Wednesday, January 30, 2019


Pedro: you bring home another dog, Puck?

Puck: very funny, Ped. everyone, this is my new fiancée, Toni Cook. i met her the other day.

Pedro: bitch you don't know how to SPELL fiancée! how many e's? i'm talking to your man, lovely miss, whom i hope isn't your bro.

Toni is a brightfully beauteous woman with one tit like a melon and the other like a watermelon. she wears a fuzzy almond blouse as always which helps with the intemperate San Fran weather, lipstick stained red from past trauma, a ringlet around her everything, and boho shoes on the house carpet. her pretreated loops presage the Rachel Cut but curly.

Rachel breathes a sigh of relief under her breath. Puck eats a shiny wet apple of conquest and conviction right in Rachel's face, the bite crisp as an autumn call.

Puck: b-y-t-c-h. no, not you. sorry, babe, you missed out, you and your cans had your shot with the Puck-man. you were on the right path, but paths up there are rocky. literally. you took your sweet time. that's the thing wirh relationships, they're mostly about timing more than attraction.

Rachel: i know i know, it's my fault alone, and it will haunt me till a green flower van curbs into my house. i gave you a chance but not really. i'm just gonna have to live with the life-altering life-shattering non-decision i made. the rest of my life, which undoubtedly won't last very long. won't be for much longer. without street love.

Puck moves Toni from off the ground her toes wiggling and places her to the corner of the dining room.

Puck: you stay there Toni, with some frosted cereal, my betrothed beloved, silently, and let me sort this out. Pedro, i want to say something to you! why do you continually destroy my stuff!? do you have a vendetta out for me or something?

Pedro: spell that. cos it makes me stiff. what this time?

Puck: my small-large-business startup i was starting up? around the City? you know the Lime Bikes? there are only six prototypes i built by scratch which i placed at all six corners of the City. for business folk to get around letting their tie fly around without deepening their carbon footprint. instant multimaker. and you had to go and crush all their bells. why. WHY. why ME.

Pedro: oh, those stupid eyesore things? first off they don't smell like lime at all, i thought you were the one with the nose. and do you know what that company does online with its computer? you'd shiver and turn whiter than you already are. same with that skateboard and all ESPN 2 skateboard culture, get rid of all that toxicity.

Puck: dammit Pedro, this is what i mean! I'VE HAD IT!!! i'm done with you, Pedro! you don't respect me or the Earth! my boundaries or the ozone layer! i'm in the middle of the dining-room carpet and telling you outright, in front of the entire cast and crew, I DISLIKE YOU, PEDRO. i hope the cameras got that for posterity and the court case.

Bunim: uh, remember, no tapes, this is all real-world real-world. nothing is recorded, life lived the way life should be lived and was intended to be lived. for prosperity not posterity. who needs money for life?

Pedro: don't you dare try to kick me out! i know where each and every one of you live!

Puck: i'm done with your casual and planned harassment and your threats. we're gonna have a serious House meeting sometime soon, like at a birthday party or something, that's always the best place for an eviction. Pam will organize it i'm sure. folk i have an announcement to make: i'm getting married. to Toni Cook. on Mother's Day, book it. Mother's Day cos Toni is my new mommy. i never knew my mother.

Pedro: no one cares about your sob story, you snot-nosed chingaso. that's not how you do credible reality tv, it's how you do creditable reality tv. for fuck sake i have the greatest sob story of all time, i have motherfucking AIDS!!! and not the cartoon stop-motion anime kind. you don't know what it's like to really live this life, do you son? you're so normal for a bike messenger. marrying a woman? i spit and laugh at you and your nuclear family. my marriage to Sean will be the social event of the calendar in SF! and Global Media Season Channel. i'm doing it right, San-Franciscan-style! we're the first gay civil union ever shown on tv, we're groundbraking epic television, spittin it right back in George Bush's face. glasses? now THAT is a long drawn-out courtship, longest in history! you're a joke, we're serious. i go after what i want. i make history, you make home-cooked meals with flour and coke! no offense, pretty lady.

Judd: Puck you're my best bud but stop being a cuck. a cuck Puck.

Puck: now, after all this ado, can i PLEASE get around to telling my story? we're here in the dining-room where this carpet's seen many a story, so here goes: get the lit campfire going, Pedro, thank you. i'm gonna tell you all about the magic place i found love and my love...

at the Australian Open, Osaka has Judy Murray down on the hard court with her butterfly rackethead pinned on Judy's throat.

Osaka: bitch, say it! it's the Asian Open NOW! you forgot i was half-black, huh didja. yeah people forget that about me.

Judy: please i'm sorry, i reject my entire thesis ever since i was born. Stephen Fry me. at the roast. and the spit-roast. i just want to see my son, my son is suffering, he needs his mother, and his mother is after him.

Andy Murray enters the court jerkily and has a more robotic voice than usual. the court stagelights turn off for no reason. smoke comes from his eyes. he points at the metallic limb in his leg and gives the o-Kay symbol with his grey fingers. a huge bolt is where his bellybutton used to be.

Andy: gotta nut in my belly. mum, i'm an android now, maybe now you'll love me. where's Bouchard? i want to fuck her now. just to see.

Judy: *from the green ground* that's my boy! atta andy boy! i'll put on my Anne Murray Double CD, she's my sista ya know. NOW i love you, son.

at King Kong on Broadway, the crones are settling in to their matinee seats in the rafters. Doryce is chowing down and getting her mouth all buttery.

Doryce: do people bring popcorn to Broadway shows?

Gladyce: why this one, dear? it's cos you love those big 'n'tall bulky black men, huh.

Doryce: *reading her ticket* oh, i can't see with my glasses on! in the dark. i thought it said KINK Kong. and me without my boots. well at least i brought snacks. reach into my pocket, dear, and grab my banana.

Gladyce reaches in and gets her hand involved in a pile of mush. she slips those digits into her mouth.

Gladyce: oh, i love Thai fried bananas! still hot, too!

Doryce: perfect food for this, huh. i broomed over to see the Japanese version of this, it's Godzilla on stilts. lasted one performance, Opening Night, Godzilla burned down his own wooden stilts with his fire breath. isn't about time they call it Goddesszilla? they used up all the water in the Japan Canal that only one Studio Canal feature was made only available in anime shoppes. like, one tape. ah well, this gives me that Asian flavor i lost and still crave and had been missing, ever since the ballet, allows me to follow my own personal balletiquette.

after the show the two join the cast and crew backstage and onstage for a spaghetti dinner.

Doryce: except it's linguine.

cast and crew: who are you? what are you doing here?

Gladyce: dearies we saw free food and went for it. you wouldn't harbor any ill will for two frail old ladies off the burning trash streets would ya?

Doryce: i'm rubbing off on you, dear. and i'd like to rub on you. yeah but the thing is never use linguine! it's a bitch to clean off the pot. those stuck-on strands at the bottom of the oiled pot are IMPOSSIBLE to scrape off! i ruined the inside sensitive pink of my nailbeds for one lifetime doing it. could never wear my glitter nails to social galas for one whole menstrual cycle!

Gladyce: is this garlic bread? i can whip you up and bake you some quick menstrual blood bread if you'd like.

Dorcye: i like to be treated as a princess. is that Princess Sauce in the ladle crock?

cast: why yes,.

Doryce: what's in it? nevermind, it's orange in color. that used to mean good hearty curry nanwich Indian cuisine but not anymore...

the cast of Empire joins Eye Luggage and her cast and crew at the Red Table for a serious discussion that's real serious this time.

Smollett: no small men here, just heroes. not for a small wallet. I AM Uncle Jesse to today's millennials and youth and young kids. two more years? can't make it, the climate is rife with right. we've become enslaved to the breakfast cereal of one man. can we create art during this time that will transcend the cage of our inner fears and speak to dark audiences the way it did in the '90s? who was President then? no one knows.

Kevin Hart: look alls i'm sayin' is let's wait for the video evidence to come, i mean that's why they installed those cop cams, right?

President Bump: let's wait for the Mueller Report to come...*snicker*. yeah i mean who do i choose? you know? Guaido? is Guaido a Guido? then i'll go with him. is Maduro merde? i learned that word from my French friend when we frenched. what do you think, you're an expert on these things. hey have you done the Guaido Challenge?

The Mooch: he's a Guido no doubt, look at that slicked-back hair. please, sir, don't blindfold me and send me into the Lincoln Bedroom again, that was terrifying. those did not sound like birds...

Bump: *pursed lips* is President Bump an intellectual?...…*looks around the room*…

he sees Roger Stone in the front row with Melania shaking his head so Bump shakes his head. Jim Carrey is also in attendance.

Jim Carrey: i was the first to call you a Batman villain, Roger.

Federer: who, me?

Jim Carrey: i should know, i was the Riddler. riddle me this, Stone: how can you disgrace the Ben Stone name?

Bump: what's the deal? the Deep-fried State is afraid to let me govern! they're afraid the people will like me! i mean isn't this what they do in third-world countries? arrest the people who win the election?!

Roger Stone: right? they wouldn't let me keep my Nixon bomb that i kept stashed away under my bed! that's how much the feds hate Nixon! i told them i was willing to compromise: the Nixon sticker on the WMD was a silk-screen sticker easily removable under the steam of a tea kettle, just would have to wait a few. all i really wanted was the sticker, gave me tattoo chills. you know they're supposed to trace the outline before in drawn pencil, right? these gestapo stormed into my secure gated home in the middle of the night, hung a noose on my tree, scared my dog...

