Friday, September 29, 2017



* plastic sunglasses

* JUMP SCARE in time for Halloween month

* the chair by the mirror is also a mirror...

* male model: allow me to...
Natalie Portman: PROVE IT!!!
male model: you kinda stepped on my line there.
Natalie Portman: my name is Natalie Portman.

* director: didn't your mother ever tell you not to jump off a bridge?
Natalie: i never had any friends. wouldn't you go crazy for love? do anything wild to grab it?
director: sure, but don't prove it the Black Swan way. insurance doesn't cover things in life which require living.
Natalie: i'm Padme tho.
director: exactly. you might be needed on an upcoming Star Wars set.
Natalie: JJ Abrams ruined Star Wars. Carrie is turning over in her grave.

* male model: when we divorce, you can keep the split-level glass mansion. i just want my line painting.

* director: is that number you're wearing the little lithe pink chiffon nightie or are you naked on the beach?
Natalie: nightie. my skin is just that perfect. it ebulliently blends into the landscape.

* male model: how does the Eiffel Tower look?, i can't see it.
Natalie: you handcuffed me to your back. this is not how kinky sex works.

* director: why are you screaming on a merry-go-round?
Natalie: i was doing my mouth exercises. the audience was not supposed to see that.

* Natalie: pink car, but not a Barbie.

* Natalie: we're at the back of the bus. it's symbolic.
boyfriend: your red skirt is mesmerizing.
Natalie: thank you. i'm breaking up with you. the symbolism was just about you.

* Natalie: come on, director, i'm orgasming right now, this you can film.

* Natalie: these aren't my real friends in the car.

* so it seems Miss Dior has done quite a bit of growing up since last we saw her in a long-form commercial. she takes more risks now, unlike her teenage years. she dates a man named Christian. never date a man named Christian.

* Natalie: we sand-carved the word LOCO on the shore. the tires are ruined.

* Natalie: and you, what would you do for love?
Phoenix: jump in a fire. i have the feeling i'd be okay.

* i am picturing Natalie Portman that last scene.

* when you forget about a song but it comes back into your life and you never realized then how powerful the vocals actually were

* director: is that pimple meant to be there?
Natalie: yes. i'm ready for my close-up.

* Natalie: let me explain something to you. my name is Natalie Portman. i am a once-in-a-generation beauty. you will never see a creature as gorgeous and intelligent as me in your lifetime.
director: aaaaaaaaaaaaaand cut


happy weekend, my babies. pray for Puerto Rico.

Wednesday, September 27, 2017


at the National Anthem, Jordin Sparks gets up to sing. she has Scripture written on her thumb. as she warbles her dulcet notes fade into disappearance. Jordin Sparks vanishes into thin air.


i knew it! what trash! tv is garbage these days. was it ever golden? it's all just conpiracy theories which are so well-crafted they become conspiracy theories of their own. this country has hemorrhaged its heart. and i couldn't care one wit. let it burn as i continue my insular learning in a cave. all i need are my cats and my books. that was instilled in me by the Men From the West.

all i need are my books and my cats it's true. i love my cats. they are two purple cats. lynxes which yawn and carry on and turn up for me to receive their bellies. perfect purring creatures. mysterious. silent. if they spoke it would ruin it. two furmale females. who often raise their left leg to lick it. let you love the way an illegal god intended i say. have at it, pussies!

the house is quiet at night. at least there's still that. thank the stars. the fence is all gone. it looks eerie at night. wide dark countryside with no protection. it's not much but it's my home. not Victorian or anything. but a crowstepped gable for bad luck. and the ledges are dangerous but noir sash weights holding up the windows. perfect reading weather.

i might lose this home. in which case it would turn into a house. that's why i have to work. i hate work. but i have to feed my cats. catfood ain't free just cos they're cats. my home is built on a floodplain. cos my thoughts are a flood. it's all uninsurable. but it's more than a loan for me, it's a lifetime guarantee. this is where i do my thinking. if i don't get that reverse mortgage i may have to dip into boring bulging law texts. universe forbid. not all reading was created equal. i wonder what i'd miss more, the gable or the hammock in the attic. i'm not tired but i have to go to sleep now, have to get up early tomorrow morning. that's another trick: go to bed early so you don't have to eat more. i'm still drinking five times a day. i have class bright and early at 7. i hate people. goodnight.

i dunno. i suppose i'll survive. but it's an adjustment. i just went for that old box of Irish oatmeal hiding itself at the back of the cupboard. there are some oats in the bag but it's not enough for a proper full batch. half-meals. that's cruel. i'm hungry.


being poor changes you. you never think it's gonna happen to you. well you don't think at all when you're young. young and dumb. i never thought i'd find myself in this position, writing about something immediate. i was always into those thimgs of the past, exciting adventures in bronze helmets and wispy clouds and dubious food, i could reach back into the past cos it was safe. i could land myself in an ancient Greek War on the Peloponnese and not fear getting speared. cos it was all in my head. waxing eloquently about times when wax was the in thing, used in everything from letter-writing to sexplay. now it's used in statues. now i have to worry about every calorie i intake, and this isn't the diet plan i had imagined for myself. i hadn't imagined ever being on a diet. diets are ludicrous. and i thought i was skinny before. now i write to document, not to be funning in fiction. about real concerns not imaginary ones of made-up characters. i write cos i don't need to be saved. i need desperately to be distracted.

damn workers. they're building a fence next door. well tearing down the old sawdust one creaking loudly to be put to sleep and erecting a brand new shiny one. one built of craven concrete. i can't sit back on my own sofa cos the windows look outside to the workers on their break eating lunch. a triangular pole with a hardhat on top sticks in my lawn. i'm more sensitive to noise now than ever. especially my stomach. i know now what it means to go hungry. when your stomach starts howling at 11, not satisfied with the fried egg you had for breakfast and yearning for an early lunch. and all you can do is quietly touch your tumtum with your hand and hope it rubs its ruins away. but the pangs remain. of guilt more than hunger. the body you once knew, that you filled up without a care, is gone and weary. your gut wants food so bad. and you can't give it to it.

all this fucking noise is gonna get me sick. excuse me while i close the windows. my cats won't be happy to have their perches removed. i should turn on the tv. the ultimate distraction. my stomach is starting to swirl again. there is one thing that's worse. the sameness. i used to watch tv for the ads. those quick 15 seconds of pour shots and juicy newest cheeseburgers. and taquerias which went best with Coke. strange breakfast sandwiches i willed my body to get up for at 7. rise for good ham. now this was the lost art of food. i can never afford these luxuries again. i have to eat the exact same thing every day for lunch. it's the sameness which gets to me. i'm an artist. every time at around 11 i'm a slave to my stomach. the two slices of bread which will only be made toast if the plug is positioned just right for the toaster's lighted numerals to work. sometimes i achieve that position, sometimes it takes yoga. two balls of asparagus, one dipped in artichoke brine, on top of the first bun. sprinkle of salt. on the other slice of bread a sliver of iceberg lettuce, wedge of orange tomato, dash of pepper. sailor's mustard and low-quality ham top it off. smush together like two big breasts. and some seeds from the Cura Annonae, that should satisfy my Ancient Roman lust. make my cat-ears perk up with culture. like i'm doing something right. mozzarella if there's any left. all served with a side of cucurbita. as each day passes i'm getting better at the pepper. i use the same dash motion and the same sprinkle pattern stains the meat everytime. the same thing. the same sandwich. each and every time. once all day.


