the Zard is still doing his darndest to spray water on that poor house. what did Ari and her family ever do to deserve this divine retribution?

the sky is at that point where it's difficult to see but it is decidedly more blue than black. dark blue. the time always seems to like to get stuck on midnight.

the Navy of the Unification begin firing their torpedoes at the Zard.

Comey: SUPPRESSING FIRE!!! CONTEMPORANEOUS FIRE!!! why is the White House Phone still a landline?

Wolf: it's safer. can't get hacked by Apple.

Comey: and why is there a speed-dial button that says Washington-Moscow Hot Line?

CNN Camera Guy: the red phone is currently being used by Batman.

the Navy fills up all the little bogs acting as arms of the cajun swamp. they look like little hotdogs in boiling cold water. their sizzling firecrackers do nothing to the Zard of course. He doesn't feel them but their lights distract Him. they also distract all the coyotes on the hill and the coyotes become jealous.

the Zard stops for a miraculous moment and points His wand inward. He points the Sword of Saad into His mouth and blows......

the music created sounds like panpipes. the coyotes snarl. He plays another note. the coyotes howl.

the Zard picks up one of the submarines and rolls it, twirls it around on His two index fingers, which are just two lines. the sub is desperately firing all its load onto His face. the Zard puts the submarine into His mouth and blows. He smokes the sub like a cig. the submarine explodes in a blaze of yellows, reds, and glorious oranges and forms a ball of thick heavy black smoke which the Zard spits out.

the Zard slightly cocks His head back, nods His neck in approval, makes a "huh, tis good" look and continues with His waterbombing.

He picks up the rest of the submarines one by one and smokes them all till there are no more.

Mike from the top of the last mountain in the town city limit: looks like your pack is empty. the store's closed. you closed it. y'know you know we're fucked when the Devil is an addict.

the Zard: that's why the Devil is evil, cos he's an addict. but i'm not the Devil. the Devil's a good fiend of mine.

the Zard points his water wand at Mike on the mountaintop.

the Zard: you know the problem with you is, man? you should have never quit smoking.



at the Vatican, the flashbulbs are popping like an old Hollywood red carpet in the '40s. glamour with a u. the Pope makes her grand entrance in nothing but redbottoms. she sashays around her desk, which has no phone.

the Pope: okay, guys, i know i'm hot but i gotta take this meeting now. let's hurry this up, bud, i got my Wednesday general audience in like five minutes.

Bump: i'm thinking maybe not all the frenzied interest is for you? maybe some for the leader of the free world? the two of us strong personalities who butted heads before?

the Pope: you wish.

Bump: so what i'm staring at right now i'm thinking it's time for bathtime?

the Pope: is that a rubber duckie in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Bump: yes it's my rubber duckie.

the Pope: okay. let's go to the Papal Bath. no robes required.


the Pope: did you bring the bath balls? the fancy ones full of five different colors of essential oils? i'm really in the mood for some bath balls. i could get loose and do god knows what if i had my bath balls fizzing under my vulva.

Bump: damn you, Mueller!

in a separate room in the Vatican, Mueller looks at the camera, forms a fist and hits his balls hard. they clang cos he has metal balls. Mueller smiles.

the Pope: get in.......whoa whoa whoa! no, you're too big to squeeze in with me. this wasn't a sex thing. i get naked and take a bath so i can have some precious quiet free time to think and meditate. this bathwater is the perfect temperature for meditation. sometimes i do yoga when the Cardinals aren't watching. this was meant to be a meeting of the minds, a coming together, a commiseration, a reset after all the unfortunate things you said about me on the campaign trail. you were very unfair to me. i'm the Pope, im not used to being treated unfairly.

Bump: i can stand over the tub until i finish. let's see what dat mouth do.

the Pope: no you don't get it. tubbs. listen to the words of my mouth, dat what it do. you know why this bathwater is so special? it's the last remaining rainforest water on this planet.

Bump: where's your friend Hilary?

the Pope: no idea. she could be living in the bowels of the Vatican unseen for all i know, the point is did you read the environmental encyclical i sent you?

Bump: i don't know what that is.

Bump becomes frustrated and bodyslams the Pope.

the Pope: what the fuck, man. on the eve of the election? i'd call my guards but they're useless. you really need to control your temper.

Bump: YOU SAID THE TEMPERATURE WAS FINE! i already lost. sorry. i don't know what to do with myself when i don't get my way. i was expecting an accidental threesome like i read about in Marie Claire.

the Pope: you won't be surprised to learn i prefer the angel's threesome to the devil's threesome. luckily water is water. water is scarce now as you've no doubt been seeing in these recent events. one more thing, want to know my real name?

Bump: the sex is better when it's anonymous.

the Pope: i am Pope Joan. yes THE Pope Joan. the legend is real. i am her in the flesh. i got pretty good skin for being from the Middle Ages. the secret? bath balls.

Bump: i don't know what any of that is.

the Pope: i know, that's why i'm telling you. my secret is safe with you.


at Okefenokee the pale green sickly swamp waters rise to welcome their newest guest, a permanent death guest named Chris Cornell. the beautiful man waves his black curly locks around and rubs the crucifix around his neck. he is shirtless, wears shorts, and glorious. even in the night sky the sun shines black around his aura.

Cobain extends a grunge-sleeved arm to welcome him over that first lilypad. all the frogs dot the landscape with their loud ribbits.

Kurt: so sorry to hear. come walk with me. no not on the muddy banks, you can walk on water now. straight path through the swamp, that's one good thing.

Chris: never meant.

Kurt: these things happen. so quickly you never knew what you were doing. it's unfortunate that yours seems to be a one-day story. fucking social media. mine was more of a prolonged media event.

Chris: i thought i had conquered my demons. but it seems no matter how much adulting i did i was always that scared 12-year-old child who picked up a guitar in my uncle's basement and strummed to cover my tears till i fell asleep.