Scooby Doo: no that dog whimpering was me, i was hungry. i was part of a team investigating your place for the FBI, looking for clues.

Roger Stone: wimpering. i come out to you tonight, media, in my French beret cos i'm playing a role. i am filming a film. no not the cassettes. can't you tell? who do i look like? the Pink man! Pink Panther Man! all these stupid Ivy Leaguers tryna lock me up for life cos i believe the conspiracy. i hate smart people! white liberals? there are white liberals? why?

Bump: say I would like to buy a hamberder. you need to go back to school.

Roger Stone: can you believe Pink Panther and Scooby Doo never hooked up before now? it's gonna be a great children's film i'm starring in. my mouth is weird cos i want to match Mueller's weird mouth. no i'm not chewing stones, it's just really hard gum. and contrary to the druge dungeon-sexroom rumors, that Russian sex coach is NOT my wife.

Bump: your loss is my gainful employment, bud. should be, at least before the plastic surgery, which she only did cos she's a spy hiding her face. *folds arms* yeah turns out that woman was Daphne, another teammember of Scooby's investigative team. wait, Tulsi is running for President!!? PLEASE, blue folk, give me some eye candy, it's gonna be a long process! that's what they do in cartoons, right? make the black people blue to avoid controversy, then they can make them do anything they want. why is Tulsi getting no gabbing pub and the other boring brown woman is?

The Mooch: *gathering the scrappies and putting them in a pot* let's not go back to Hawaii again, that trip was painful. Moochy Moochy Doo!

Laertus: interesting convo so far. oh please, waitress, no coffee for me. ever again.

Dirg: come on, Schultzy's the man! see his smile? see how he melts into a 12-year-old boy in front of his wife? that is so cute! see his story? i can relate, the getting pummeled by your own father in the tile shower of the Projects, the water red from iron oxide. i think my father was a plumber which made it worse.

Eye: The Piano. go.

Dirg: so it's just Bluebeard, right? that man knew how to treat women. no movie before or since has ever made Harvey Keitel an object of sexual desire...

Laertus: that was my first year watching the Oscars as a kid. i sat Indian-style with scraped knees neath my mom's long orange-beige skirt and popped my head out to see the small black-and-white tv-radio-screen in the blue kitchen tiletop. i still remember all the jokes cresting over the studio audience of Hollywood Illuminati Old Guard like a wave, everyone was laughing over that same Harvey Keitel Ass joke.

Dirg: don't you mean Hollywood luminaries? old guard, well middle guard. that was my first taste of body horror. didn't expect the violence to be so graphic. addicted me.

Laertus: sigh, at least be addicted to the massive amounts of lurid overkill sex in this, at least that's love. i mean this thing was a Cinemax with a Zealand accent done on a typograph. this film predicted The Rock with Maori makeup as our future feral President. Jane Campion was Champion of that year, but since it seems she peaked too soon. same with her scriptwriting for that poor little girl Anna in a packed tin. the little girl's thinking to herself, no more cleverness and instances where i can be more knowing than a little girl, i don't want to peak at this age, don't want to be peak Anna, i'm still a little girl. one thing about this film is the iconic nature of it, you know? these two are like bloodless ageless witches, forever memorialized on tape, not just film icons, but consciousness icons. the costumes, the fashion, embeds in the social consciousness. these two leads, the mother and the daughter, dressed in this particular period garb, hoop-ring and all, this turns into a Campbellian symbol, like you see this mother and daughter in this dress as part of a subconscious timeline, you'll always see these two in your mind's eye dressed as such as these characters forever, they have become world archetypes. oh yeah, that mute mother and her translator daughter, with the old-timey bonnets, yeah everyome knows these characters! they're protoypes, exemplars, blueprints in blue, ideal original forms in those outfits. did the costume designer get the only Oscar which mattered? the greatest part of the script for me is when the little girl Anna travels on that branched path, which way will she go? which path shall she take? will she tell or not? so on the nose and brilliant, for of course her decision is the pivotal choice, the very essence of everything.

Dirg: there was so much in there in the ending for a sequel. i wanted to learn and know more about that bionic hand the milf had. she was the prototype. of a Terminator. tho it would have been cool if they had gone with the original ending and just let the mother drown at the bottom of the sea.

Putin *Putin's chef behind Putin preparing the birthday dinner* shakes hands with the Chinese President at a newly-renovated-and-refurbished Hilton hotel. that just happens to be in Hanoi, Vietnam.

Chinese President: why are we doing this? now? strategic realignment? we could have been soul mates from the start.

Putin: cos i finally discovered anime. i watched Ghost In The Shell. i want your phone.

the Kurds: never again………………..NEVER FUCKING AGAIN!!!...…………...we out the game

Rachel: where are we going? why do you have to blindfold me?

Puck: this isn't a meme. i don't want to reveal the location to keep it secret and special between us, this is Inverness, off the beaten path in San Francisco's Unknown District. the long drawn-out evergreen emerald-green hills twinkle in the wetless moonlight and roll farther than the eye can see, unlike a certain Scottish who can now see his own balls. and always a constant presence getting into every pine crack and cone forest valley, in the craggy mountains which form jumping-off points for skaters and are greener than Tony Hawk's business-launch confidence: the fog, the mystical mist, the assuming grey blanket which makes the landscape unreadable and full of wondrous mystery. magic surely lives here.

Rachel is asleep in the back of the bug during this soliloquy.

Puck: i hate driving but they said they would asphalt over the bike path. here we are, i won't open the back-door trunk cos i don't want to stifle the sacred silence. don't be disturbing here, Rachel, be free, open your wings of hands and feet, get naked, breathe in the murky mist, solve your own mystery of yourself, be a party of Green in the unspoiled country. this is a place of meadow magic, this is where i first formulated my long drawn-out dream of being the greatest soapbox-derby driver of all time. where i first learned to believe. simply and utterly. and i can only accomplish this dream with you by my side, Rachel. my mushy serve and forehand. this place, see the reindeer!

a swell of muscley sweating breathing-heavy rumbling reindeer whizz by the reluctant couple, their horns piercing the squall of grey clouds, their calls honking the natural foghorn, their bones rustling together against each other. they fly up out of bloody reach and whiteout-conditioned sight.

Rachel: *back of the palm of her hand against her face cheek* oh my god, that was so awesome.

Puck: i want my derbies to fly like those deers! ,dear.

Rachel strips down naked and frolics in the mushy meadows and free fields, placing small yellow flowerbuds in her earbuds. when they come around again she rides the reindeer into the sky before the snow makes her tummy hurt and her fingers become so dangerously-cold they almost fall off but luckily only her grip falls off. the reindeer only use natural shea butter on their antlers for slippage.

Puck: *smiles with puckered lips* told ya.

Rachel: okay, maybe marriage to you won't be so flat. it's just i don't like wimps like you, i'm thinking of becoming a Republican like George Bush. i want a long drawn-out church wedding, i'm Cuban, my parents want none of that elopement stuff.

a mist comes over and across

Rachel and Puck are in the House. alone. Puck offers on salary to buy the House, they are scrubbing the tub in the bathroom. Rachel is doing all the work scrubbing the tub.

Rachel: come on, boy! talking bubbleheads, the first emojis. use a little elbow grease. use all that snot in your nose, rub your elbows with it and help me scrub!

Puck: shut up. a dub dub?

Rachel: see, it would never work out. you have to have a coherent messenge if you run as a bike messenger.

Puck: but that lasted one day! that was a green marriage, a Tom Green marriage! that was just our first day! our first argument! don't we get a trial marriage run, like checking out tapes at a rental store?

Bunim climbs a crag to deliver the notary public note into Rachel's soft perfumed hands.

Bunim: you two can only ever have a Hollywood marriage from now on. you've been on tv.

at the base of the Inverness Gorge lies the Maria LaRosa Titan slumbering up transforming her sleep into restful woke. she lies on the grass as if it were a green dining-room carpet by the fire. but it's cold. every one of her tremors from her vagina create a mini earthquake in this timeless peaceful place, threatening to crumble down small OD boulders from the cliffs.

Maria: my very breath is the mist in this place. forms the fog. every time i breathe heavy...

Goody Paul in knit cap and spelunk line bending back her nose: please continue with the heavy breathing and petting, Miss Maria. you don't know how much i love you. i miss you so much, the station is not the same without your witchy ways. the NWS National Weather Service computer is broken still after the Shutdown, i can't predict the weather. and i can't predict when the computer will be back up. i wanted to name it NWA but the stiffs at Upper Management said neigh. The Weather Channel ain't sexy no mo, they got two boring black dudes on there now to replace you and me. i was never a savant like you, you could actually control the weather with your sweet thoughts.

Maria: yes my dear Goody but you can, too. you just gotta believe. and have faith in your abilities. it's not from a computer, that's too easy, use the computer within. meteorologists were never meant to study or predict the weather, we are put on this earth to create the weather, to BE the weather. and there is such a dearth of earth now. i see it now in my own life whenever i went on those plane rides over clouds. i belong here, where the real action is, as Chris Matthews would say. i am one with the vibration of Mother Earth, i am her Daughter of Demi. are you taking care of my kids?