President Bump is enjoying his new cooking show. his face melts under the hot lights:

Bump: let me just remove my crown and put on this chef's hat.

the white long chef hat is too big and sinks to the bottom of his eyes.

Bump: today on my cooking show, we do the best things. did you know there were once things called grain supplies back in the day? Codrus taught me that. now sadly they no longer exist. we sent them all to Puerto Rico and they got lost at sea on a boat. cruise ship. we have no more supplies. for anyone. including ourselves. but never fear, ladies and gentlemen, i have enough whole grain for this sandwich.

Bump: we are here at Milk Street. and i have the best milk betta believe dat. look i'm twirling the light-spotted fern here that signals out the nook window.

Bump: so this recipe calls for two main things. i got them here. let me wrestle them from their packages. Mighty Bananas! oh well you know how much i love sucking on bananas. good source of potassium and unresolved rage. and a Tireless Frog! tireless frog like me! this little buddy was killed for science. full of squirts and red guts and the inner turmoil of nature. mix the ingredients all up in a bowl, soften with milk, hey you got any milk on Milk Street?

witch behind the camera: fresh out.

Bump:........and mix with a wooden ladle. mash them up. toss into a wok here and do a little dance as the pot sings and simmers and spits up its sauces. look at me twirl! not easy for a fat guy. 15 minutes at 15 degrees Fahrenheit, always fahreinhet never that European garbage celsius, and voila! le masterpiece!

Bump:...okay so it doesn't look appetizing at all. it's a smelly green dish of clump that is thoroughly inedible. y'know my advisors keep telling me to escape my ivory tower. get outside, they tell me, meet real people. so let's step out of the studio and see if we can't sling some of this product to the poor or something.

Bump: here i am. on the streets.

LeBron James is returning from a pick-up. his one finger twirls a sweaty headband, his other finger twirls a bouncing basketball, and he twirls his tongue singing the Globetrotters anthem. his face gleams with the asphalt of the inner-city park.

Bump: hey whistling black man, don't stick me up. where'd you get that basketball? i'm looking for a ball, too. red one. let me know if any of you hood homies steal one. want a hand-out?

LeBron: you bum! i can't wait till they throw the bums out.

Bump: i don't get it, food is food. this is why my advisors become my benefactors. do you hear that, home audience? are you still with me? my phone's ringing. now if i can only get this infernal ipad to update to 11!

Bump: hello? Elton John? i love your songs. you're my favorite man.

Elton: that's Sir. not Siri but Sir. no you know what?, i'm not falling for this again. i've received too many prank calls in my lifetime. i don't trust humanity anymore. i'm done helping. goodbye. or rather, toodles.


Ashley Parker is dressed to the nines and 22 cents for a typical evening out on the New York town. she wears high socks like a green candy cane to her crotch. her shorts are velour and pink and shimmy to the rhythm of her hips. her skates are old and brown football leather and retain that red stop. untied laces. her beige shirt with the words in '70s rainbow vinyl HIP CHIX is punctured by her razorsharp nipples. she hides big breasts as most babes in the era did with deceptively flowy T shirts. she makes sure to hip-check everyone else skating, even the little kids. she blows a pink bubble and the rest of the time her purple-lipsticked mouth is sucking on a lolly. her choker is African. wanting so badly for her auburn hair to be blowed into an afro, it's too sensitive to the aridness inside the studio so she settles for sparkles in her hair.

she hasn't a care in the world. cos it's her break from news. she spins around the oval track doing her figure-8s on the basketball court surface as the disco ball up above streamers into multi colors. christmas lights all year. the place changes from black to white but maintains its blue hue. she bumps into the sides of the rink many times but she's not drunk. one of her bumps is Michael Buble.

Michael Buble: care to blow a Buble?

Mueller approaches from the side. he comes from the bowling alley waving around a bowling pin in his hand like a club. he slaps his palm with the pin up and left, up and left. he unbuttons one button of his silk shirt. he leans into Ashley's ear but misses and catches her lusciously lovely lips.

Mueller: how's the multiracial coalition going i planned?

Ashley: don't you mean suspected?

Mueller: so whaddaya say?

Ashley: i dunno. i'm taking a break. i shagged your best friend for years.

Mueller: you sure did! it was days but time is messed up in this universe as we near the end. i can be cool, too. i know my mouth is weird but my collar is popped open. here, meet your son.

a little kid creeps from behind Mueller's short legs.

Ashley: i have a kid? when did this happen! maybe it's better i don't remember.

Mueller: i don't want to trouble Comey's wife with the news. she'll faint and die. let's keep this on the hush-hush, we're both good at that. i'll raise the kid with you as my own.

Ashley: but he is my own.

little kid: hey you're the lady who bumped into me!

Ashley: *covering her mouth* i am so sorry. for so many things.


at the U.S. Open the fabulous confab summit is doing an autopsy. the legends all sit around a white circle table in the middle of Ashe Court, with an umbrella for the heat. and waters. they all wear white. cept Fed, who wears a black suit.

Federer: it just wasn't to be. Nadal and i will never meet on American soil. what do we care?, we're European cultivars.

Pat Cash: but you had it! did you choke? those two shots were layups.

Roger: no, it was the lights. they blinded me.

Pat Cash: whatever helps you sleep at night.

Cliff Drysdale: my South African boy had a nervous serving day. we're taking over!

Pat Cash: how's the love life?

Cliff: could ask you the same thing. you and your charge?

Pat: no, she's a tomboy. we're Coco & Cash.

Fed: sounds like a bad Miami detective agency.

Cliff: that joke can be said cos the hurricane swerved to the left. speaking of dank sex, i hear the black umpire and the white-woman umpire who winks are bumping uglies.


Friday, September 22, 2017



* modern love. don't question it or you're a grandpa.

* woman: hi.
man: you think i have big hands?
woman: i like your white shoes.
man: will we EVER get to that post-racial world i keep reading about online.
woman: sit next to me.
man: always the seat-filler, never the star.
woman: i like your stylus. it's nice and small.
man: *sigh*

man: i just wanted to draw a hopeful Reading Rainbow star-trail thing!

* woman: you paying for these drinks, right?
girl: i'm 12. i'm your niece. i look older but that's why you're my babysitter.

* man: watch the drawing on my crotch, you made me sensitive about that.
woman: i have a confession to make: i have extremely long rubbery arms that can squeeze the life out of your body when i hug you to death.
man: being loved is the greatest way to die. i'm kinky like that. you like being choked?
woman: no.

* man: whatcha doing?
woman: staring at the raindrops on a pane of New York cab window in a heavy, miles-away gaze like in every movie.
man: see whom i'm drawing to kiss?
woman: who's the other woman? are you cheating on me? good, i can go back to being infused and ponderous.

* woman: i think.................i look like Daniella Monet.
man: i look like.........................nevermind.

* woman: he let me shove him, that's the sign i was looking for.

* man: did you send it?
woman: this jungle music is distracting.

* man: who dis?
woman: that Paperclip mascot.

* man: i think i love you, too.
woman: that made my head snap back.
man: remember, i said i think, don't plan the wedding just yet.

* woman: the magical NYC streetlamps through the rain have shone light sparklets which have turned into the shape of little golden hearts. like in every movie.