Kurt: it's a cloud you can never conquer. hovering like a real horcrux, not caring when the suicide comes just that it does. it's got all the time in the world to make it happen. demons. like snakes in the grass. you write about snakes a lot. but they don't live here anymore. they were cast out by songs. i know you've just come from the Superunknown and been through a lot but please don't use the word adulting. check your hand, the stone is gone and rolling into the calm waters. light this Roman candle, the swamp's got high banana leaves for a treeline going forward covering us. behold, the one wave!

Chris: just say hex, don't say horcrux. life isn't Harry Potter.

Kurt: sorry. something i've been reading since i got here. i missed out on so much.

a calm wave fans across the surface of the swampwater and rises high to meet Cornell's feet. only one wave. Kurt stays behind and waves.

Kurt: can drugs really cause you to kill yourself?

Chris: yes.

Kurt: sorry that wasn't worded properly. i've brought some rations for your journey. foodstuffs and some such.

Chris: bowls of blue jello? and a thousand spoons. what, no trail mix and thermos tea?

Kurt: no it's moss mud. only natural food for you from now on, from the veins of the roots of trees, of the groundsoil and earthen. no more drugs. of any kind.

Chris lets the early-morning breeze filter his hair and mustache hairs.

Kurt: you know you have one of those unique voices. it's a growl full of grit and grime and terrifying tremor. i could never achieve that, i sounded more like a frog most days. it's the perfect complement to the bald heaviness of your music. those licks crushed bones as they healed them. you guys were more metal than grunge, admit it. but you are part of our special family and i love you forever. you just happened to be from Seattle but you were meant to be from London.

Chris and Kurt hug and Chris smiles for the first time in a long time. all the frogs are blue. the green moss and brown mud are all blue.

Kurt: your voice has the power to change the world. let the wave carry you to the east lilypad. there, step off and yes this time get onto the muddy banks. climb to the highest peak, the mountain at the edge of town. there let the current swirl into your soul. it will come to you in a voice which will reverberate throughout the painted desert striations of the colorful canyon slabs of perfectly-smooth water-beaten rock. you will know what to do.


at the house the family is setting up and down for the last supper. Ari is in a mood. so is her husband.

Ari, unusually chipper: fam i've cooked us a grand ol' meal! we've got some taralli and some etouffee...


Ari: taralli crackers, toroidal. i love the torus. and our Taurus.

husband: where have you been hiding the etouffee?

Ari: in the oven. i was saving it for a special occasion. cooked right straight down Nawlins.

husband: and that occasion is our death.

Mike Manley opens his eyes. he is at the street corner he had spotted for so long. his breathing matches the same sound a pouring sheet of rain would make. he gradually gets up and walks around the area. he walks and walks and walks in the night trying to clear himself up.

Mike: just realized this is a cul-de-sac and i've been walking in circles. what else is new. this is Ari's street. i don't need to read the signs, i feel it. i'm gonna do it. i'm gonna do it if it's the last thing i do. what anyone does. i'm gonna march right up to her door and knock it. down. and i'm gonna run into the living room carpet and interrupt her dinner and take her by the skirt and twirl her over the chandelier, one of those big bombastic Hollywood hugs. i will declare in the South. i will tell Ari i love her. i'm wearing my blue jacket cos i need something to rip off my chest dramatically as i'll have to inevitably fight the husband with bare punches.

Mike makes it to the house, the one besieged by a neverending torrent of tears. he smoothly picks the lock and enters. he notices the two bushes by the sides of the door are now blue. he spies over the fence the husband's garden in the back is blue, too.


there's one more squirming little submarine struggling to stay above water in the swamp! it's Comey! he's driving the last sub of America. the last sub of the world.

Comey, soused but not the drunk definition: see this light, Zard? attached to the stern here? it's a searchlight. it's HUGE. it's YUGE. it's got slats to normally reduce the light. but i'm taking the slats off! i want you to get the brunt of the entire light. I WANT THE WORLD TO SEE YOUR COWARDICE.

the Zard: what is this cowardice? more like compliance, you of anyone would appreciate. you still don't get it. you are all so sadly mistaken.

the last bridge has given out. the highways and freeways and country toll roads are all flooded now, streams of trucks and semis and sedans floating ass-up on the one global river.

Comey turns the light with all his might towards the Zard's face. the Zard instantly disappears when the light is on him.


Chris Cornell ascends to the summit. he smells the clean early-morning air and plants a cornello pepper in the ground up there. he assumes the Jesus Christ pose and screams that Chris Cornell shouty yell of his as loud as he can into the last cloud in the sky.

the screen fades to blue.

Monday, May 22, 2017


they looked more like mini garlic breads. it was fun! i would cook more if i ever had the time...

picking out the choice heavy cuts from my butcher Roger Federer at the underground meat market some call a club, Roger says sorry but all have bone. taking them home on the ferry. placing them in a pouch of Shake 'N Bake powder. don't confuse the pork with the chicken powder! eating half the powder straight then mixing them in the bag, pretending you're shaking your Shake Weight. make sure to tie a bendy green string around the other end or it'll all spill out on your newly-waxed linoleum tile. cook for a long time over an open fire. not too long or you'll be left with triangular char. i'm not sure whether you let stand for five minutes, i think that's just the Rice-A-Roni chicken rice, before chewing on that tough meat. honestly mine was a little raw but i didn't notice. douse with virgin lemon juice before and after.........if you know what i mean...

1. the last time you had sex, was it urgent or essential? consider masturbation or sex with a partner. sex is urgent and essential for mental health, that's what my butcher tells me every time he invites me to his backroom barbecue.

2. what should you stop doing? why? watching the news. it's just too horrible.

3. what makes you feel strongest? sexiest? Shake Weight. for both. check out the Shake Weight commercial. old memes are gold memes.