Goody: your sex will save the world. i just want to be near your aura, this is my most fervent wish. that's why i traveled all these miles to this place to be here. Atlanta's a hellhole especially this week. concerning itself with the Polar Vortex. the Polar Vortex allowed two assaulters to get off. i could never control a Polar Vortex, or even guide it, or gain guidance from it. i just want to live inside you, maybe then your magic will rub me off. i want knowledge, of woman and weather.

Maria: sleep tonight in the vortex of my butthole, i'll see you in the morning. know that i am always blowing you kisses even though you can't see my face. that's another tornado.

Goody cheats, he's been a narcoleptic/insomniac since he got the job, and spelunks, exploring every nookie nook, every cranny, every cave, every Maria hole. he settles down in her vagina and lets the yellow vaginal cheese and queef winds fill his nostrils with a sweet peace unknown to man. he climbs in her ass crack and sleeps like a baby, he takes off his mittens and slides up and down the slippery crevice elevator shaft between her massive boulder breasts. he ascends to the highest throne, the soft mound of her mission mouth, moist with the clinging mucusy air, and he takes out his pickax to open one tooth of it.

Goody: please, Titaness Queen Maria, let you eat me. i want to be in the presence of your hot breath, bathing in it forever.

but Paul stops in his tracks and trances on Maria's big big big beautiful blue eyes in accordance with the sky. he stays in that spot for all eternity gazing at her orbs. the light of her orbital bones and her irises dart back and forth like wet fish on high heavenly lashes of liquid, an eternal beauty which reduces poor Good to anything but a god but rather a heap of ash and his own bones which are fish bones.

a small cute curly brown pug puppy comes rambling over the green grey hill to lick all the grime off Puck's perfumed hand.

Puck: good boy.

dog: i'm a girl. i'm Toni Cook. don't ask me to cook, that gets annoying fast.

however Toni does prepare the birthday dinner with The Mooch, sliding in some sliced carrots from the splintery wooden cutting board into the bored pot.

Puck: no it can't be, i was trying to be so PC here. so you're a ruse, a sham, a phantom, a pretty pretend?

Toni: i'm real, but imma dog. i'm preparing all this high-end froufrou French cuisine food but in dog form. i'm not real, i was a figment for you to use to distract yourself from the fact that you're not good enough for Rachel. my mom is a bitch.

Mohammed's birthday party at Sizzler is a strange one. Pedro is not invited, but neither is Mohammed. Mo is not there, does not attend, no one knows where he is, but no one notices. no one inquires. the cast are scheming and preparing, counting lots and straws with breadsticks to see if they have the requisite amount of enough votes.

Puck: so Rachel and i walked a bitch at the park…she got cold feet and took a leak...on my dogleg...

Rachel: okay since we're all confessing here: Puck and i kissed on three separate occasions. once in my queefmaker...

Puck: that's what stopped up my nose full of snot.

Rachel: *tips head* once on my mouth, and once in my mouth. in the tub. i thought being the dom would be more exciting. i wanted to be the bad girl but only if i had the bad boy, not the wussy shellac. i like my men to fight. back. i think i've gotten Puck out of my system. like blue Drain-O. or even yellow Drain-O. to think i was jealous of a dog with horns.

a blue ghost with a gelatin tip comes wooshing in through the door airily and scares the cast and crew off. but Cory ramins steadfast in her loyalty, as she was in just the right position at the corner of the table which could see the ghost's face with the spaghetti mirror.

Mo: sorry for being late, fam, first time i attended a concert since my own. the Half Time Show, amirite? Colin Kaep gets on stage there---instead of Adam---wearing a Niners jersey and tries to lead-sing but the mic mysteriously goes out. this is our leader! they know what they're doing, they're moving the goalposts so they don't have to deal with the movement. later SOMEBODY, a nice warm body, issues a statement through the crude media, said Kaep had a frog in his throat and cut out and would be calling it an early evening and enjoying himself taking a knee and touching his body parts behind closed doors. we all know Kaep is not the best most-polished public speaker. the internet was anxiously waiting a long time in great anticipation to see how Kaep would sound like sanging. there was a protest reggae song to be had here. just don't start rapping, Kaep. they left Kaep out there alone marooned like they always do.

Cory: Mohammed! i knew it was you! see? i'm not afraid of you. we were meant to be together. for this heist. and now you're in a position to do it scot-free. to actually help, you don't have to worry bout your rep anymore. i love how you've become! such power! this thing might actually get accomplished now!

Mo: wait, i have the tie-breaking vote here, where did everyone run off to? after much deliberation---there's lots of time in the afterlife---i want to...

Cory: *covers his ghost mouth* up. too late, bud. the decision has been made. all tabulated. the die is cast.

Mo: dead jokes, nice.

Monday, January 28, 2019


that's a Whole Lotta Love. or perhaps Two Halves of Love. Robert faceplanted when the cheeky photographer asked him to show her his good side.

1. what makes you feel unloved?

when my priest goes on and on in the confessional box about how he's so much better than the Pope and how his father didn't love him that's why he became a Father.

i didn't want to interrupt the sacred ceremony but i asked him once

me: whom do you love?
priest: it's Who. always God.
me: do you ever get lonely?
priest: nah. i get to order from all the fancy restaurants for free NOT using GrubHub Seamless. i get free chicken at Popeye's! sure they won't let me near an auction house anymore, but that was Banksy's fault! i punched him sure but he wasted a million dollars! that money could have been used to help Venezuela and then I'D be doing a better job than Pope Francis! i'd get the credit!
me: isn't fame a sin?
priest: only if you don't feel guilty about it.
me: what's your message to depressed teens who pray but still feel depressed?
priest: look how beautiful those clouds are...

2. what is the one act that a person can do that makes you feel loved?

drive me thru a drive-thru. see i'm deathly afraid of cars so driving is mystical to me. i know you're expecting me to say a home-cooked meal. heart stomach thing, right? so is my beloved. she insists on cooking for me, she speaks of a secret ancestral recipe that only a few people who ever lived on top of the world know, passed down by her frail grandmother who was the only survivor of the War of the Vines. she chides me everytime i eat Red Vines. i'm sure her egg rolls are very good and tasty and crispy and crunchy, and cooked in no oil, but i simply have to know how Jack In The Box does eggrolls, you know? and there's something about that colorful yellow greasy paper it comes in, one simply must use that wrapper as a napkin around one's neck. i mean i'm sure the Jack In The Box eggrolls will taste like...eggrolls...but who knows. extra dipping sauce.

3. what kind of music do you find romantic? now i'm gonna cry. when i saw Rent Live last night, took me back. to when i still had a chance. Berkeley. my first introduction to real serious theatre, you know? i was thinking of switching my major from English to Theatre...which really isn't that much of a stretch, is it? too bad you can't major in Theatre Nerd. i read a lot of the work of gay luminaries of the stage age, Angels In America and the like, and my folks back home were getting worried...not that i might be gay, which would have made my life easier i suppose, especially over there, but that i was wasting away their huge sums of rich-stuff money and my time sleeping in campus libraries and searching for One-Eyed Willy's doubloons...

4. what do you find utterly unromantic? when the least among us never get the chance. you can tell all the AV Club writers were once hopeful theatre majors/geeks with stars in their eyes ready to take on Broadway with their illustrative talents. but they missed it by THAT much. so they have to settle for commenting on productions they'd rather be in. it's just not fair. i have a friend whose frail grandmother was in the official Annie cast on Broadway in the '80s all of whose red hair has since fallen out and turned white cos she could never live up to the legacy. she writes for Daily KOS out of necessity and a paycheck. she keeps harping on in her texts to me about how she wants to write for The Daily Show instead and what the fuck is a KOS!!?

5. what thing did you find out about your significant other that you decided to look past and go for a relationship? the culture-war thing. i fight all my battles with lightsabers, which, well, let's face it isn't very effective. look, it's never gonna be perfect, perhaps your soul mate comes from a place you despise and spit on, but what are you gonna do? you know? she's still your soul mate, gotta make it work.

adult swim is right, there needs to be an emoji of a kissing yellow face with his eyebrows on fleek but turned down to indicate

your recent actions have me troubled but overall i value our relationship

bonus: in your life, is romance dead? yes, Romeo is bleeding. however romance isn't dead in life itself, just my life, so for my purposes and porpoises and all intensives, it is, cos if it's dead in my life, it's dead for i can't experience life in any other way but through me...Luigi on the other hand got his grubby hands on a healing potion and repaired his wounds with a grand thread sewing together all the parts and went to a tropical desert island with a yellow hat and a McAfee hammock. Luigi's always been jealous (and healous) of all the credit Mario gets.