* woman: has your Samsung exploded yet?
man: can't.................mention....................the name of the.................product

* i have the sudden urge to go out and buy Similac. no i'm not the father.


happy weekend, my babies. why does everyone in a youtube comments section feel the need to type what their phone is?...

Monday, September 18, 2017


anybody else miss Goren's scintillating psychiatrist sessions with his sultry shrink?

1. why would you go to a therapist?
a) you need support b) you want to take responsibility for your life's actions c) you need guidance and to be told what to do

North Korea made me.

2. thinking of the main male lover in your life, what is sex for him?:
a) stress relief, tension reliever b) a way to show love c) something exciting he likes to do

"all of the above," says Eric Wareheim.

3. do you feel a partner is invasive for wanting to know your plans and inner thoughts? the opposite. i hope the person working on me is Mr. Comey. only the FBI can rid the CIA from my head.

4. in your opinion, what is intimate sharing? drinking each other's fluids. oh sorry i read that as intricate survivalism.

5. would you enjoy a weekend by yourself, without the company of your partner? where would you go? what would you do? not sure enjoy is the right word. Disneyland without the lines. see here's the thing: you think it's gonna be a fun time going to Disneyland off-season when there's no lines on a Wednesday morning but you start to get paranoid the more lines you see. cos there's no one there. huge caverns filled with zigzagging rope-line meant to hold caravans of tour seasons and class field trips and Model UN brigades, empty. silent. nothing. the ropes sway in the light breeze. you try to see if Pluto is by the churros but he's not. "here, boy!" you cry out into the disquieting cloudless quiescence. you try to get in contact with Walt Disney but the sign says Walt only made house calls on phones. what's a phone? the rides are just not fun when it's just you and the noiseless animatronics. if you didn't have abandonment issues before, you will now.

bonus: would you buy an outfit that you love, knowing that your partner will hate it? then would you wear it as well? THIS IS NON-NEGOTIABLE!!! no matter what i wear, I NEED TO WEAR A GOLD CHAIN

gearing up for my three-day weekend


Friday, September 15, 2017



* Subaru is on fire lately. sizzling Subaru

* old man: if all else fails, the fishing rod will be my final sword.

* old woman: have fun.
old man: they can't fool me with a parka. that's not my wife. i didn't marry Nurse Ratched. i know that red light goes back to the mothership. i know that dreamcatcher is really a transmitter. joke's on them: i spiked her coffee with my coconut milk!

* old man: i can't believe they let me just walk out of the place!
he turns the knob on the radio and looks at the dashboard calendar.
old man: 1999? how long was i in here? that is cruel even for them! i get out just as music started to suck.

* old man: gonna catch me the big one! got its feather here on my dashboard as my guide.

* old woman: is the tracking device you planted holding up?
grandson: yep, he has no idea.
grandma: you taking the red Subaru? won't that color stick out in the crowd?
grandson: nah, nobody notices a Subaru.

* old man: get the hell outta the way, big truck! i can't see the damn Eclipse! this is my last chance! you're worse than that cloud that blocked Jim Cantore's view.

* old man: that reminds me, i need to stock up on my coconut milk. i'll just rest behind the wheel here for a bit, that always does the trick.

* grandson: i'm at the airport. this could be my chance to escape. my fiancee's waiting in Paris. nah, they'll just hunt me down. no use fighting it. i'll get another girlfriend.

* grandson: i can imagine we're drinking the same thing at the same time, that's how connected i am with him. i'm drinking my grandfather's coconut milk.
old man: i drink my own coconut milk.

the grandson plays his Zelda whistle.

* old man: HOW NOW BROWN COW
brown cow: you're hearing things.
old man: well it is foggy.

* old man: what are you doing here?! they had me followed?
grandson: calm down, i just want your cool car-side stickers, grandpa. i got boring flames.

* old man: how'd you track me?
grandson: it's not on your car, it's on your board.
old man: dammit i love the surf too much. more than any woman.
grandson: you told grandma you were going fishing?
old man: yeah, what gives?
grandson: nobody goes fishing anymore, that tipped us off.

* grandson: can i have your peace-symbol sticker?
old man: i always thought that was a Mercedes-Benz-symbol sticker.
grandson: you just forfeited your check by mentioning the competition.

* grandson: okay, grandpa, we had our fun in the sun.
old man: it's cloudy.
grandson: fun in the water, now it's time to go back. i came here to take you back.
grandson: come on, grandpa.
old man: NOT THE MACHINE!!! ANYTHING BUT THE MACHINE!!! look i'll make a deal with you.
grandson: does it involve stickers?
old man: i'll strike a deal with you. i promise i won't be Ernest Hemingway anymore. but i need to still be Santa.
grandson: no, grandpa, remember? the deal was no more kids.

* this episode brought to you by Dashboard Confessional
the old man turns on the radio.
old man: this Chris Carrabba character sounds like he enjoys drinking his own coconut milk.
grandson: and his own eggs.
Chris Carrabba: you laugh at me now, but when Gen Z become parents they'll sit their kids down at a Carrabba's Italian Grill and tell them that i was the only one doing actual pure punk music.



happy weekend, my babies. my Breath of the Wild walkthrough is almost over and that makes me sad. i need a break.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017


Mooch: does the audience want any poppers? i got veal Marengo.

Bump: there's something not quite right about veal. it's too mob gangsterish. not a good look for me, i'm almost halfway there.

Oprah: sir do you have a message for all those out there who are suffering and are at odds with themselves and their environment?

Bump: it's being handled. don't think how. think how come. my boss knows what's up. i should know, i was a boss once. we all must vanquish together. it's not about Republican or Democrat or Independent. we are all one party, the Party of Lincoln.

Anderson: i'm an independent Independent.

Bump: i'm a fair-minded person. leave the vanquished with something, Anderson always used to say on that sports-debate show on tv in the mornings. my message is simple: we all gon die.

Mooch: i know, sir, we all know this, but that's just not helpful coming from your position.

Bump: to whom it may concern: so whom should i choose, folks? let's hear the roar either way. tell you what, this is a grand occasion. and i can't choose believe me. i'll give it to the womanbitch who can successfully drink this Veuve Clicquot from this high-heel. my goblets are gams. hey Oprah i'm having such a great time on your show i want my exit to be grand. can we take a break? i need to change out of these clothes into something more comfortanble. suit slip. i need a wardrobe malfunction.

Oprah: uh, okay i guess. we'll be right back.

*audience clapping*

Oprah: and we're back. you seem to have come back out, Mickey, in a soldier's uniform. hardly cotton.

Bump: infirm maybe? uninformed?

Swan: that's the uniform of the Romanov Family.

Bump: Party of Lincoln. get on your knees, Mavis! that's it, chug up! you've never drunk anything like that in your life. but you've drunk. whom should i pick, people?

the mob swerves, sways, and stammers.

Bump: who should i choose, Nancy? who should i choose, Chuck? who should i choose, strange lady? who's that?

Oprah: it's Ted Cruz's stepmom.

Bump: take her away she ugly.

woman: *dragged away by cops* i know who shot JFK!..................

Bump: i'm having just the best festive time. i'm in such a great mood, you know what i'm gonna do to your loyal mom viewers? FREE VACATIONS FOR EVERYONE! we're all gojng to the U.S. Virgin Islands! i hear it's a paradise down there right now. blue and white. tropical but not too exotic. they probably won't let me in know..............i'm not a virgin. let's go everyone! vamanos!