4. when do you feel vulnerable? right now

5. what is missing from your sex life? sex

bonus: if you left your current lover, what would you miss the most? my sanity

feeling especially stressed today? i've got the potion for you. mix one part oil 'N vinegar with two parts Zesty Italian. Newman's Own, only Newman's Own. use as an elixir. it will calm you down, trust me. drink it or bathe in it. dip popsicles into the dressing, those pointy popsicles that are advertised on the box as being able to draw like crayons but don't actually leave a mark on paper, i've tried. what a scam. dot your eyes with the dipped popsicle points. probably more soothing if you close your eyes first.

a quick stem if you're out of bath balls. Lush and Taco Bell this Saturday i promise.


Friday, May 19, 2017


i know it's still controversial but Mike Tyson Mysteries is the greatest show on right now. it's 11 minutes of absurdity, catharsis, and Mike's infamous diction. it's T H I C C like Fox's u-bet chocolate syrup. for me it's a Sunday night-cap to cap off the stress of the week. no other fighter would do this, except many Conor McGregor, and i'm waiting for that cameo. as i've maintained, before this show is done, we simply NEED an episode which features ALL of the Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! characters, from Little Mac voiced by Justin Bieber to his trainer Doc Louis voiced by Denzel Washington as an Oscar consolation. a bike scene will be filmed on the streets of New York. and all the boxers from Glass Joe (Michael Cera), Don Flamenco (Antonio Banderas), Great Tiger (Aziz Ansari sporting a mustache), King Hippo (Ron Perlman), Bald Bull (Charles Barkley), Soda Popinski (Wladimir Klitschko), Super Macho Man (The Rock), and Mike Tyson played by Buster Douglas in his second tv role. and add a girl boxer in there, too, played by Holly Holm. just kidding, Ronda Rousey. catch up if you've missed it, two seasons and last week's episode. poor Deezy in that robe, when you have to be pointed out that you're depressed, you don't sense it on your own, that's when you're in deep. when you have to have your cat rescue you, that's when you know cats are better than people. when Mike's brother is Neil deGrasse Tyson, that's when you wonder why they didn't do this joke before. it's a sticky thicket out there, and the black hole hits you on the chin with a blind uppercut without warning. why is the chin the most vulnerable area? why isn't it the left pinkie toe?

harp therapy i discovered this week thanks to instagram. see, it's good. this isn't just spinning your string wheels for fun, these are special therapy harps which can bring dead people back to life. and the real-life miracle-workers are actual angels named Tami Briggs and Christina Tourin. get you and her and her in a room together and have a trio of tempo. let them teach you the basics to becoming a healer. you will seize your purpose and lighten up as you come a cloud, come on a cloud, come down on a cloud and sleep your worries away lullabied by those celestial tones. it's way more sexier than that guided meditation with that weird Australian dude who keeps talking about his damper.

always dreaming is what we should be always doing. creativity is another word for spirituality. don't drink or the horses will think you're stupid. what happened to Tara Lipinski and Johnny Weir? which horse will carry YOU tomorrow?


happy weekend. one more week...

Wednesday, May 17, 2017


the giant orange Sue Pac-Man ghost crashes into the barcade. the ghost flies around in a circle as all the razed pipes spew forth their last drip. the owner strokes his hipster half-beard and exclaims "fuck it".

barcadekeep: the world is ending. forget it. this is an amusement park now. this is a novelty! come one, come all, all the games are free, all the drinks are free!

James Comey wades through the rushing water in nothing but socks. he grabs the broken barcade door with one finger and fixes it in place using his thumbnail as a screwdriver.

Comey: this place is a ghost town. this'll drum up business in the final hour. here.

barcadekeep: what is it?

Comey: the new quarter. blank on both sides the way the Founding Fathers really wanted it.

barcadekeep: thank you sir but my machines, uh machine, won't run on those.

Comey: try it. slip one in as my Boy Scout Troop Master always used to order me.

the barcadekeep puts one in the slot. the arcade cabinet of the Ms. Pac-Man video game buzzes and lights and rocks back and forth.

barcadekeep: wow. it's hard to make someone as jaded as i am stroke his chin in wonderment.

Comey: see? i changed the federal money system. you're our alpha store. or beta shop. our first one. soon only this game will be playing. everything else in the world can't be bought or priced against gold or used with the old traditional quarters anymore. you'll make a million dollars in an hour.

the Sue ghost turns dark blue. the bags under her eyes turn light blue. and she explodes in a torrent of goo. most of it lands in the barcadekeep's mouth.

barcadekeep: tastes like metastasized cancer!

Comey: nah, blueberry.

Comey sticks out his tongue and wraps his large hands around the barcadekeep's shoulder. they both laugh for an hour.


Comey: ever since i can remember i always took notes. in fact the first note i ever took was this one i have crumpled up and keep sacred in my blue blazer backpocket here, here let me show you.

it says scribbled in crayon: I AM A MAN

as i grew and my legs grew i was writing notes on all of my experiences. my first kiss, i wrote on her forehead, she went with the school milkman after that. my first bad grade, i used my first graphite pencil to change the grade before mother could see it. my first graffiti, i wrote FUCK THE SYSTEM with my first bold pen on the kindergarten bathroom stall. i just always felt i needed to capture the moment permanently. i wasn't into cameras and such, just low-tech. i guess you could say i was the first lifecaster.

in school at my first spelling bee, i was the first person to use index cards to cheat. my teachers were so impressed they implemented index cards in their classrooms from then on. the whole index-card thing as a mnemonic device was my idea. as i matured and my love of the arts matured i got into fingerpaints. i broke into the Louvre with my spy skills. you know how they say the Mona Lisa is really the second draft and there's an underlying first draft in pencil under it made visible with blue light? i did that sketch. it was a nude version of the Mona Lisa called the Monna Vanna. i knew that witch as La Joconde anyway. only a trained eye can spot pornography.

spray paint was so crude. i was into large-scale events. stuff that makes society turn its head and do a double-take and go huh? and think about it afterwards. i did the whole Banksy phenomenon thing. that was me. but i pawned it off on my roommate when the cops came. the point was i kept my thumb on the scale at every turn. every bit of pop culture was made a memory cos i wrote it down and recorded it somewhere. on a piece of paper or piece of tape or a wall.

they ask me Jim, why do you memorialize everything? don't you look like a doofus when you go to dinner and have a pad in your hand and a green pencil in your ear? 

i tell 'em, well gosh shucks i'm a sucker for Memorial Day. i guess i'm just a patriot.