Friday, January 25, 2019

the man who elevated me by making me lower

i was a small scared skinny willow of a boy, frightened of the future and of my future. and to top it all off, i had to go to college now. Berkeley was the first time i had ever been away from home. why did i have to be so smart? i took the mittens my mom knit me and tried to unknit them into a security blanket, but my hands were too slight. i fit a nut in my jowl instead.

i didn't know where to go, what to do, or who to be with. i wandered around hardscrabble streets and harder tests taken coldly in auditoriums. in college, the arbitrariness of everything just gets magnified to a power so unimaginable the magnifying glass becomes your iris.

finally i settled on the only thing i ever knew how to do: type my feelings. but i didn't just want to join the school paper, i wanted to be cool finally, to taste the good life, to slough off my senior persona, to eat strawberries with the high-school gymnasts. i wanted to do my own naughty webcomic. but i hadn't drawn seriously since kindergarten. poetry? when has poetry ever been cool? even when poetry WAS cool back in the Victorian day it was never cool.

okay, let's write for real again, which of course i did with scratchy scribbles on a Starbucks napkin cos i read or wrote somewhere that's what all the celebrated Beat authors who were beaten on the streets did. and beaten in their respective local dirty publishing houses with the dirty floors and dark-grey smokestacks.

i managed my first non-humorous poem in thirteen years, the age of my permanent inner child. a couple of stanzas and a quote from my favorite all-time thinker, a quote i've completely forgotten about now. no idea who this person is anymore.

i was calling myself Toilet and spreading my shit all around town. to anyone and everyone who would buy it. or publish it and slip it under toilets. this was the last decade before everything went free, unsold, unbought, and unheard-of again, so ink was at a premium. less tattoos of the revolution were being offered in those days in favor of print. i was just about to staplegun my three-page skatepunker zine to a dark-brown telephone pole when i got the call.

the old man with no accent at the shoppe hung up on me which i took as a sign. it'd get published now, right? i celebrated by using my dad's polka-dot umbrella for the first time. it was so damn grand big! i got swallowed up by it when i pulled it out. but it was raining cats, dogs, and squirrels so i knew i had to get out there for the artistic atmosphere and musty mist smell. you can't write what you don't soak. i visited the nice corner bistro i spotted when my eyes were cornered by drink on that first day, Island Taco. my tongue had wanted to savor that Enchilada Platter but my wallet closed its sewed mouth. 50 FUCKING DOLLARS FOR TWO ENCHILADAS!!? "are you sure you don't mean 50 pesos?" i implored the girl at the horchata stand. she blew so much smoke in my face it became a bubble. next time i won't talk with first-time people when i'm chewing gum, it's a nasty defense mechanism of mine i need to relent.

ee cummings: i know why you're here, why you frequent. i know why you came out here in the rain. you're an artist.

me: i have to go poo-poo. man, i can't open this swinging door with the circular window at the top! i need the key to the bathroom!

ee cummings: just push the door, fellow traveler mate. it requires no strength at all. always unlocked to the public. we must all be jerkmates to survive in this world, never wash your hands, makes the food taste better.

me: this entire world has been blaming the wrong people this whole time all the while.

ee: don't call yourself Toilet, you'll never sell. it's not about selling out, it's about self-worth. i know you feel down now, but you're only gonna feel downer later so why not be happy now? how about Toilu, but make it toilu, like a sophisticated smelly French perfume parfum of water and eaters.

i noticed my umbrella was turned out outside by the front door palm stoop and it caught the large gale of wind from the storm and sailed out to the mint sea. the next time i visited Island Taco i had taken my mentor's advice but he was nowhere to be seen. then he came in with the wind in a huge rush of air. floating on my umbrella. worst wind Island Taco had ever experienced according to the gauges.

ee: i'm Mary Poppins, bitch. you'll find out soon.

me: i like the Late '90s but i am so excited for the Millennian! where did you come from?

ee: art's dead. except for island caves slowly dying. a neighboring island that houses another Island Taco. do you like my work?

me: yes. but i can't download it at my dorm cos i start to type it in the window and it shuts down the cum porn site.

ee: they call this city the Windiest City In The World, right? but it's not. it's the Beans Capital of the World.

me: why are you telling me all this? and do you want to buy a Cubs cap?

ee: cos you gotta be different. the people who patronage this place have a lot of customs, they're customers. habitue emptor. look at this menu. see all the fine print? can't read a thing. especially the exorbitant prices. that's how you have to write poetry. with small letters. all lowercase, make the reader feel intimate with you, like it's only you the writer and the reader sharing this screed or song, together, an exclusive club of two. that's how you win over audiences, by being real. that one reader is the only reader you'll ever have...

i sat with his wisdom as i walked home alone. with him under the umbrella with me.

ee: this is why your umbrella was so big, it was always meant to house two. a partner for life. got any food at home? let go of the umbrella. let it fly away, get soaked by the rain, you have to feel this.

me: are you sure?

but ee was gone. but i still smelled his breath in the crisp air. his breath smelt of nuts, black olives, and bacon.

i returned home wet and worried to my dorm, to the roommate i despised, and hid my head under the crossstitch covers, hitting said head on my Dead Milkmen old-time clock radio. that's when i started sneezing. i continued to sneeze...forever...for the rest of my life i kept sneezing. till i died. this made me never forgot my master, my mentor, my muse father and only friend ee cummings again...



happy weekend, my babies. Nixon would be rolling in his grave now...

Wednesday, January 23, 2019


Puck brings home a dog.

Puck: no, not her. here is Belvedere, a Tervuren, they say they're the best, most homey and protective and huggable, most lively around a lived-in hemmed suburban neighborhood. the previous owners were calling him Bellend and whitewashing all the colorful flyers i was putting up around town, power-washing stripping them off all the brick, saying they were gentrifying the city. but THEY were the lost dog's owners! finally the kindly woman and kindly man who wore matching bandanas gave me a pence for my troubles, Bel licked the coin and it turned into a gold pence.

Judd: yeah i was tagging along by you for this mission but i didn't help much.

Puck: they said they were frantic and the dog belonged with his family. which was me. on the walk home to the House, Bel leashed me on all fours for our first walk, which is important in trustbuilding. Bel was having none of the Crooked Street. we sauntered past the bank of tvs, Bel spits on all the screens, the Asian owner gets mad, but we explain to her or him his her tvs are shiny now, clearer with the news. we celebrate by going to Bristol Farms, Bel wades in the fish pool and i wait for Pam's hand to give us the good stuff, the fresh stuff from the boxes out back, of Pacific Punch, a blue concoction drink that looks like Windex. Bel wags his tongue cos his tail is dead, won't wag no more, he can't believe what a fool i am.

Pedro: i'm a fool for love. i love the Windex that's yellow cos it looks like pee.

Judd: who's gonna pay for this mangy mutt? all dogs are liberal, you can tell, they've had baths and their nails did.

Pedro: he's gonna eat your dinners, Judd, you will starve. which is good for the creation. of comics.

Judd: ah, i could stand to lose a few pounds. i'm not skinny enough, i'm a match for skinniness of all the models i want to date.

Cory bumps into Geoff on the street, which happens a lot when the street is Crooked. Geoff is a kindly soul but it's hard to tell if he's a man or woman. he wears a pink shirt but it's a dark pink. Cory goes with it cos her life is in complete-standstill shambles.

Cory: hello. you're meeting me at my most vulnerable. the whole Macy's thing is up in the air.

Geoff: forgive me, i'm new to the City and i almost always never wear pants. oh Macy's, i love their Christmas ensemble. i love writing letters to Santa and nosing it in that giant golden mailbox in the center of the store. i wish i could ride those red planes hung high on the air in the sky of the glass ceiling but i'm not allowed up there without a harness. throw a guy a bone, you know?

Cory: oh you like Macy's, mate? okay, my wet nose is twitching, cold outside. i'm game. i'm not sure about you, Geoff, but let's give this a shot go, i literally got nothing else goin' on...

at the Australian Open at 1573 Court, Judy Murray is making her last stand. she stands very close to the baseline, her plain leather tennis shoes barely not touching, and poses to strike a spin serve. just as she's about to reach the apex, the fucking sun gets in her eyes and she whiffs it. a bird at the very tippy top of the edge of the stadium makes a squawking noise.


lineswoman: foot fault! point penalty. or game penalty maybe.

Judy: fuck you see that? that bird cursed at me! the nerve! what do you expect here, aye? this is really the moe Asian Open more than the Aussie Open. all you lot need to wear glasses like good Asians! i mean this is practically on the other side of the planet, a strange hidden paradise noone sees, a primate primitive land locked in other poles and destinies, time zones and arabathia keyholes. summer in January? you have to pee upside down in this place!  

Caroline Wozniacki storms out onto the set of the stage of the court, which is something she never does.

Caroline: you fucker! because i had to take time out of my busy schedule to make a video-diary of all of your stupid son's lifetime good points, i thinned my practice time with pops and therefore wasn't as sharp and lost my match! you know how embarrassing it is to be the defending Champion and lose?

Judy: you don't know misery, that was your first time! hey girlie, why'd you switch sides? why'd you become Christian? do Christians have more sex?

Caroline: isnt it obvious? it's why every girl becomes a Christian. cos their fathers raised them atheist.

Caroline sinks to the lower level bowl of the stadium seating to meet Andy Murray who puts his arm around her and smiles that goofy grin of his with the brutal curved teeth. Caroline gives him a sugary peck on the underside of his chin.

Caroline: you think she bought it, honey? you think that dragon bitch will leave us alone now?

Andy: hey, she's still my mum, she's the only dragon i'll ever have. i'm not Daenerys Targaryen. there's an example that you don't need a readily-accessible easy-to-remember name to be successful. look! she's not even looking at us! she's too preoccupied in her own little sex life world as always!

Judy joins the Red Circle table and wishes to speak with Serena.

Judy: thank you, Williams, the good one, for getting rid of that bot Bouchard. now i have Nadal all to myself and entry into the Spanish lockerroom. there are perks to hanging around Carlos Moya!

Serena Williams: madam, miss, what is your feeling on foot faults? should they be willing to be reviewed like Pass Interference and Stepping On The Line in the NFL, where apparently i'm well-known? i did not cross the line.