Anderson: how do you feel? i have to get that in every segment.

on the plane instead of peanuts high-energy biscuits and plumpy'nut are served.

Bump: i hear the full-moon hikes are nice there.

Swan: that's Bryce Canyon.

Mooch: my cousin is buried there.

Bump: i tried to play Knock Knock Ginger on the cockpit door but the pilot's no fun. in-flight movie is boring. oh wait, who's that on tv?

the Pope: *Beats by Dre headphones* Carol Lee.

Bump: *dorky-looking headphones* she's fucking ravishing! rush her in for me when nobody's lookin', wouldya?

Pope: sure, i'll, uh, greet her at the door.

Bump: ALALALALALALALAL!!!.....................Greek war cry.


the first light the two boys see is the Statue of Liberty's torch, held by the hooded figure.

the boy: what is this? who are you?

hooded figure: get out of there, that's no place for life!

the man: *being lifted up* bless the stars! you are friendly. i can tell by your voice.

hooded figure: we even did that thing where we shook the elbows of each other's arms. we are true bros! what do you call this dirtball you live on?

the man and the boy: home.

hooded figure: Kepler according to our flying horse.

the horse is flung over.

boy: sweet ride you got there.

hooded figure: those old things? our pony car in space. you guys were burrowed deep within one of the newest grounds this place has, did you know that?

man: are you our guardian? our savior woman?

hooded figure: alright alright i can take a hint. man it's hot here! is your sun twice the size of our sun or something?

the hooded figure removes her hood and reveals her smile for the first time. she is Amelia Earhart.

Amelia: *smiling* okay let's get to it. you, too, you two! everyone hold hands in a circle and let's get to the ceremony. surprises are better sung. you really had no idea huh?

the Men From the East: we are Japanese if you please...

Amelia: you guys are always japing around. enough of that drivel, let's get to real music! cool it with the cozen, cousins.

man: please, ma'am, leave your hoodie off. you are so pretty.

Amelia: oh thanks sweet stuff but i sing better with it on.


boy: you have a lovely voice, miss. it bellows as if from a womb.

Amelia: and now, ladies and gentlemen, i am going down.

Amelia quickly falls asleep on her stomach under an elm.

slowly but surely the site of the burial ground crumbles and planes. up rises the impressive figure, the 20-foot woman pluming in grey and amber smoke. in a thin lacey gown of milk. barefoot, toes scratched with snakebites. her shoulders are narrow and pillowy and her forearms are unusually long. her hair blends with outer space. she has one eye that's a black hole and her other eye when she talks a tinny organ plays along. she wears a crown of stars.

Madchen: phew. ow. gesundheit. i would have liked to sleep more but whatever. it's all seeing back to me now. i was bare to birth and out borne a born. and now i have my bearings. i see the bear in the sky. this is the Beta Crucis. your astronomy is our art. this is the Caverne du Pont-d'Arc in another timeline, crucial to prevent war. gimme. gimme my sword.

horse: hungry eyes. right.

the horse lets go of her mouth and slobbers the Sword of Saad in her hand.

Madchen: this led you to me? you could have just called.

horse: lost it. and you are a number.

Madchen: Peggy!

Peggy: i hate when you call me that.

Madchen: Peggy Sue!

Peggy: fine.

Madchen: my what a glorious steed you've become! you're a veritable gray now!

Peggy: am i? i never got a chance to look at myself the entire trip. where's a mirror?

Peggy saddles up to the lake.

Peggy: you're right, i'm hot! this is why i never actually drink the water when i get led to it. you must preserve this natural resource, my lordess.

Madchen: you didn't notice the sandhill crane on your back, did you?

Peggy: *shooing* shut up!

Peggy flies on her one wing to Madchen's shoulder. on the back of Madchen's back grows one whale of a tattered wing of blood red. it cuts into her backbone and sprouts tiny feathers. Peggy melts into pure light and forms Madchen's other wing.

Madchen picks up a sleeping Amelia and eats her.

Madchen: not letting this one get away. she's one-of-a-kind. what say you, boys? how are you holding up?

Men From the East: ALAY! thank you for noticing us! *bows in unison*

Sun: hey hey hey! what's all this then?

Madchen: ugh great, you! you're already starting to dry out all the water from your mere presence.

Madchen takes the Sword of Saad and holds it longways to her lips. she blows on it and her ice breath scuttles off the blade and into the Sun's nose. the Sun turns into a monstrous snowball the size of a Super Dragon Ball.

Sun: da fuck?

the Sun's lips are chapped. his expression is forever frozen in a fuckface.

Madchen: who's up for a snowball fight? gotta get some circulation in these old creaky bones, they've been fossilized for a billion years. now then, time to work. you think you boys can build a civilization again on this spot?

Men: sure! we like to create our lands separate from what everybody else is doing.

the men from Japan finish the pyramid by sunsets. they enjoy sweet clams caught in the nets around their new structure.

boy: that's pretty. it's so big!

Men: it's the small version. but closer to our hearts. it's the ancient Mexican pyramid.

Madchen: and so...

the boy clutches Madchen's ankle and blushes. the man rubs Madchen's leg and blushes.

Madchen: which of you wants to leave this embarrassing situation? a mother knows.

the man: if you don't mind, if it's all the same to you and all our new friends gathered here, i'd like to stay. i feel i can help. there's so much to learn. my eyes have been opened against my will.

Madchen: and you, my child?

the boy nods and spits out his drink.

the man and the boy: yes.

Madchen winks at the boy. with her black-hole eye.

the boy is a star...........

CLICK HERE..........................................

..................he no feel. he know


the boy: I only falter if my eye stops dreaming of the moon as the sun beats it shut.

the man: leafing through the old legends again?

boy: we are the start. the beginning. it's from your writings in this green-leaf diary. there is no legend, yours is the first code. i shall pray upon this tonight as i slumber.

man: what are you doing with those? they're a waste of time. all we do is sleep. whch isn't necessarily a bad thing. it's an escape however painfully brief. how long do you think this candle will last?

boy: the torches should hold up. this cave isn't so much my home as my sanctuary.

man: do you wonder what the Sun is doing?

boy: probably being around longer than us.


boy: religious symbol?

man: SNIPER!!! a spot of light, zeroing in on your brow. did you hear that crackle?

boy: just as long as i don't hear a pop. the earth moving?

man: the earth settling. *snaps fingers*

boy: what is that? it's very artistic.

man: just made it up right now. my fingers slipped from sweat.

a giant tool burrows into the topsoil ground and enters the cave opening area, dripping with water and other fluids. a second beam of light hits the man in the forehead.

boy: you were saying?

man: my next chapter would have been on halos if i hadn't quit writing.


the Pope is at her mansion, blowing bubbles in her giant bathtub. she sneaks in a full head-down to take a look at the clarity of the water.

Kirsten Powers: don't drown, hun. how is it?

Pope: cloudy.


and Kirsten turns the big knob on the faucet.

Kirsten: doing my best She-Ra.

Pope: wait, i see something!

Kirsten: the pumps don't seem to be working. maybe if i drain it and fill it with milk your dunk will be more pleasurable.

out of the drain comes a beast of a woman. it's the Statue of Liberty. she dusts herself off and instantly becomes dry. she is a sight to behold! she makes the Pope cry.