Comey: it was on today that i had a breakthrough. but it wasn't one till my associate from the bureau informed me of such. for me it's just another Wednesday going about my business being my usual self. i'm the top cop and have to train my agents better. how bad would it look if i got tripped up? especially with my long legs.

i was at headquarters in Los Angeles enjoying the bikinis strewn on the sand and beach drinks like water. see whether or not it was a punk show life is one big prank-show to me so i don't care. i raced back to the other headquarters in a green state called Virginia and cleared my office of all the pencils stuck in the holed ceiling. that's when my two top associates air-knocked on my door. by top i mean favorite.

Fox Mulder: Langley always has such nice weather at night. did you really get a dinner invite from President Bump?

Comey: yessireefox. it went something like this...

Dana Scully: whoa, double flashback. flashbackception.

Comey: it'll be cool like a Lost flashback...

Comey: yes. you rang, sir? not a bugged phone.

Bump: Jim. how's circus life going, Jim?

me: yes sir, Red Nose Day went well. they said i was funny.

Bump: come join me for Tony Roma's, Jim. it's a good man. for ribs.

me: Tony Roma's? that venison must be medieval tough by now. i haven't heard that name since the '80s. you are living in the '80s, sir.

Bump: come join me for a big-ass chocolate cake, Jim. i like you, Jim. men named Jim are good honest trustworthy loyal people.

so i went to partake of the cake. and my mouth was so dirty afterwards with crumbs. that cake was full of liquid smoke. i planted a file in the cake when Bump was distracted combing his hair with his big flat  salad fork.

Mulder: i love how you regard cake as dinner. a double-cut flat file?

Comey: oh no, a video-recording device. i was keeping a digital file on him.

Scully: well done, sir. what's our next move? do you want me to seduce him for you?

Comey: i would Agent Dana as that is an easy trap to set for him, but i'm afraid your red hair won't do. it's too late to wait till you grow out of this role and get older and go back to your blonde hair. we got the file in a vault in the bowels of Headquarters. either one, either coast. the vault is being protected by Doctor Who, the all-seeing space man. i'm sure we have nothing to worry about. all our duckfaces are in a row. crossed all the eyes and dotted the T cells.


at the prison, Goody Paul hangdogs his face while he plays an out-of-tune harmonica. the harmonica is fine but he plays the song out-of-tune. he wails to his witch wife Dammi and Roger Federer all three crammed in one of those open-bar cell square spaces literally right next to the police desk at police places. very Andy Griffith.

Goody: it all finally caught up with you, huh Roger?

Federer gives the finger.

Dammi: why the long face?

Goody: hey you the ugly one. oh, well i'm depressed now but moods are current, not permanent. there's always hope for the future as long as you survive. i'm still managing to drown myself in my work. got an interview right now i'm doing with a phone and a tape recorder.

Goody: hello? Maria? this call is monitored. so why aren't you playing the French Open? i thought your harmless drug suspension was lifted.

Sharapova: that was humiliating to lose to that mouthy French girl like that. and i hated that tall flasher in the crowd who kept lawnmowering the score in the melty Madrid mud. i can't show my face in Parisian public. still not over it. i hate when the bad guys win. there's something demoralizing about it, it's like this isn't how life should go, there should be justice in the world.

Goody: technically Bouchard is French-Canadian. don't shower her with any more La Ville Lumiere than she deserves. instead shed light. oh well, it's gonna be boring this year. Serena is a bringer of light delivering her much-needed child into this decimated world. that baby and Beyonce's baby will be our twin queens. Fed won't play, he's stewing at the moment. can i ask you guys jointly a query while i got you both on the line here?: is ANYBODY playing the French Open this year, haha?

Federer gives the finger.

Goody: as long as i'm in jail i've been quite introspective about myself and my place in the world and the skin world. but it's boring now, i want to leave. but i have faith. faith in a higher being who will deliver me from evil. with her black magic.

Dammi smirks.

Goody: *smiling showing his white teeth* i know that no matter what happens, my wife has my stabbed back and will make me disappear without a trace.

Federer: *sulking* we have the same masseuse? that guy stabbed my back when my face was towel-down with a salad fork and called it ancient acupuncture and ran away before i caught his face. cost me another chance to rub Nadal's face in the red dirt. the massive masseuse said he wanted to cause a points war. he said he wanted another Monica thing. i assumed he meant Lewinsky. he said he'd be back to finish the job with his pizza knife.

Dammi's smirk widens. she lifts a finger.

Goody: and i love her for it. my childhood dreams came true. why be a ninja when you can marry an escape artist?

Goody and Dammi slowly disappear into thin air. leaving Federer in the lurch alone in the humid wet jail cell.

Comey enters the station and opens the jail door without a key.

Comey: come on, Rog, you're done. it's all over. time for you to take the chair............................the chair-umpire chair.

on the floor of the cell is a metal file.

Federer gives the finger.


at the spelling-bee hall Ari swims back home with her little girl on her back. she is so exhausted she doesn't question anything. she sits down to the table and notices her husband dripping. but she's into dipping. beside her are three dips: fra diavolo, sunday gravy, and batter scraps. and old bae crab sauce. she swallows her food whole.

husband: it looks like a dog's dinner.

the cats: or a cat's.

Ari: you can talk?!

daughter: can we keep them, mommy!? *double hug*

Ari breaks into a laughing fit.

the cats: we're not cats. we're Flerken. this is Chewie. and i'm Bacca.

sons: Captain Marvel is hot!

husband: enough of those damn shows.

the husband takes a piece of raw white chopped ham and begins chewing. it's so tough it never melts in his mouth but keeps being a congealed ball of goo on his tongue. it turns into disgusting globules of fat and infects his toothcaps. he chokes for the first time.