Laertus: i know, girl, you always get the raw end. keep the fight, girl, the fight for justice, you know they will take every opportunity to bring you down. you know it wasn't until this very match that i started liking you, that i called you my favorite player. before you it was some other mother or whomever the redheaded girl player was. for me, i came to respect you over the years, admire you, before i liked you. and then this happens. i mean foot fault on match point? what a JIP! that obviously threw off your concentration game.

Dirg tries to hug Serena but he can only bring himself to air-hug her from three feet away.

Serena: what are you doing? i don't want a hug from you.

Dirg: sorry. i'm jealous of your ease in with these folk, Larry, teach me your Sith Jedi ways. it's just, Serena, well there's SO much of you, you know? especially in the back. i just didn't want to miss any of it with the hug, i had to have an all-encompassing hug with my short arms, not easy to accomplish. hugging you is impossible.

Serena: i'm sure i don't know. yes, that's what my press critics always like to say about me. i'm unapproachable and distant. and not "likable".

Laertus: code word.

Eye Luggage: Simone Richards has joined the Red chat.

Simone Richards sashays up to the edge of the table. she wears tallow yellow teeth but purple jogging pants.

Simone Richards: D/S? Dick/Simone anyone? i'm just like you, my idol Serena, except we're in different fields.

Serena: i started young, too, young buckess. but your ass beats mine, it just doesn't get beat as much. let's talk on the online-only chat later, we have much to discuss, padawan playa. your natural athleticism on knee-scraped stone park benches could be channeled between the lines of a gentler surface on your knees like grass when you fall. and we all fall. take it from me, your ass won't last forever.

Dirg: but YOUR ass DOES last forever, Serena. it will outlast the sun.

President Bump: yep. Danielle Collins, BEEP BEEP hello. never heard of you. feisty one.

Eye: *internal sigh which gets picked up on mic* you know. i don't have to announce it everytime. it's assumed. time for my Jewsih rye sandwich. my Eye Rye.

Bump: *eye rolls*

Laertus: you're the greatest exmaple of a college player making it not mailing it in. no male college tennis player has even SNIFFED the level you've achieved here or anywhere in the world! brava!

Bump: no. no. no. this can't happen! this is unbelievable your progress! get this girl a Heather Tom Collins to slow her down. you're too good-looking! you're the perfect spokeswoman for staying in college all four years, i can't have that! educated aren't my voters! in order to secure Reelection i need my electorate to be voters who come from war-torn countries, never had any army money for any kind of schooling other than armying, and took up tennis as a last resort, it was either that to save their family in a hut or their entire lineage are to be gassed in the war. playing tennis against the one brick backdrop in the city walls, cracking with each ball, learning to play from your grandfather who was a General with a grimey past, election decided by a foreign leader. working your way up the railroad ranks, tennis is all you know, not algebra, and then you make millions of dollars. i relate to that story. like you gotta have a certain kind of beauty, like these beautiful Russian queens over here! the heart of historic Europe. Svitolina and Plissken.

Bump: and stop screaming, Collins! you're scaring Nic and Keith Urban. they just want a nice peaceful urban time under the roof. tho your screaming, Danielle, is hot. hot like this weather we're having down under.

Pliskova: uh, that's Pliskova, i'm Pliskova. i don't play video games, in Hard Europe we LIVE video games. it's called everyday life in a warzone and some don't make it out with both eyes.

Svitolina: i'm Ukrainian, not Russian...

Bump: not anymore. i love you guys. love, get it? get love. i read all your calendars in magazines. i love your little love match with Gael Monfils. i even see his pics, they're glossy cos he's black so the light bounces off him and blinds my eyes.

Monfils: next time blood don't buy the magazines that are glossy. my skin is pure, as is my joking. check out our joint Instagram account.

Bump: yeah i saw yous two going at it on Centre Court of the Aussie. like two wild savage beasts and one belle. Gael and Svitolina, OTP. that's the real tea real sex right there, Indo-European conquering their slave, gave me ideas and hives.

Gael: i thought that was online-only.

Cory: see? black man, white woman, it's the natural order of tings. it's what everyone is attracted to. i am so enjoying getting this extra love and lovin' time from a pet animal at the House, makes me warm like never before. i've never been warm before where i come from.

Pedro: no beast, no the City. beast is a man of burden...

Pliskova: i started the whole Eastern-European-chick-gets-an-ugly-tattoo-art-thing-on-a-weird-part-of-her-body-part-that-besmirches-her-beauty thing first, not Shit Svit…

Bump: balls of your elbows.

Serena: i rolled my foot on that ankle fault, because that call hurt my heart. not again, i said to myself. my mental anguish manifested into physical pain. it hurt my fulsome ancient spirit. but i kept rolling like i do. Ms. Judy, why do the players autograph that thin sheet of silver clear paper over the camera POV like that after each win?

Judy: that overhead-projector slide? i used to be a teacher. of my ungrateful sons. that's so the FBI has a database of all the players' handwriting samples. notice how there hasn't been any rapes? that we know of. we don't want a Ronaldo situation on our hands, even a Steven Universe Ronaldo situation. that would kill our tiny engine-that-could game, right off the tracks like Thomas. keeps everyone in line, between the lines, even I had to do it. and i never won a match. all your base are belong to us.

Serena: oh well. i'm a mother now, not a moth, i got other things. the porchlight will be there tomorrow. gives me freed time to go see that greatest book of mine on the Sorkin stage...

Laertus: Ser, they're just jealous of your shoe game! girl keep ya head up. they can't have your golden kicks! or your golden locks! we were all ready in the studio van out back with that tape of Carlos Ramos for the next match---he's here in Australia you know, like nothing happened---but it's all good, you do you, mama girl!

Dirg: how do you do that so effortlessly?

Laertus: the driving beat of that Australian Open theme song, so Aboriginal!

Judy: it's original but not necessarily Aboriginal. it's more a driving beat from a Eurotrash dancehall. our ancestors, right? *rolls eyes* what are you gonna do.

Brad Gilbert: effortlessly? why thank you. my nicknames come trippingly off the tongue. Tsitsipas? easy, EZ Pass. we're all from New York obviously. or maybe Going Greek?

Judy: i like that one. it's salty. both meanings.

Bump: teach me your ways, Gilbert and Sullivan and Pianoman with a Quarter-jar glass Can Jedi.

Nancy Pelosi: where's my nickname, Mickey? come on, this is easy, i look like a Muppet. that's what i share with Elizabeth Warren.

Elizabeth Warren tries to carry a purse full of fried chicken into the Well of the Senate but is rejected by TSA workers.

Carol Channing slaps her forehead with her wrist.

Bump: okay Nancy, here's your nickname: how about Speaker? i call you Speaker! cos you talk too much like a typical woman. you know i saw you there in the Well with all the kids, and it took me back to my halcyon days as a carfree carefree youth. when there were a lot of kids trapped in wells on tv. and those kids would later all flock around a famous celebrity and sing a song together on Sesame Street...

Mueller, Mulder, Scully, and Comey are hustling on the streets of San Francisco collecting coins in a can. they have split a can of beans four ways. none are cold in this cold, their hearts have long since gone black from the job.

Scully: i still won't go naked in this weather to prove i'm tough like a man. women have always been tougher. inside.

Comey: how's tricks, boss? i never see you anymore…

Mueller: Ashley and baby doing well?

Comey: yeah but it's not mine. i did some DOD investigating. apparently a French-American expat in a cerulean blue fuzzy Yale sweater is the father of both hers and Katy Tur's kiddos. he sweet-talked them both with his broken learning-to-speak-French-like-an-American-dumbass routine taking a language course by cassette tapes. that doofheadedness is charming. apparently. Buddha is keeping me calm.

Mueller: that company that was keeping me hostage? Toys R Us. the naked selfie was of Geoffrey the Giraffe. his neck is not his longest awkward body part. that's what took down the company. was being used as blackmail leverage by a French company, Target.

Comey: i could use a Tots R Us account as leverage in my life right now...

Fox Mulder: being in this line of work has grizzled me. i'm hard and can take stuff. look at my baby soft face. but i can't abide animal stuff, no fucking WAY! furry porn okay, animal stuff no way.

Scully: no live giraffes. live births only.

Brian Williams: i'm the Williams brother. ready for the 10 Most this year, darlin' darling?

Nicolle Wallace: don't call me that. why do we keep doing these things in a weird smelly kitchenette luncheonette at NBC Studios? why do you keep that same blue fuzzy Christmas sweater?

Brian: i thought you liked this one. okay, ready. ready? the 10 Most Reasons Why YOU Say You Won't Take Me Back.

Nicolle: Brian, we had an affair, there's no taking back! we had to return to our respective families.

Brian: why'd you wear those tight black leather rocker-chick pants for Comey and not me?

Nicolle: i like tall men. look, it was a fuck and a small round stool and now it's over. here. while we still have the vending machine over there, here are a few gold coins i found on the street, get yourself something nice. maybe a TheraFlu Keurig cup, you have that sweater look of a man who enjoys his TheraFlu in a brown mug with the teabag slightly out dangling.

at the ESPN Studios, Molly Qerim is tusslin'. with Stephen A Smith like every mindgratingly morning.