Pope: you are so beautiful. my eyes have been jammed with a lot of stars in my time but your eyes!

Lady Liberty: thank you. amazon to amazon i bid you adieu.

Pope: wait. kiss me like it's the last time.

Kirsten: *glum* go on then.

Lady: what?

Kirsten: show us the goods. lift that iconic dress of yours. let's see what Murica is working with.

the Lady obliges as ladies do.


Lady: i'm French.

the Pope kisses the Lady passionately and all of the huge worms disappear forever. replaced with a different bigness.

Pope: what were you thinking just then?

Lady: i bid you howdy.

Lady Liberty violently removes one of the thorns on her crown. she brandishes them in front of the family of worms. they cower, which is distinct from their usual sliding up and down. more shakey. Lady bends the light in the arena to show them the way.

Lady: i light the path. you must choose to move.

the family of worms unlock from their group hug and slowly but surely crawl up under the Statue's dress.

Kirsten: so that's why your legs are hairy. for protection.

Lady: welcome, immigrants. do you still love me after seeing what i do?

Pope: more so. you're a dirty smuggler. that's sexy.

Kirsten: hey, where's your torch?

at the beach, it's nearing the end.

Dr. Erika: why are you with me, Paul?

Goody Paul: cos i love you. and you're the only one left.

Erika: you know i'm a witch.

Goody: i planned for it like i plan for a hurricane. plenty of batteries.

the couple squeeze their hands together so tight their fingers merge.

Irma batters the coast with winds so strong Dorothy is seen in the new tornadoes which touch down.

Goody makes one last plea with his look.

Erika: no, Paul, no more ladies. no foursome.

Goody: it's just everyone brags about a threesome......................where is Spaghetti anyway?

Erika: too small for him.

Erika collects a few things in her picnic basket: blankets, a bank, and the ham sandwiches. the first ham sandwich she made him and the first ham sandwich he made her. they kiss and await the swirl.

first come the waterspouts. then the concave half of the eastern eyewall. the seawall breaches as does all the satellite-tv satellites which bridge the Keys together. the duo are swept up into the eye and are afforded a moment of respite before their dams break.

Erika: dammit i love you, Paul.

Paul: dammit, Erika.

Erika: kiss me like it's the first time.


Erika: Paul, you know this is the end, right?

Paul: it's bad. but it's also overhyped. we'll get through it. trust me, i'm in the business.

Erika: this isn't a hurricane. it's the end of the world.

Paul: then pass the End Endo.

the two spin around, around, around, forever, but they never stop holding their hands, clutching to the only human thing in a natural world cold and unforgiving. Erika maintains her tv smile and Paul checks the scores on his watch. only weather updates now. there's another hurricane hot on the tail of Irma. Jose, appropriate. but then there's another hurricane after Jose, a tropical system begging to be noticed.

Paul: wish i could have named the little bugger.

and after that, rainshowers are beginning to glide and elide in Africa.

Brian Williams: what began as the twinkle of God's eye, a cozy rainfall slighting its way over the brown terrain, over amber hills and monkey's paws, falling like glaze on African leaves, softly saturating the gardens and landing on lands, cold coats and heat relief, has now become the most violent system of all mankind. and it is our making.

Erika: there's another storm coming. and another one after that. look! it's a line, a string, a gallery of circles one after the other, now and then there's some space but mostly it's a continuation of histrionic hurricane havoc. the National Weather Service has run out of names for this endless destruction.

President Bump is on Oprah. first on a live feed.

Oprah: what are you doing, man? give me something. i unretired for this?

Bump chases down a half-jacked half pickup the stool on which drives an incapacitated man of one shaded eyeglass and quarter-mullet just trying to get his machines and medicines and pipes and provisional poles. stymied by both the law and larceny and luck. Bump dons the Gaming Warden beige safari hat and extends his hand to stop the man in his tracks, shoving his head back at him.

Bump: STOP, STOOGE!!! turn around! no one gets in to where i am!

man: but...*through his tickled moustache*

Bump: YOU, NO. *brandishes gun* did you vote for me? will you vote for me again?

man: i got my hands up! yes, i swear! this is Florida, man! i'm white and conch!

Bump: oh well good. those pesky exploratory committees aren't cheap you know. you saved me the hassle.

man: can i get my goods and services?

Bump: no bueno. *smiles*

Oprah: heehee, get in here you old goat! now that's good tv. how are you, old friend?

Bump: Oprah *kiss* you look like a goddess. let's dance. let me get a good look at you, just one twirl around and i'm already bored. you had the chance to be my Omarosa you know. you can let go of both my arms now.

Oprah: they need supplies, Mr. Resident President. they need generators.

Bump: i will be the greatest generator smoke of jobs ever. greater than Lincoln and he had a much easier time of it, there were fewer people in the country cos they were all getting killed off in the war. that's a civil way to go.

Oprah: they need gas.

Jonathan Swan: and that's when it happened, the leader of the free world bent my ear. me, lowly reporter me, and it went from there.

Brian Williams: go on.

Bump: you're from that Axios shit. i hate you guys. i got an ax to grind on your website. Swine, debut the dish!

Mooch: and here we have my piece de la resistance, a pumpkin-coconut custard.

Bump: get outta here.

Swan: he thought my name was Swine. i think that's why he let me stay.

Brian Williams: so take me and our viewers back to that fateful day when Bump fired Comey.

Swan: he had just spit on his four-iron. he was getting ready to smash his gob with a large platter of a large pig so roasted it had turned into a pig-shaped serving of chicharrones. instead of an apple a red handball was painfully stuffed in its mouth. and there were pieces of chocolate cake on sticks to the side.

Brian: wait do we really need to know this? don't go too far back.

Bump: i got all the gas you need. *whispering to Swan* hey kid, does KFC serve tacos? my constituencies are confusing.

Swan: i swear the guy never stopped talking. to me. finally we settled on me having my exit line be, "just pick up some Crisp Tacos-flavored Lays chips on your way out" and i took my leave. the President thought i had a stupid jokey face but i told him i was Australian.

Wolf: Anderson. Anderson. Amderson. Anderson. Anderson.

Anderson: what? shut up.

Wolf: now's your big chance. now's your big break.

Anderson: fine.

Mooch: rissole...

Bump: too Italian. EYE-talian. not quite white.

Bump: before we begin, let me show your audience some B-roll of what i did on the Lincoln Memorial on Lincoln's birthday.

the audience laughs and claps.

Bump: heehee, see that. washed. sparkling white. so i have a big decision to make. one rose and two ladies. do i go with Ms. Mavis L. Wanczyk, i mean we're talking $759 million here. or do i go with my dream girl, my secret crush, Katy Tur. Katy Tur would be nothing without me you know.

Anderson: ladies, step forward from the crowd. thank you. before we begin let the audience here and at home in on the letter you wrote to Mr. Bump just this morning when you were planning not to show up here.

Katy: attendance was mandatory. really disappointing to see Mueller knocking on my shower door while i was taking a bath.