Ari: drink some hot water, dear.

husband: how do you like your beans? fresh from my field.

Ari: far afield. Mexico. i like them refried.

the husband had been planning a platter but his wife altered their plans. he forms a line of refried beans on the plate and hurriedly cracks a raw egg into the pot. he barely has time to cook it, he fries it on one side only just singing it before he places it in his mouth. five minutes later, he's feeling that uncooked egg swishing in his stomach. he gags and retches as it comes back up his jelly pipe and is ready to barf all over the table but his throat only retches empty air. he chokes for the second time.

husband: i feel so sick.

Ari, from the toilet: you're sick? i'm sick. i feel like i'm going to die. my stomach is a cesspool. i'm shitting out little bits of red poo flakes which never stop dripping. but i'm strong, dammit. i'm a Proverbs 31 Woman and this, too, shall pass.

Ari drops.

the husband swims outside to gather some supplies. he reaches the tequila bar and picks off the chili lights. they turn into light-colored chilaquiles. he places a line of them on the other side of the rotten egg he's spit out on the plate.

husband, wearily: sunny side up.

Ari: oh, rancheros! i've always wanted to live on a ranch. this old house is done.

husband: no, they're huevos divorciados.


the husband was holding on to dear life by the bent curved telephone pole attached to their house as the ragewaters came in. his sons had pretended to be Super Grover and jumped out the window to fly. luckily the pane of glass had already been stolen but the boys were lost at this newly-formed sea.

the husband closes his eyes and lets go. he knows he has to swim to save his life. by saving his boys' life.

the husband, cupping one stroke-hand: boys! BOYS! where are you? i'd die for you!

JUST THEN he crosses swimming paths with Mike Manley. Mike is drenched but his face is pristine and dry.

Mike says not a word and motions that his strong hand has found something under the water.

Mike: they're at the bottom. drowning. what do you want me to do?

the two men stare each other down in the mist. Mike's arm muscles ripple. the veins on the right side of the husband's temple area ripple, he has a headache which splits.

husband: give me this. i need a win.

Mike quietly but forcibly nods and hands him his boys by the scruff of their necks. they are pale-blue-faced.

slowly and unintentionally-methodically the husband drags his clan to their broken hearth, so deliberately he walks on the water. the boys cough their discomfort, which is comforting.

eventually they reach a crossroads. the intersection now a swirling swimming pool. James Comey is there stretching out his limbs, his massive arms and legs, his upper torso and core a kind of thin trampoline target area skin, forming a human bridge for them to cross.

the husband shakes his head no. Comey silently nods and relents and lets go. man talk.

they reach the house in time for dinner as always. so does the wife and daughter. they wrote that into their vows, no matter what happens during the day, you may still be angry with each other, but make it in time for dinner.


Mike moves his little dial and turns on the radio as the gray sky begins to darken into a brown sky: WCPE here, next up: Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town...


Comey gets up on stage. the Congress. he walks by Bump still seated at the dais below and shakes the former President's hand.

Bump: hey there Jim. is there food at a federal investigation? do i have to make a speech? hey you know that chocolate cake we had? i was expecting soft but it was a little hard. chewy. crunchy. metallic.

Comey bends the mic all the way up his throat. and delivers his first real address.

Comey: my fellow Americans, it's alright. know that we righted the ship at the last moments. i've ordered the Navy to combat this storm. they're on their way, the latest in nuclear technology. as Acting President, i have a confession to make. i was the one who let Devin Nunes in...

Comey is distracted. for the first time in his life. Kurt Cobain comes up from behind and shakes his big hand.

Kurt: hey i know you! you're James Bond! you're my favorite! i read all your stories!

Comey takes the mic, shouts


and drops the mic.

Comey: sorry, i've never been cool before. i feel cool now.

Kurt: i'm sorry to hear you had a stroke. that's common for someone your age. and height. you have a good heart. and an old heart. at least your online operation will help others.

Comey: no, i...

Kurt: i don't play golf. i grew up in the Washington woods. trees. trees everywhere, never cut down to make a course.

Comey: no i was referring to my masturbation technique.

Kurt flicks his long yellow hair and flits his black glittered eyelashes.

Kurt: that's not cool, man. that was cool in the '90s but not anymore.

Comey takes Kurt by the shoulders and positions him front to get a good look at him and his plaid chest.

Comey: so how you doing, man? are you doing okay? my daughter loves your music. i like classical music. and carrot cake.

Kurt: yeah i'm okay. i decided not to kill myself at the last minute. had a drink instead. and some food. the next day i stopped endlessly pondering and decided to run for office. decided to become part of the system. not good for writing protest songs but at least i didn't have to ask for permission from bands to play their music at my rallies. the creativity kinda dried up as i became a robot but at least i looked good in a suit with my long hair. this decision killed my audience but at least it didn't kill me. i'm the President of the United States from the other timeline. didn't you read my story? it's in the fanfictions.

Comey stands in the background but is still in front.

Comey: after i'm done with this i'll go back to my office and check my files. i'm sure it's there.

Monday, May 15, 2017



1. if you and your significant other played Sexual Truth or Dare with other couples, would you rather watch your SO have sex with someone or would you prefer having sex with someone in front of your SO? whatever makes my lover happy, that's the point of love, right?


if a grand poombaess Diane Keaton with hair of old SAG-AFTRA sage and wrinkles of hard-won wisdom on that talented face of hers brilliantly asks for a kiss, you kiss Diane Keaton. even if it means the dissolution of your marriage. this is Diane Keaton. some things transcend love. Kevin Bacon understands this and has given up bacon. bucket lists have no sexual orientation. Diane has earned her freedom, she is skinny and can do anything she wants. she can fuck the audience, not even Meryl can do that. Diane is right about film love, it's so much sweeter cos it's fantasy. and love is a fantasy after all having to do with emotion, not a mortgage. Diane knows secrets about Woody not even Woody knows about himself...

2. would you rather watch your favorite porn with your sibling or read your favorite sexy erotica out loud to your parents? it's only fair to read to the people who taught me to read. read back to them to show them my appreciation.