Molly: why do you suddenly get to read the announcements headlines? the stiffs at Upper Management think your voice has more flava? they don't like my squeaky squawky Minnie voice? but it's just a normal girl voice. this is the Man reasserting his privilege, tryna squeeze me out of my own deal and edge me over the cliff like Tom Brady.

Stephen A Smith: the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away my privileges. and giveth away again. you, Mollywood, are revoked. Samuel L Jackson, can't tell the difference, right? we each got that middle-finger initial. but there is so much of you to squeeze out, Molly Hard Wood, you ain't going out without a nice back-and-forth! you're practically black now, right?

Molly: i swear, my headache is growing on my fivehead. need to go to bed and bedache. pronounced be-DAWCHI. the workplace has become a living hell ever since the Cowbots won the Super Bowl! the thing is, nobody actually knows WHO who won the Super Bowl! i can't hate cos i can't speculate. but i damn well know i can't tolerate.

Stephen: nobody knows. but i don't want to find out. finna. i know the Cowboys won and those fans will be after me with pitchforks and fires. literally. i am so mad right now and for the rest of my life, i hate Cowboy fans! except those cowboy fans that put out open-range cookout fires, those will prove useful, all dem cowboy hats are gonna burn with me!!!

Max: i hate it when i'm waiting for the ESPN Scroll to turn so i get the NEWS news and RIGHT as the NEWS news is about to hit, the commercial comes! some car max commercial thing which removes the scroll! when it comes back, of course, the NEWS has moved on...gotta wait another half hour for it to rear its ugly head again…that hurts my sensibilities...

Molly: you're cute when you're in your feelings, Max.

the crones are at Cape Disappointment.

Gladyce: i need a light. no, not a cig flame, a light, i can't see with my glasses.

Doryce: i need a yurt. to eat yogurt in. and to fuck in. creamy yogurt in a can.

Gladyce: there's something missing from the Store.

Doryce: yeah, they used soft lighting this time, gave the place a whole new warm inviting feeling, it was nice, changed it without having to do a makeover. they need to invent chocolate-chip cookies that taste like fresh-from-the-oven after you microwave them. can we not wait 30 minutes? for good sex? we need to cheat and use the better oven to simulate the old greasy oven. the flavor without burning my fingers. like heated-up anal.

Gladyce: you taught me simulated sex doesn't count. my teeth can't take all that cookie sugar. i think they have those, dear, you just warm up any prepackaged precut storebought readymade already-circular hard cookies in the microwave and you're there.

Eye Luggage: ...and so i'm telling him, what does it say that for American Hollywoodism exceptionalism that no American Hollywood actors got the part of The Grinch, a British foreigner expat actor doing a cheap American accent got the part! step ya game up, America! for that Oscars host. let Paris Jackson to do it, it'll keep her distracted, she needs to keep busy…

Dirg: that's what I said. Steven Universe finale, go.

Eye: that's what I say.

Dirg: everything that's already been said has been said. that was the series finale. nothing more to do. don't turn the show into a SpongeBob for added cash. tv-movies should always be shown in theatres.

Laertus: speaking of Paris, Zach Callison's last uke solo song with the somber timbre strings wasn't sad cos he thought the show was ending, he was mentally ill and questioning life. that finale had so much packed into it, it had too much, too much to take, for anybody.

Dirg: that's a show subject Untouchable Sugar should tackle sweetly. suicide has always for me been a more controversial topic than trans coming-out LGBTotherletter no-sex genderfuck comfortable with your female side emoprog spectrum cable rights, right? they're both the same thing, right?

Eye: they kind of obliquely reference it with the drill. i would have used a hammer. hang in there, Zach, me and all your fans globalwide are here with you. you have created a changed culture forever for the better.

Laertus: uh yeah, that's just the thing tho. if you have a million online friends, you really have no friends. it's like quarterbacks in the NFL. are you really here for him? in his space? in his head?

Pedro and Judd visit a fiery speech by Randy Shilts. in a church converted to a town hall and governed by no man. the pews are on fire, separating ones from people worried and praying with one eye open. Randy throws mounds of dog poo at the spraypainted signs being held up and hoisted with wood splinters swayed by putrid protesters. protesters from Westboro.

Randy: see this Bible in my hairy hand? i shit on it. i throw dog poo at you! Westboro? what a joke! you borrow Western culture for your own evil ends. Westworld is already came...

Judd: i'm not comfortable here. i don't like these tactics, they're dangerous.

Pedro: man up, Judd! he is the AIDS activist we need! and deserve! to win the war! he of the bloodied elbow and broken backbone! we need those who will fight for our cause! die for it! before dying of it!

Randy: they call me Shits. so here i am, throwing shit. throwing truth bombs like fire. look at me, i will paint my own portrait on my own Wikipedia page when Wikipedia becomes a thing, i'm like if Bob Ross painted his draft card instead of burned it. if you knock me down here, i will become more powerful than you can ever imagine. i am unarmed and my both arms are wide open like Jesus, exposing my chest, go on, take the shot, i know where your Leader is, in Hell, i saw him there.

a silver shot is fired from the pew crowd. the crow crows. the bullet strikes Randy directly in the chest of his heart then flies off in an angle straight up into the clouded sky. screams overtake singe.

Cory: are you Geoffrey the Giraffe?

Geoff: no, but you're close. i was right under your nose.

Cory: we can't see each other anymore, Geoff.

Geoff: is it cos i'm white?

Cory: well, yeah. it just wouldn't work out with a white girl like me.

Geoff: but you're giving up on so much of the world with your limited thinking. you're dismissing me outright, you're not seeing me for who i really am. don't you see?

Geoff shows Cory the bullet inbetween his teeth, that same silver bullet.

Geoff: i've been Belvedere the dog this whole time. you missed your chance at happiness, honey. you didn't learn the lesson.

Cory: fuck me...…...can i have one more lick on my face for the road?

at the NBC Studios, Pedro is setting up for an interview with President George Bush, who won Reelection by defeating Bill Clinton.

George: you look weak. did you vote for me, son? or are you one of those new sisters?

Pedro: no, my T cell count is low.

George: what's it been now, two decades? the Republicans will never lose again! i see, weak, not well. i'll make sure the public never finds out about you, let you keep your privacy. my son will serve pizzas one day. a day the President won't be allowed.

it went from there...

Mohammed is revving up his pregame crowd on the stage, getting them warmed for the show. a silver spark shines in his large hand with black hairy pimples.

Mohammed: i know we artists lie all the time, it's our jobs. but this time it's different, the preshow won't be the best part, stay for the show, folks, i promise you won't be sorry. you're gonna see something you'll never get etched out of your head again. with a crowbar or pencil. fire me up, fam!

the cornrowed crowd roars with an underbelly wave that rocks underneath the stage. Mo stomps on the rusty plankboards, making little holes bigger, and shapes the silver object in his hand. his headbanging to the opening riff is a little silly with his shaved head. to the audience's gasps, the object is not the mic but the gun, that same silver gun.

Mohammed: NOW IS THE TIME!!! check your watches, everybody.

Mohammed commits suicide. time stands still forever, everyone's watches are forever etched dead on a Rolex crystal with a picture of a milkman on its face. perfect scratch of the DJ record records. the force of the blast is so strong it knocks Mo's head back to the point where he regrows all of his lost braids, cornrows, and dreadlocks. Mo turns into a giant blue naked genie with no tail point, no end.

Mo: do you NOW see?/ they can't rid of me!/ love is not free/ <but death is>/ i am now an indestructible idea!/ ideal that cannot squeal/ they can't forget what they see/ i am the stray dog nobody ever sees/ the man never given a chance to succeed/ cos of my T/ respected by C/ that's the real tea

Mo: see, i have now become what every black man is in this country society: invisible. my own very music led me down this path. i can better see my people's plight from down here, from this angle, all my dark-skinned peoples from all over, it's over. i have read the holy feature script, secured it, and optioned it to Hollywood Hell. i can help now, not just wish, i AM the Blue Genie! like Robin Williams---the best Williams in his field---shown at this very moment walking the sacred Sanfran steps of this city, his city, in HIM do i follow the steps. i am the fulsome ancient African spirit. i AM spirit. life is not about the love, it is about the lodge, i can assist from this side of the aisle cos now i am the thought/ thought personified, a thought in waking life. i am the Islamic tonic! taking back our country before it's too late. me, the late.

Mohammed: i am the BILAL!!!

Monday, January 21, 2019


1. what was your favorite part of yesterday? today

2. if you could make your own porn movie, what would you call it? would you write it, direct and/or star in the movie?

all of the above, in true Trent auteur fashion. Sex, Cereal, and Ants. the crusade of softcore legend Bambi, an ant who strives to have all sex workers tested and condomed and healthy in the workplace. when all hope is lost and it just seems like sexual harassment, the status quo, and injustice will be forever rampant and pervasive and unchecked in society, Bambi shuts down all picnics in this country, threatening to invade all picnic blankets and baskets with her ant-activist friends until an agreement is reached.....the Government agrees on nutrition labels on cereal boxes, it's not anywhere near what they were fighting for but for Government that's a huge baby step.

3. what do you like the least about sex? the lack of clothes. i like to look fashonable in all things i do. i like to wear tennis shoes and socks. i like to display my new Keto Diet body. people take one look at my shoes and socks and wonder about my feet. the Keto Diet is basically a lot of jogging, right? i've made so many friends on those Keto Diet messageboards…

4. so, now what are you planning to do? make deadline...