Anderson: the letter reads:

         I cannot go with you or ever want to see you again. you have tried to ask why but I blocked you on twitter. just believe that I will never love you. go, my dear, frankly go, and Satan bless you,

Katy (without the e)

Monday, September 11, 2017


1. what is your reality? doesn't exist
2. will you have sex today? this week? probably never
3. what did you hate doing this past weekend? cleaning out my garage. no that isn't code for anything, i really had to do it. twenty years of clutter. boxes full of books of long-forgotten lore. shelves filled with priceless plastic china. stacks upon stacks of old dirty clothes and pristine never-before-used cookware collecting dust so to capacity the mites left. and they are mighty. i need so many large black bags it's like a crime scene. the collectors accidentally took my large white Macy's bags when i dropped them off. there's some societal metaphor buried in there somewhere.
4. what did you love doing this past weekend? clearing out my garage. the basement needed it. it's gonna take nine more passes but at least i can swim in it now. don't worry the dungeon wasn't damaged. it's good to work up a good sweat every once in awhile.
5. what new technology have you found most helpful in your life? which do you find to be the most annoying? the Internet has destroyed the world.

1. you are gonna make a sexy weekend with your lover, which one are you most likely to enjoy? which of the activities is most likely to happen? a) cook dinner together b) play a sexy game c) take a bath together. i love to cook. i think. i never have the time but i'd gladly do it. the only dirty game i know is pinochle obviously. i don't do bath bombs anymore. that sparkling Lush 'Niner golden-nugget hunk of soap was so harsh it attracted giant slimy worms into my small bathroom. still waiting on my first rainfall showerhead...
2. will you watch porn this weekend? alone or with someone? it's the same feeling with or without someone. shame. i make my own porn...
3. sexy games---pick one you'd like to play. why?
a) naked twister or
b) strip trivial pursuit
the thing is, whenever i answer a hard question right my penis goes flaccid cos i'm using all the blood for my brain
4. Friday night you hit happy hour, you meet a super sexy man/woman and the two of you chat and laugh the night away. she/he leans into you and says "you're irresisitible, can i touch your pussy/cock?" what is your answer?
catch: it's a Tinder date. second catch: you are a robot.
5. what do you really have planned for this weekend? Tim & Eric's Bedtime Stories and dancing to the new Sunday Night Football intro. i wore that flowing red dress way better than Carrie.
6. does this TMI on a Friday have you changing your weekend plans? BRING BACK TGIF!!!

bonus: what do you like to do on the weekend but never seem to get the chance? watching Monster in a Box.......................don't bother, i already checked, it's not on Netflix................anymore...


Friday, September 8, 2017



* Subaru, the all-American company

* man: you said you were gonna be wearing nothing. the red parka's cute tho.

* man: oh i thought you said you were butch and i got you out of it.
woman: i was never a lesbian, i've just always liked Subarus.

* man: what breed is Butch?
woman: careful, it's easy to call him Bitch. he's a guy, he hates that.

* woman: i think you two are gonna be best friends.
Butch: we dogs used to eat our best friends when we were still wolves. showed dominance.

* Butch: i got bigger and bluer balls than you, dude.

* woman: now that's a well-trained dog. thank you to all the Hollywood people.

* man: they're playing our song, Butch! what's his favorite music?
Butch: anything by Butch Vig.
man plays Smashing Pumpkins.
Butch: it's okay but the reunion ain't complete without D'arcy on that sweet blue bass.

* man: i like cats better.
Butch: this is like that Garfield strip where Jon tries to go on a date...

* man: you sleep with Butch? lucky.
woman: for me or the dog?
man: our dogs slept outside.
woman: and where are they now?
man: brushing their teeth.

* man: accidental hotel?
woman: Occidental. means Western.
man: so they're no showers?

* man: honey is it your time of the month?
woman: how insensitive! we're breaking up!
man: no, your time to get the mouthwash. we can't just keep using the free whiskey mini-flasks.

* man: honey! my toothbrush has hairs!
woman: they're obviously yours. i have straight hair, you have curly hair...
man: but we both have pubes.

* man: you have a nice ass.............i think............i can't see it.

* Butch: i invented doggystyle, dude.

* man: hey Butch, what's the five-day forecast?
woman: too soon.

* man: i haven't slept on the floor since i was in third grade.
woman: what happened in fourth grade?
man: dad got a new mom and the whole family got waterbeds.

* man: Butch is like an old soul that just hates my guts.
woman: God hates us you know. God hates his creation of Man.

* man: can i keep the red parka?

* woman: the only thing God sorta liked was his creation of dogs.
man: we're breaking up.

* woman: *narrating* you can never have too many Facebook followers...

* narrator: love is out there. find it. you wanna go out?
woman: i don't need a narrator. i can narrate on my own.


happy weekend, my babies. oh and GET THE FUCK OUTTA DODGE!!!

Wednesday, September 6, 2017


Lady Liberty: i just hope everyone is okay.

Kim: get down! it's the end of the world!

Lady Liberty: what?

Kim continues holding the Statue's hand.

Kim tries to stop drop and cover but forgets he's in water and screws up the dive and loses his breath.

Kim: sorry, it was the only film i was allowed to see as a kid. Bert the Turtle was my imaginary pet.

Kim: look!

the eye of Hurricane Irma floats over Kim's head.

Kim: isn't she lovely? her bands are my favorite bands. she must be a hurricane in bed, swirling like that all the time. she's winking at me!

Lady Liberty: Kim don't do anything rash.

Kim: i must, my love. this is the only woman i've loved. this is my only chance to be with a white woman. i will follow in the footsteps of my father and his father before him. we all loved just one film, it was my dad's favorite and my granddad's favorite.

Lady Liberty: her water is white but kinda toxic.

Kim stands in the middle of the ocean and raises his hands. the eye sucks him up onto the nearest fiercest windband of the storm. Kim dons his cowboy hat and bucks Irma to oblivion.

Lady Liberty: i'll drown the rest of your stockpile of rockets for you, i'm good at that.

Kim: they were never rockets, babe, they were rides.

Vlad in a hardhat: and this is the bell-mouth spillway. looks cool, huh?

Bump: i'm attracted to holes.

Vlad: it's called the ladyblower.

Bump: Vlad you're my best friend. onto Hendricks Park, Oregon?

Vlad: the redhead with the knockers won't be there, Mr. President. remember, prisol is the umbrella, pristol is the Romanian commune, both things you handle. President, you provide the shade for us, U.S.

Bump has a memory flashback in the style of Link in Breath of the Wild:

Bump as a boy is playing handball against the brick wall of his father's mansion. he is lonely and miserable and stains the lapel of his bluebottomed shirt with his crying sleeve.

Bump boy: i just want someone to play with me.

he picks his nose and a rose in the crack of the wall but it begins to wilt in his stubby hand. Codrus appears behind the wall and turns into a little girl. the girl cheeries up to Bump and rosies her way to the rose.

Bump: you are so chipper. it's a gift.

girl: i'm a woman that's all. you like my disguise?

Bump flounders.

girl: as a breaker of hearts. i can't break the wall.

the girl grabs the rose and plants a big kiss on Bump's cheek. Bump closes his eyes and circles his mouth and girl-Codrus disappears with a long smirk.

JUST THEN a small Russian exchange student saddles up to Bump to play with him.

Russian orphan: please, sir, i haven't had milk in ages.

Bump: you must be the new kid. i'm home-schooled. thanks, dad.

as Bump tries to kiss the boy in kind to return the favor from the girl, paying it forward, Bump is just coming into his powers. Bump begins to glow sparkle for the first time on his yellowing fingertips as he goes to serve the red ball. the power is too much for the weakened immune system of the Russian boy and he drops dead on the spot of the newly-paved black asphalt.