3. to get sexually-aroused, would you rather watch girl-on-girl porn or guy-on-guy porn? i can't. i can't do girl-on-girl, i feel it's cheating. there is only one girl for me: Sasha Grey. but i can't watch Sasha Grey porn anymore after i saw her in The Girlfriend Experience. every time i see her now i just think of her performing that beautifully-crafted mysterious role in that great indie film...

4. would you rather have sex with your boss in an office conference room or masturbate at home knowing that your neighbor is watching? i'm my own i do both at the same time...

5. based on your current mood, would you rather try out new and kinky sex ideas or have romantic sex? that's the thing with mood, it's always current, it's never permanent. that's what instagram fails to understand. when you put MOOD over a picture of a cow grazing, that's how you feel AT THE MOMENT. the next moment you could be asking that brown cow how now? don't do anything crazy before you have a chance to switch moods. if the cow answers you back, it's time to switch milks.

bonus: would you rather have three kids and no money or no kids with three million dollars? life is about love, not money. what's the point of being rich if you're all alone? wealth is meant to be shared, that's not a political position. the only thing i want out of life is to be able to eat well. like one fast-food cheat day a week. if i eat well i'll sleep well. i want to have enough money to tell the cook i want the steak well-done. i don't want worms in my system. that goes for my computer, too. now your kids will resent you and hate you forever that they were always poor under you, but at least you had a family.


Friday, May 12, 2017



* cos we all need a little holiday spirit during Finals Week

* slow-motion snow only occurs in my nightmares.

* would you provide a home for a cute little robin if it meant giving up your PG Tips?

* faster than a speeding bullet. then again bumblebees shouldn't be able to fly.

* the key to wearing a sweater is to give the illusion that you're only wearing a sweater...

* not shown: the robin takes a break, fastens on some ice-skates, and carves up the lake at the Frost Fair.

* Wait Rose, the alternative name of The Bachelor.

* don't worry, the robin's natural fur acts as a coat against the rain. but that isn't rain...

* it's so easy to get lost in the fog...........the fog is so pretty........

* Bond. Beak Bond.

* robin: what are you, raccoons?
weasel: aliens who look like raccoons.
robin: that movie doesn't need any more publicity.
weasel: okay, we're mongooses who came out wrong.
robin: isn't it mongeese?
weasel: i'm Mary Poppins, y'all

* robin: is that a cloud or snow?
eagle swoops down.
robin: f*** you, man!
eagle: this was supposed to be my advert until you aced your audition. it was supposed to be how i finally taloned my Christmas dinner for my starving wife and kids who are buried in snow cos i can't keep a job.

* robin: my heart is racing right now after that. it's hard to tell from normal but it is.

* robin: f***ing lighthouse throwing me off-course with its blinding beams. even an animal with a small brain like mine understands irony.

* robin: and me without my goggles. my lobster friend and i are gonna have a laugh over this one day. i haven't spoken to my lobster friend in years...

* robin: i see a terrible creature in a black hood. surely this is Death.
Death: no, just human.
robin: same thing.

* robin: pull the blanket over me, jackass, i'm cold! what is this box i'm in?
fisherman: shoebox.
robin: next time get a skatebox.
fisherman: you skateboard?

* robin: *singing an original song* ain't got no time for school, only got time to eat...

* boy: i was penciling a poem about my robin called Ode to Bird. it won't be as good now that the robin is alive.

* boy's mother: honey, don't leave that lit candle by the frosted window. we need that candle to cook the bird..........not the robin, the turkey.

* robin: i'm not gonna mince words, this pie is disgusting.
girl robin: hello, handsome bloke.
robin: mind if i chat you up, bird? the irony is not lost on me.

* boy: i'm a boy in a skirt. love one another. love everyone. happy Christmas!


happy weekend. i got a PG Tip with my name on it. literally, i put my name on it in black ink to avoid it getting stolen by robins. and a vindaloo in the oven. the microwave oven......................WOW, THAT'S HOT EVEN FOR ME!

Wednesday, May 10, 2017


Dr. Ghostell is measuring himself. not like that, he's wondering what it will take for him to don the flight helmet, which looks awfully like a stahlhelm, and step inside the cockpit of the pink stealth bomber and choose his harder destiny.

Greg: i don't want to do this. but i must. i never anticipated this, but i must accept it.

James Comey: you don't have to. you've simply decided your life needs to be more exciting. that's on you, not fate.

Greg: JIM MOTHERFUCKING COMEY?!! what up, motherfucker. haven't seen you since our summer stint at space camp in Huntsville, Alabama together. when was that? sometime in the '80s i want to say cos i sharply remember that feeling when life was still good. well you certainly shot up like a beansprout. how does one grow to be a giant? a lot of milk?

Comey smiles for the first time in a while. but no one sees it.

Comey: a lot of peas. and peas milk.

Greg does a cartwheel and handstands and tries to high-five Comey with his foot but Comey's too tall for all that nonsense.

Greg: where'd you come from?

Comey: oh i'm always around lurking. i was the air-force guy you were talking to. i'm master of disguise, helps when you're in the FBI.

Greg: i'm a bit hesitant about all this. where's the cockpit to this thing?

Comey pushes Greg in.

Comey: invisible cockpit of course.

Greg: wow, i phased in. this is Next Generation stuff.

Comey: i never saw Star Wars, it was rated PG. easy controls.

Greg: how do you control this thing? it's like a mix of the inside of a 1978 Cylon raider and the inside of a TIE fighter. as you can tell, i'm a science nerd.

Comey: it pilots itself.

Greg: why is there a 12-month calendar nailed to the wall in here with a different picture of Edward Snowden in a speedo?

Comey: one speedo for every color of the rainbow.

Greg: i don't mind the company to be honest.

Comey: i figured this was the cheapeat way to travel. those noon LAX flights are highway robbery in broad daylight. i have to clear some things my desk.

Greg: how do you like your job? i'm finding my job a bit boring.