5. if you were a box of cereal, what would you be and why? ladies and gentlemen, i present to you the road company of the first-ever off-to-the-infinity-power-Broadway production of

Sex, Cereal, and Ants

starring the rarest of theatre actors, those you thought had died or OD'd or something cos you never saw them around anymore. i rehabilitate these hidden forgotten gems and prove to the public what made you fall in love with them in the first place lo those many years ago, their fierce talent and brisk pace and viability with advertisers:

Fruit Brute/Yummy Mummy/Banana Frosted Flakes/Grins&Smiles&Giggles&Laughs /Pink Panther Flakes/Freakies/Buc Wheats/Dino Pebbles/Vanilly Crunch/Punch Crunch/Sir Grapefellow/Baron Von Redberry/Cocoa Hoots/Crazy Cow/Mr. Wonderfull's Surprize/OK/Quake/Mud & Bugs/Moonstones/Bigg Mixx/Waffelos/Bill & Ted's Excellent Cereal/Monopoly Cereal/Croonchy Stars/Morning Funnies/OJs/Body Buddies/Jets/Choco Crack

every night right on the plankboards we have a knock-down-drag-out hair-pulling between Wilma the Winsome White Whale and Crazy Cow to see who's the ingenue and who's the understudy. Crazy Cow usually wins with her catchphrase How Now Brown Cow which kills with audiences if she gets a chance to speak with her lips and doesn't get eaten by Wilma's ruby lips first, which tests well with our unique crowds, it's all very entertaining. most of the audience leaves before the opening curtain cos they think that was the show...

bonus: if you could shrink down to ant-sized, what would you do? marry Evangeline Lilly


Friday, January 18, 2019



* one sun, many moons ago

* Jansport still exists in this universe, but there's no more time for cutsey duffel bags which house Hollywood teacup pets. the pets are fighting this war with us, there is no more atmosphere, those duffel bags contain the last oxygen our species, boh species, need to survive...

* woman: the old South African Crags, my mother used to lullaby them to me to sleep me.
man: the envy of the world. except for the White Cliffs of Dover who have seen many a flyer. too bad what's happened to them.
woman: i'd count the sheep......wait, what happened to the Crags?
man: those aren't sheep, those are graveyards...

* man: nervous?
woman: yeah, you're driving on the wrong side of the road. and i think i married the wrong man.
man: hey, i fell in love with your freckles, you fell in love with my asshole. my asshole qualities. they aren't gonna leave without you. *smiles*
woman: then why did my wake-up call ring late on my phone this morning?
man: you don't got the new iPhoneXXX!!?
woman: i'm qualified. overqualified. they're scared that i'm the first woman.
man: or first man.
woman: you didn't need to crash the candy-cane barrier, the pole was starting to go up.
man: like my love life. are you kidding?! we're in a VOLVO! this thing's a fucking tank!!! it can withstand ANYTHING!!!

* man: parking for the mall?
pimply-faced teenager: the mezzanine, it will always be on the mezzanine.
man: where's the Sbarro?
pft: in space. it had so much grease in it it rocketed there on its own.

* man: this place strangely looks like a Volvo dealership...
woman: open the door or i can't get my stuff and this mission halts forever.
man: i can't get the latch! i can't open the back door on the VOLVO!
woman: am i nervous? i do get nervous. it's only human. and i'm an android. of course i'm an android, i'm too pretty to be a real human. what do people think, all women on Earth are glam supermodels from their native Denmark or something?

* Steve Irwin: right, bonny. fancy a lift in my dune buggy?

* woman: the night is night. little did any human know then there would never be light again. it's pretty on the Crags tho. comfort zone? i never had a zone of personal space when i trained with the boys.

* woman: look at this press conference! nobody's here! what a Johannesburg joke! and the steps are even made of stone like this is the Roman Coliseum from a few years back! clearly not designed for a woman. i do appreciate the unisex togas tho. why did youtube have to interfere with virtual reality!? nobody wants an influencer in their own private VR experience! very funny putting this bank of mics to my mouth. no i will NOT wrestle in mud right now before you all.

* man: be scared, feel your scared, but never run away from things you don't know.
woman: okay but can you finally sign these papers? it would really put my mind at ease. i'm really itching to run away presently, i feel like a cheetah who's just chewed through her leash.

* woman: my mom taught me these lessons.
man: i know, i stalked your mom to gather intel on you.
woman: she always believed in me. and dad as all dads do put up the money. that's how dads show love, with a credit card. it's just a shame how they died on that first fight into space.

* FLASHBACK *hazy curtain*
woman: mom, do you believe in me?
mom: remember, the greatest ability is availability. capability? don't let NO ONE put a cap in the ass of your dreams.
dad: i'm handicapped. by my love for you.
woman: do you believe in me, dad?
dad: no, but here's 30 dollars.

* woman: mom, you promise not to laugh when i tell you what i want to become?
mom: but what if you want to become a comedienne?
woman: it's just comic now, mom, comic, get with the times.

* woman: i want to be the First Space Person.
TMNT: then why are you peering gazingly over inside the stormdrain portal of a sewer?
woman: cos that's where all the water on this planet is now, drips from underwater caves.

* woman: why are these sprawling flags tightly hung pole-shaped on the UN ceiling so big? we don't have countries anymore. please take me out of this viewing area, i don't want to be reminded again......this was the last room ever to have central heating...there are no more earplugs, all the cork had to be used for our wine bottles...

* man: i can't hear you, i'm driving under a tunnel.
woman: very funny, all of our roads are one big tunnel. it's so beautiful up here, the clouds are cotton they really are actually cotton candy, i've been eating them, they're my only food source…
man: describe the beauty you see up there.
woman: they should have brought a poet. not a port. i am a poet but i'm no Jodie Foster, who had her first book published when she was a little girl. it's so beautiful up here, it defies words and's celestial and ceremony...are you jotting all this down? for my book. cos i can't breathe...
man: breathe, babe, breathe.
woman: no the air tank's not working...24,000 miles an hour...
man: that's what out VOLVO goes.
woman: i just wished NASA had spent all those billions of dollars on more than my wristwatch.

* woman: the universe is big, but we're bigger......nevermind, blot out that last thought, i just saw a goldfish the size of Jupiter swim by me in outer space...
man: it's going good.
woman: fuck the maid yet?
man: what? i mean Laika misses you......this is the same Laika dog from that previous mission into space, right?
woman: fraid not. those flying dogtags in zero grav you saw? i'm not really in the Atlas Aerial Armed Forces, or Night Navy, our planet has been stripped of all natural resources, there's no more need for war. yep, those dog tags are Laika's...

* woman: Miles, you ever think how we got here? this moment in time.
man: miles and miles and miles.
woman: we're incredibly fortunate and lucky.
man: luck had nothing to do with it. you were good. in bed.
woman: no, i had a good pair of...glasses.
man: you screen-tested well.
woman: no i tested well.
man: you were incredibly smart to be the first test-tube baby.
woman: how bout i was just smart.
man: you chased ghosts for a living.
woman: i chased the unknown.
man: you bought a door.
woman: i knocked down the door.
man: yes, that's why you had to buy a door.

* woman: can we change the song? i don't like this song, it's too Sixties Scottish. they're like Mumford & Sons, they're trying too hard.
man: can't. this VOLVO only has automatic shuffle.

* woman: there are two types of people in this world: Type A Personality and Type B Personality...

* a bolt of lightning hits the ocean, and the Earth is no more…


happy weekend, my babies. the AFC Championship. everything happens during the AFC Championship. remember when Johnny Carson died in the middle of the AFC Championship?...

Wednesday, January 16, 2019


Bunim: don't Bump me.

Judd: so the main reason i decided to do this particular season of Real World was cos i missed the Los Angeles season. lots of production companies down there in the L.A. swamp bayou.

Pedro: woo woo, remember David the rapper? he loved his mother. i loved that muscular rapper freak of nature, all natural. he had muscular beats, too. i love my black men to look like the Hulk.

Judd: i will never succumb and let any liberal rags here denigrate my comics. will not submit. truth is, without this exposure, i'd be just another hackneyed cartoonist on the street foced to do "street art" looking for a handout.

Pam: it's not too bad.

Puck: i loved last season. i loved the synergy, the symbioticness. i loved how they aligned the Hollywood premiere opening of Magnolia with the Los Angeles season.

Pedro: yeah but you missed the best part, that film Magnolia reignited all of our love for the greatest city in the world, Los Angeles. i'd give you a flower emoji cos they take less time to water. see people overlook the actual filmic cinematic nature of Los Angeles itself, they just see that ALL films are made there and don't appreciate the city for what it glisteningly is. how the foggy forest suburbs sway with the palm trees. the downtown streets bathed in rainwater, how the pool at The Beverly Hilton looks poked to death with raindrops framing classic unsolved murder deaths, falling from beige top stories and unpublished beige stories in the papers, wretched ink stains on thumbs, under a unique grey sky, the continuation of one cloud. so here's something you will appreciate, Puck, the raining frogs scene. you bike messengers who wear nike are into all that weird crazy shit you do behind Irish baseball backstops, right? not raining men alleluia, but it's something.

Puck: Storm of Frogs, i was gonna copyright that for my bike label but that needed me to go to court. and then it got rejected for some reason. you read the papers i mean have papers?

Pedro pulls out a frog from his backpocket. the frog ribbits.