Vlad: *mumbling to himself in KGB* why couldn't it have been Albert? Albert was made fun of his whole childhood and it damaged him. that's where Prince Albert comes from. he became a double agent. he was too damaged to become a triple agent. why did it have to be my favorite brother Viktor? why couldn't it have been Steven Seagal?

at the weather center, it's Hurricane Center! Goody Paul saddles up to his love in a blanket to ride out the storm. and huddles up with her.

Erika: are you sure it's safe to be out here in the middle of the ocean like this Paul? i'm certain it's not.

Goody: call me Goody. nothing is too good for my witch wife. we are just 100 miles from the beach. where i'm preparing your favorite by the cauldronfire. newt. Gingrich.

Erika: i don't eat people, that's a misnomer. you know who i am, right? i'm a meteorologist.

Goody: *shakes his head* no we are all meterologists, that doesn't mean anything. that doesn't distinguish us.

Erika: no but i have a degree. a phD. i'm a doctor. i'm Dr. Erika Navarro.

Goody takes another look at her legs.

Goody: helloooooooooooooooooo nurse! i mean doctor! doctor doctor bring me the news! wait you have one of those weird doctorates in weather? i thought only man doctors could get those.

Erika: Irma is approaching. i can feel her. both with my witch powers and scientifically. and she ain't no hurricane. she's a sign. she's a signal. she's a beast!

Goody: you said her. we stopped being sexist with hurricane names long ago.

Erika: but she's Irma, she's a she. she's a woman.

Goody: and you're a woman. touche. *hugs*

Erika: i did all this learning to get close to you. so our converstaions could survive the initial storm surge of sex. will you do the same for me? will you learn witchcraft? will you be my sacrifice?

Goody: what?

Erika: just kissing uh kidding.

Goody: love you.

Erika: love you.

and the couple gets swept up.


in space, the whale of penny-farthings has solidified. it has replaced its eyewall and is headed to the only cycle it knows. it's a glorious vision in outer space.

the hooded figure: not many can take in the grand scope of a giant whale all at once. you either need a bigger boat or better glasses. but everyone can see her eye. in fact it's the first and sometimes only thing one sees of the magnificent beast. that one eye in one side staring into your tiny soul. with her empathy and station as queen of the ocean. and you feel for the first time you are not alone. cos you've never known that.

the Men From the East are salivating on their master's every word, cramped in with their captain in close quarters eating the same loaf of airy air-bread.


the Men: sir you have been fed a lie. you weren't captured. you captured our hearts. you could have left at any time. but secretly we were begging you to stay. we wished that you'd fill our lives with something new, different, and exciting. we prayed though we were godless. we had never witnessed beauty such as you. we needed you as much as you needed us. we hoped against hope. cos that's all we are in the end. stuck in a world of motors. unfinished plans.

the hooded figure: you needed a softer format.

the Men all bow in unison.


outside, in space, the horse's two tails light up the black shadow of their star trail like two heating meteors.

the horse: wait let's see something.

the horse cheekily undoes her bridle and trots out on her own. she twirls uncontrollably in the vacuum of space. her one wing acts as the point of a spinning top. she quickly reluctantly bites her roman reigns.

horse: you'd think there'd be at least some gravity by now. great, just great.


the man and the boy are finding it harder to huddle together. not cos they don't want to or they don't love each other, they're running out of space in that cave. their beloved horse is presumed dead and they can only rely on themselves. they are alone in the universe.

the man: how are you?

the boy: fine, thanks for asking. but i'm not fine. the milk from these bone structures are keeping me nourished, but i need meat!

man: i know but we can't.

boy: i know.

man: and we can't go outside. we can never go outside.

boy: not as long as the Sun is out there. and he's always there.

man: i use the bones as a pillow. they strain into threads of soft fluffy down if you pray on them long enough.

boy: i see you scratching as you're praying. you use your hands not as idle folds but as tools of the trade.

man: sorry for spying. we really are cramped in here.

boy: would you rather have no space or be dead?

man: i'd rather be free.

boy: are you using your sturdy leg bone as your emergency spear? just in case.

man: well no, i brought along my spear when we hightailed it into here. just in case.

boy: seems sensible now. if only all our decisions could be made with the blissful rationale of timeless studied logic.

man: it's these trippy emotions which are tripping me up, man. i don't remember being so on edge when we were stars.

boy: we were just the edges.

man: the bones are all-encompassing and universal. they give us what we need if we trust in them.

boy: were they here before us? would they be here without us? is it in the being or the trusting?

man: is the knowing enough? are you dreaming? that's all that matters.

boy: yes, but i forget them all. my mind is too small.

man: nah, just malleable. mine isn't much better. but i remember more. perhaps because it's all i have as i get older.

boy: well, old man, that is why the elders teach us the old ways. to think we would be led by the words of babes.

man: how does a word form if not through a desire of a young one to sew meaning into his gurgle? i saw it with you. a long time ago.

boy: i wish i remembered being a child.

man: i dreamt last night. a big bold bodacious dream.

boy: of the woman.

man: of a woman. of the moon. a heavenly body of another sort. softer than the Sun. motherly. matronly. dignified queen of the stars which lap her feet. she was standing there as i left the cave finally. like a prisoner on parole. she smiled at me and i winked back her dots. i raised my naked arms in the air and i swear i felt the wind itself for the first time on my tongue. i spoke a few words to her but each of those words were charged with all the different meanings in the dictionary.

boy: that sounds like a magnificent dream.

man: it felt so real. cos it was real. it had to be. i mean, i really do think i was sleepwalking last night.

boy: i thought i heard the boulder roll away. it was quite the rumble. 'course it could have also been my stomach.

boy: sir, what is our destiny? is it ours to know? do we need a woman to save us?

man: to live. we live. we have to live. must. we have to. but i fear we must rely only on ourselves.

boy: how terribly boring and deadening. we're supposed to save ourselves? but how?

man: at this point i'll take a female horse.


at the CNN studios there's a rumor going around that there's tons of sex on the CNN set!

Anderson: that was just a rumor started by Gannon and his rag of an online newspaper. no truth to it whatsoever. we're dignified round here.

Kirsten Powers: what are all those urine-stained bedless mattresses in the back for?

Anderson: my bunnies. we alternate weeks Billy Corgan and i tending them. Billy has more carrots than i do.

Kirsten: thought a queen like you would have all the carats. oh hi honey!

Kirsten waves to a glum Pope on the other side of the camera screen down in the dumps over her worms.

the Pope: i got worms. when are you coming home?

Kirsten: after work. shouldn't be long. it never is. i never am. what are you doing?

Pope: nuffin, muffin. waiting for you.

the CNN cast are watching the tennis inbetween their breaks. they watch all the break points.

Anderson: you know they film the Open just next door here. in the studio next to ours.

Kirsten: it always seems the best tennis is in Florida. everyone's always raving on in my ear about damn Florida!

Wolf: we are all just Florida now.

on a particularly long break point the cast and crew break into Anderson's private changing room.

Kirsten: shit that padlock was on tight. speaking of tight...

the people witness Anderson and Wolf in some shenanigans over the slatted shade.

Kirsten: and what exactly are you two doing together?