Comey: good news is this frees me up to pursue my real dream, the one my mother wanted me to pursue. i'm gonna go to a team that's still working. i'm gonna play ball with LeBron James!

Greg: oh, cool charity. yeah i do a spelling bee myself.

Comey: no for real. my tryout is in Washington. i'm gonna say all the right loyal things at my introductory press conference but then screw the Wizards when the Cavs offer me more money. it's my paltry attempt at a modicum of revenge. of course nothing will really change until the pumpkin is smashed.

Greg: fan of their early work but Billy seems lost now.

Comey: i'm sorry, i meant to say squashed. i'm losing myself, too. i'm so tall it hurts to walk.

Greg: you have that classic chiseled face and short black haircut of a G Man. i look like a dump. but things will change when i file this report.

Comey: yes your work is invaluable. without you there is no atom bomb. to quash the hurricane i mean.

Greg: incoming call. which button do i push?

Comey: any.

Greg: hello? Maria? my love why are you still working?

Maria: i'm not, i'm at the afterhours bar. how do you like my wisdom earrings?

Comey: *whispering in Greg's ear* just say they're lovely. the bomber can see everything. and hear everything.

Greg: you know you guys at Starbucks should be open 24/7. imagine all the money you'd rake in! imagine all the college towns bursting their windows from the steady rain of coins from all the students pulling all-nighters.

Maria: um, Greg, maybe Starbucks DOESN'T do that cos they have respect for their workers. maybe that's it. ever thought of that Greg honey?

Greg: no, i hadn't. i just get my coffee and think nary a second word. are we breaking up?

Maria: ...

Greg: we're breaking up, another call's coming in. hello?

Bump: go for President. i am so bored. this job sucks. now they have me sitting for hours in this hallway at my impeachment hearing. i mean at least get the air-conditioning humming. you guys want anything to eat? i'm thinking about a Starbucks run.

Comey pulls the intercom by its roots wires and grabs the stickshift, which is really an old-skool push-button school-announcements trigger microphone.

Comey: i was a career agent. i don't want a night job. sir, and i use that term loosely, let's pretend today never happened.

Bump: okay, once we get the time machine you guys are working on. you should have seen your face when you found out you were on Walk the Prank. Walt, good man, good man.

Comey: you didn't hear those things i called you, right?

Bump: no, you're tall. i can't hear a word you say. so how is circus life working out? how's Robin?

Comey: i don't need stilts.

Bump: see?

Comey: okay, i feel a little better.

Comey jumps out of the moving stealth bomber and pulls open his plane parachute.

Bump: is he gone? look this is all a big misunderstanding. no need for backstage reporting, i provide the wild speculation. Jimmy had to go. he was becoming a cloud over the administration. we were just talking about this the other day in the office. they were dubbing him Cloudy Comey or Comey the Cloud. that's them, not me, i like Jim.

Greg: is that why he gets to wear that cool cloud sticker on the side of his nazi helmet?

Bump: who the hell are you? new phone who dis? New York Times? anyway i did it all for Hilary. she's my mother you know. or we're related or something. i'm dating Huma. a guy in a Wiener Hot Dog suit jumped the fence and recommended her to me. she's not blonde but she's fitting in nicely with the pack. before i had only heard the silly name but it turns out Huma's hot! has that weird pepe frog-mouth that i like to play with.

a chorus arises in the background. a group of Members chanting in a mock.

Greg: it's time for Weather on the 8s!

Bump: shut up! i want to hear this!

Greg: sorry.

chorus: na na na na NA NA NA NA HEY EY YAY GOOD-BYE!!!

Bump: oh that's the signal the jury has reached a verdict! gotta go.

Maria: hello?

Greg: thanks for waiting.

Maria: i thought i hung up.

Greg: look. loving me was always gonna be hard. i was meant for the open the sky. the bottom line is, sweetheart, organic coffee. organic coffee, what's the point?

Maria: okay, Greg. well it was fun while it lasted.

Greg: wait the thing is telling me to make a hard left.

Maria: where are you?

the pink plane veers offcourse and tracks the former Director like a heat-seeking missile. Greg rolls down the window and speaks to Comey mid-air.

Comey: wow, these planes really are fast, huh.

Greg: nah, you seem to be floating in a perpetual circle.

Comey: well i am caught in the eye of a hurricane.

Greg: Jim, i told her off.

Comey: bad move. talk about chia seeds. they should put chia seeds in all their drinks to give it an extra hidden kick. i know about life. i accidentally invented chia seeds when i worked at the lab working on something else for the government. my lab partner eventually became my wife. we've been married with years and kids. hobbies. people have forgotten about hobbies. you should have invited her to ride.

Bump: chia seeds? that's a great alternative to my pcp powder. salt and cornicello pepper, love it!

Greg: Comey i'm starting to lose it, too.

Comey: it won't be long now. here, this should keep you up.

Greg: does it have chia seeds?

Comey: in a way. it's 1893 cola. we've been working on it for a long time.

Greg: OMG I LOVE 1893!

Comey: but here's the exciting part: it's two new flavors! black currant and citrus.

Greg tries to hug Comey but only manages to wrap his arms around Comey's shoe.

Greg: DAMMIT JIM i love you!


at the bar the survivors are trying to wait out the restless storm which shows no sign of comaing.

Mike: this storm needs to go down. as do i.

waitress: *Jenna Marbles face*

Mike: don't look so incredulous. wow, that's the first time i used the word incredulous in conversation. are you new here? new to me. go down means to go to sleep. turn around and let me gaze at your butt.

waitress: that's extra. are you willing to pay the Island rates?

Mike: what's with the Islands motif? are enchiladas tropical? last time i checked...

Goody: ...will be the last time. all life comes from islands. and this place is quickly turning into a real-life island. we're in a bad spell, an evil cycle where the water keeps coming.

Dammi: i'm a cycle tramp.

Goody: that's something different, honey. we're trapped in here for the immediate future.

Mike: the future is never immediate, that's the present. okay okay, let's change the subject. i need a distraction.

Maria: that bastard hung up on me! he sent a vague subtweet about chia seeds then immediately went dark.

Mike: sounds like you need a distraction, too. let's do guilt-free three. me first. my guilt-free three are...

Goody: ...Ari, Ari, and Jackie if she were still alive. you don't necro, right? i've been seeing a lot of baby_boy screen names on those boards recently. gotta take this.

Dammi: Robert Redford, Rose Quartz from Steven Universe, and myself. i don't want to fuck a clone of myself, i want to fuck myself.

Mike: you do that every time you cross the threshold and work at the station.

the radio hums in the background: you're listening to WCPE, North Carolina's only classical-music station. we rock Bach. quiet storm when the storm is loud. speaking of, by last-minute request, surprised you were able to get through, here's Bach's "Sleepers Wake". get out of and break your bed. dulcet tones. one more time before the end. kiss your dog for me tonight. this is for all the lovers out there. 

Goody: hey you sell bran muffins?

waitress: only Parkerhouse-style rolls and woven wheat. is Saffron Road closed, too? i need to feed my cats.

Goody: don't worry, they're good swimmers when they need to be. mine are any gangsta rapper from the '80s, any gender is fine.

barcade hipster: Bowie of course, Philip K. Dick, and Steven Universe.

Mike: we need trance music.

random grocery worker: cucumbers, eggplants, and Tieton cherries.

Mike: Ari was always into Utah Giants.

waitress: Carrie Fisher...

Goody: ...too soon, too necro...

waitress: ...Elvira, and Michael Fassbender but only if he break-dances in bed with me.

Mike: so you're saying there's a chance.

Maria: Anthony Edwards, Howard Schultz, and your mom. that's a compliment.

Maria loosens her high-heel and rips her nylon stocking to play footsie with Mike under the table.

Mike: oh no, i'm taken now. missed your shot. here's a shot glass. twirl. let's see the goods. let's see your butt.

Mike: bit of a pancake. sorry. it's not the butt i look for, it's the amount of space required to hold that phone. it's the phone that's the key to any relationship.

the waitress fans herself and raises her hand.

waitress: woo hoo, all this talk makin' me thirsty. who's up for some bulldog margaritas? who wants to go to Blue Lagoon in Iceland? oop, but we're missing one more bottle to invert and break the drink in.

Maria pulls an empty glass bottle of tequila from out of her vagina.

Mike: and sold. i'm taken but she doesn't know i'm alive. that damn husband always in the way. let's do this!

they slowly take each others' clothes off.

the back saloon doors burst open in a torrent of forced wetness. the bar fills up with flood in less than 3 seconds.


Greg on board the pink stealth bomber.

Greg: hello? Goody? how are you on this fine evening?

Goody: let's do a practice run. we'll tape this segment and show it in case you can't go live. so here's the weather map. what do you see?

Greg: a lot of red. and a big circle in the top-half portion of the country's lid. it's trying to squeeze out in the middle but there's red all along the coasts. hap.

Goody: looks like the country is trying to take a shit. but it can't. it needs more fiber.

Greg: okay. that's it? thanks. you're really going to show that?

Goody: it just went live.

Greg: okay. thank you. thank you for the opportunity. i thought that would be a different experience..........but okay. that was the first time we've worked together, huh?

Greg: hello? someone else is coming through? yes, Jim?

Comey: how did you like the orange can?

Greg: yeah. citrus, right?

Comey: has a grapefruit essence. i don't appreciate the O.J. comparison.

Greg: why do they call it grapefruit? couldn't they have come up with a better name? something better like Ruby fruit. it's not small or purple, it looks nothing like a grape.


Ari plunges into action. immediately upon opening her eyes, she swims through the house and busts up to the surface. she doesn't need to take a breath, she's racing too fast for the air to catch up. she runs on her own internal oxygen, saving her kid's life. she skips upon the surface of the water, skimming above the dripping rainclouds like a gerridae out of hell.

Ari: where the fuck is my little girl, she screams. but it's a silent scream to herself. her eyes have become razor-sharp and can see near and thin like contact-lense goggles, far and wide like built-in binoculars.

she circumnavigates the entire closed perimeter of the town, and some into the other town, breaking the barriers with her frantic love. love from above.

Ari: where would my baby go if she were lost?

she spots the spelling-bee venue on the right.

Ari: of course! she would better herself no matter what.

Ari glides around the corner and slides over the bend. with a sleek skin like a lizard person of ancient old she submerges and mutates until she freestyles the doors down with her webbed feet.

the little girl is standing on the dais, on the stage next to a strange man. she is dripping wet.

little girl: mommy you have webbed toes!

Ari: we all do.

little girl: you have webbed fingers!

Ari: just pruney. oh........and it appears like i unintentionally skinny-dipped. come here, baby. daughter, did you spell the word right?

little girl: mommy, what's a R-E-T-I-C-U-L-A-T-E  T-A-I-L-D-R-O-P-P-E-R?

Ari: uh........i don't know. let's go home.

little girl: played with one while i waited to keep spirits up. so cute.

the first outlier bands of the reformed hurricane are slowly topping over the hall.

little girl: mommy, what is B-A-N-D?

Ari: something only mommies put in little girls' tummies. stay away from bands. especially drummers.

little girl: i want to be my own V-A-G-R-A-N-T  D-A-R-T-E-R.

at the far right corner of the stage, a man sits motionless without a chair. he is a living breathing statue who doesn't move. his stare is blank and his eyes have glazed under. inside his mouth his tongue swirls in a circle as a steady stream of spit coats his teeth. like a visit to the dentist's but forever. he wears a sweater torn at the gut and his pants are soaking wet.

to the right of him lies a flyer's helmet on the stage floor. with a sticker of Pac-Man on the side.

the pink stealth bomber flies in the opposite direction. it turns a sick shade of puke orange. then bright orange. it turns into Sue, the only female ghost from Pac-Man.

the man is Dr. Greg Ghostell.