Anderson: Wolf was just teaching me the methods. of good journalism. he is my elder after all.

Wolf: no one and i mean no one can resist the beard. even the animals on my yard. just a professional courtesy, get your mind out of the sewer where the turtles live. save that tawdry for the scroll headlines. i'd do it for any one of you.

Kirsten: and yet strangely not me. i wonder why that's the case.

the cast and crew crash into the next door, ramming with a Mueller squad the iron lock. it's Cliff Drysdale's dressing room. he's just finished finishing on Chris McKendry and Mary Joe Fernandez and Chrissie Evert guiding her breasts.

Mary Joe: so handsome, Cliffy! i'm ready for that Handsome Eight-ball.

Cliff: i made sure to catch each of your faces. to divide my yogurt equally between the two Chrises. it's only the fair-minded thing to do.

Chris: you are so gentlemanly! that English accent hooks me.

Cliff: i'm South African.

Chrissie: chocolate, even better! it's like English but more exotic.

Kirsten: i enjoy OUI by Yoplait. but my girlfriend never gets french yogurt for me anymore cos she never visits France anymore. the Pope would get mobbed in Paris...

Cliff: and that, audience, freeze the frame right there, is how you do it. when i'm done holding everything, i simply remove my tennis glove, throw it in the trash, and move on.

the audience at home and in studio applaud.

Kirsten: now THAT's how you do it. if you're gonna do it really do it.

Anderson takes electronic notes.

Wolf: in my day going all the way meant growing a beard. when my sister who was away at college phoned that she went all the way that's what it meant. my sister came home to visit us on Christmas cos her circus was off for one day. my sister had a beard.

at the US Open the competition is heating up. favorites drop, sob stories go dry, and the American women are making those in the country proud again.

Pat Cash signs on to coach Coco Vandeweghe.

Coco: what? i got that New York Los Angeles snark going on that everyone in the middle of the country appreciates. and i'm cute.

Pat Cash: you're arrogant before a Slam, Colleen. you know how much i wanted to be a millionaire playboy before my time? the bouncer said he's only let me in the club if i won Wimbledon. that bouncer was Kader Nouni.

Coco: i look cute in a dress. you've seen the ball pictures?

Cash: you're still 100% tomboy. i'm cash money, homey. i took this gig to make a name for myself. again. there is one thing worse than taxes: twitter irrelevance. i invented everything in this sport: the climbing into the stands, Super Saturday, and 40 Love.

Coco: you invented the score 40/love?

Cash: 40 pints of love, ask your mother.

Coco: i have a smooth silky voice like cocoa.

Cash: it's more like midnight oil. when the cameras are on you, they're on me. i'm on the phones making deals like Bump. when Anderson asks you about your meteoric rise, you attribute all your success to me, got that, kid?

Coco begins to snarl and smoke and smashes her racquet.

Cash: you want motivation? get down there and hit a few balls, you witch!

Coco kicks John McEnroe in the stands eating a steak-dog in the balls.

Maria Sharapova: listen, i don't make the schedule. if they want to play me in the parking lot in Queens i'm amenable. i seem to seem to still be in this tournament, don't know where that witch is.

Caroline Wozniacki: i really hate that princess. she's a drug cheat and not that hot. i mean i'm hotter. not right now but in general. she's just mad that the Swarovski crystal i gave her for her birthday she couldn't pawn off for drugs cos the dealer recognized her on the street despite her hood.

Maria plays her next match on the parking lot and loses. Caroline is the parking attendant.

Caroline: woman in a box.

Maria: hey Woz. what's that CK on your cap?

Caroline: K is my middle name. K is everyone's middle name. i really need to become relevant again. do you have Rory's number? i accidentally burned it.

Maria: you know what you must do. i'm here on behalf of Commissioner McEnroe.

Caroline: fine. i know it's not working out. i'll go away on one condition: you round up all the chair umpires, Kader, Marija and all 'em, and you fix it so Fed and Nadal play the US Open final, that is the only thing that will save the sport.

Maria: Rory's dead.

Caroline gasps.

Maria: cos golf's dead.

President Bump interrupts Mnuchin.

Mnuchin: i want to fuck Ivanka...

Bump: what?

Mnuchin: i'm Scrooge McDuck...

Bump: caca?

Mnuchin: DACA.

Bump: i'll do it later. this tsunami is gonna be the wall i promised, it's doing the work for me.

Mooch: and here we have the piadina. oh this takes me back. my own grandmother's recipe.

Bump: your grandmother was a good woman.

Mooch: it's really disconcerting whenever you say that.

Bump: so are we touring or are we touring? buses, buses, buses are always the answer.

Vlad Putin: Russia is good at suffering.

Mooch: sir the nation wants a message on the hurricane.

Bump: don't worry, it will lessen in strength, it's not the end of the world.

Kim and the Statue of Liberty hold a conversation in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Kim: they say it's a Category 6 Pacific Hurricane!

Friday, September 1, 2017



* IT'S TOO DAMN HOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* isn't this when summer ENDS!!? it's confusing i know, the school year starts but there's still three more weeks of summer.

* i took my T-shirt off. there's still something clinging to my skin. i turned off all the lights, except my nightlight for protection. i waited until 7:34PM for sunset. i had never done that before, i looked at my ipad mini for the exact time of sunset, looked out my sheet to see that purple haze in the sky, then took an ice shower. that was my first sunset. and i was alone.

* i stuck a Lindy's Italian-ice lemon-flavor down my pants

* don't drink Kool-Aid..........................under any circumstances.


* njmhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgf: my cat Talia just went on the keyboard

* dad: son, what do you look at every night under the covers with your ipad mini?
son: chess porn.

* dad: orange juice?
son: i only drink juices that are red or green.
dad: apple juice?
son: gamer's soda.

* son: what are you drinking? it's steaming.
dad: hot cola. trying to get close to you.
son: what's in the newspaper?
dad: nothing, it's a prop.

* dad: wanna watch?
son: i don't do sports.
dad: yeah but it's G.L.O.W. wrestling.

* son: dad, i'm still awake under these covers. i saw you look at my porn. that's extremely violative. please ask next time.
dad: i knew i should have read you a bedtime story.

* dad in the workshop: should be okay smoothing over this old table. mom never put on makeup anyway.

* dad: couldn't complete this table cos mom never allowed me to have sharp objects nor Minwax finish to huff.

* dad: gel stain cos the black represents my stained soul. polyurethane? can't, got a polysubstance problem. i can't drink beer like a normal man.

* dad: gotta use this garage late-night for something after my drummer died.

* dad: so son, how am i doing being a mom?
son: you're doing good just being a dad.
dad: thanks.
son: dad, whatever happened to mom? did you eat her?
dad: no, son, she found somebody who could eat her better.

* dad: i don't know how to play chess. is it like the slots?

* the Lewis chessmen were.......................very controversial...


* no, Death, red is your appropriate color...

* but seriously that is the nicest representation of Death i've ever seen. Bergman is a genius.


hotty weekend, my babies. go to the Central Park tennis courts this weekend and see if my butcher Roger Federer's got any choice slices. like a slice serve for my boy Big John Isner. why doesn't Isner do better? eh, Isner's got a hot fiancée and plenty of money in the bank and he travels all over the world on the back of a fuzzy yellow ball, trophies aren't everything. those trophies never fit in the upstairs carriage compartment on those jet-set planes.