Pedro: take a long lick off this sucker's bumpy forehead and you'll experience an ecstasy few save for a few Haight Hippies have.

Puck does and his eyes turn into two black x's.

Puck: OMG! i've never felt this way before! i'm scared! i'm savory! don't know if i like it or i fear it!

Pedro: yeah but what secretions are you having? you have to go to the bathroom? collect the sample in this bud pipe.

Puck is so disoriented he proves useless. his nose stocks back up with mucus tho.

Pedro: useless! i've licked this frog myself but there's no change in me, i'm immune! i still don't have the completed potion parts! the recipe for my rejuvenation! blast!

Puck: i'm feelin' it now. get Mohammed in here! i want to have a strongly-worded chat with him!

Mohammed: bro, i'm recording the deep cuts of my album in the basement, whilst watching the KC Chiefs, i gots no time for all that you noise.

Puck: it's just, i don't get you, Mo. i'm supportive of your work but i wish it were a little edgier. a little more rap that spoke street stories scared suburban whites don't get a chance to live. the truth, you know? it's not all love and roses, it's hard out there for a messenger. hip hop of hate from those that are systematically oppressed silently, not from another gun war. heartache. you are not the black men i love that i read about in the rapper papers.

Mo begins to cry hard, his tears are heavy and laden and come out as two blue speedboats which stain the carpet with blue seed and skiff off.

Mohammed: *crying and beating his chest* what you want from me, Pimp Puck!!? i've given you my heart yo, my music is my soul! i'm trying to be the best a man can get!

Puck: *eyes reddening* shit, don't cry, i'll cry. my head hair is messed up from all the crying i mean rain, so i decided to shave it all off bald and start again anew and afresh. there's no point in going brown once you've already gone blond. not to mention flat from spiky. i bought this Gillette razor today with the last of my savings. not the electric one, the brutal primitive plastic one, old-skool. your shave is my example, teach me your ways, your ancient custom. it was perfect before, you were growing. i trust you, Mo, i trust you as a man, you looka like a man, i see you, i want you to shave my head with this original stick razor. it's a dick razor. for your balls.

the two weeping men are up close and personal, touching sobbing cheeks, as Mo lightly dances over Puck's head with a smooth stroke, caressing the crude inside of the razor to fit the slippery glacial curve. Puck grabs Mo's muscular wrists to stop.

Puck: thank you, my friend, we did it, together. this is what it means to be a man. to feel. to express through poerty which makes sense. to cry. with spoken word, not nods and whistles. leave the whistles for bikes and bags on bikes. please return to your hip-hop roots, my friend Mo, we're all counting on you to be the best gardener you can be.

Mo: just you watch, just you tune in next week, i'll grant you backstage passes, come to my show next week, i'm gonna do something revolutionary on that stage, you'll see. something talked about for millennia by millennials, debated discoursely and discursively. no one will ever understand me and what i did.

Judd: okay, enough of this, clear the area, and the one dining room carpet, we've got Christopher coming over, Pam's long long-lost boyfriend she's been long-distancing for eight years now. do you even know what Christopher Hitchens looks like anymore?

Pam: i hear he's developed a rather distinguished sprout of gray hair on his head and chin and the poof of his tail since last i sought, i've been watching him on the news at the streetcorner tv bank. he never once mentions me in interviews and he always takes his glasses off. i love my boyfriend.

Judd: i'm not jealous but i'm getting the flava itch down my spine.

Pam: he's always been so gentle with me, despite his stature and satire. he always wears white coats with me. i have been struggling for some time now, and Christopher would ladle all the soup i could eat at all the soup kitchens in the city, i visited every single one. my heart and tummy is so ever full when i'm with him. when he was off in Boston pursuing a master's degree in constructing soup kitchens, he made sure to redirect all the construction runoff into his backyard, his backyard was a mess he messaged me a photo of it. he'd make sure every Mardi Gras to purchase a full chicken from Boston Market and send it to me priority-mail on the midnight horse express route. the horses had a hard time navigating the crooked street.

Christopher: *ding a ling* hello, all. anybody home? i do not speak with my words but by my actions.

Judd: Christopher and play in da House! hey buddy, can i borrow your white coat? it's so stylish. Pedro is forcing me to wear a black suit for this, i hate being formal in my speech. i had to spraypaint black on my naked body using my best friend Puck's leftover spray cans in the garage which is illegally built on our House cantilever cos of all the slants.

Christopher: do not speak of my future wife like that manner! let's get on with the game.

at the Cream House, only the dimmer lights are on. President Bump is serving the Nat Champ Clemson Tigers one tray of forty McDonald's hamburgers with no cheese, with seriousness.

President Bump: right, men. right, men? this is what you play for! your diet is over with the die is cast. you won more than the game, you won your freedom back! this is why you struggle and toil and lift those silly weights and jump rope which is silly and deny yoself greasy foods during the summer! for this meat! dig in! you can relax now, you're a cheater like a Hollywood actress right after the Oscars Fix when she pigs out at In N Out Burger all night long with the statuette lost the next morning from the burger booth. when was the last time you boys had a good ol' fashioned Southern warm-cooked home meal from mama?

Dabo: prolly recruitment in players' homes, the moms do all the cooking. everybody has a base.

Bump: go ahead and take the birther burgers with the romaine lettuce on it.

Pence: *whispers bitterly* still banned sir, the Shutdown has halted food inspection.

the team pigs out all night and feel so terrible in the morning their heads ache, their tummies are on fire, and they are forced to sleep it off in the smelly Lincoln Bedroom. they never return to their championship form again, the next year they collapse from heat exhaustion in the snow at Michigan and never can keep down a healthy meal again their stomach linings are forever melted. they lose every football game they play from there after and never regain their invincible lustre.

Bump high-fives Nick Saban in the Oval Office.

Bump: always thinking bout dat base, my Alabama base. those South Carolinians are suspicious ever since that hot dark broad took down the flag. Nikki Cage something?, some porn name.

Saban: the only way they'd let me through to see you was if in the car i was wedged in between by two twee women on either side of me, sorry. sir, presenting without further delay Ms. Nikki Haley and Nancy.

Nancy: sir, i've been everything but impatient, but i will not allow you to proceed until you improve your penmanship! peremptory penmanship! you're gonna have to give me a nickname eventually.

Bump: Nikki, you're a Dem now. makes male sense. i can't reopen, i can't allow you Dems to actually get to work, that would be disastrous for me.

at the Biltmore Estates, the crones are enjoying lush green valleys which stretch for miles from beige high towers. they can still see past them with their old eyes. Doryce is eyeing up and down every last Baltimore Raven on a Super Bowl field trip, the Ravens have the time for a field trip cos they crashed out of the Super Bowl Chance.

Gladyce: up for another round of croquet?

Doryce: knitting is old woman's work. i thought that sport involved horses, but it's like polo without the horses, no fun. i'll just sit here on my duff on this green iconic grass and think about my favorite kind of union onion salt.

Gladyce: yes i know, don't remind me, i had to broom all the aisles of The Store finding it for you, you only eat the onion salt with the "parsley" in it!

Eye Luggage turns to camera to look right at her pendulous breasts. then she adjusts the camera, her knockers covered neatly with an NYU purple-wool robe. she unzips the slider slightly and bounces when she gets excited commenting on the latest cartoon episode and her tits hits go up and down accordingly in sequence to the rhythm of her bosoms.

Eye: i'm trying to be studious here folks, i'm wearing my glasses, i'm a married woman now, i'm honest, i'm a kept bitch, i don't do that cheap stuff anymore. don't you see all the overdue library books behind me? i'm in a kitchenette space but the bed is too small for me and my breasts and my hammer. what of the Transformer Acid Storm? this is the ultimate design, she is a he and he is a she. the first truly trans Trans. i love them! one scene he's a he and the other she's a she, same body, different face, that is truly transforming! society.

Dirg: Brian Windhorst, Winny, uh Windy, love this guy, he makes white fat pasty short men cool again. you notice nobody makes fun of his weight? cos he knows his ball. and he can't find his balls.

Laertus: i mean what of Michael Weatherly? that must have been one awkward return to work day back. like Pete Davidson's first day of work back. you still alive, buddy? does he just say let's ignore everything and jump right into the new script?

Dirg: Weatherly was hot a few years back. he was chewing on a mistletoe for the TV Guide Calendar. they've since had to disinfect that mistletoe with toxic spray. and pick at it for samples sent to the disgraced FBI Crime Lab. well they would if they were open like his mouth.

Laertus: Ariana Grande has finally discovered Pokémon Go after getting enough time to be bored post-Pete.

Chibnall: i wanted it to be on New Year's Day, cos this would be the only show for 2019...

Piers Morgan: i won't be cleanshaven anymore! the ladies will love my beard. PC guff! look, i know all you out there want to rid the world of us crotchety old white men, but we were once crochety old white boys! who were raised. i can only talk to strong muscular black men through twitter. look, i'm not doing this for me. i have two black friends, i'm trying to get my friend Tavis Smiley's job back, the world misses his vital voice. and my other black best friend is R Kelly.

R Kelly turns the Red Circle table back up. there is nobody else to talk to at the roundtable.

R Kelly: i'm looking for a job. i don't do interviews, my past life as R Jelly is over, i'm more of a weatherman. i make it rain on people...

at Inverness, Goody Paul has reached a zenith, a giant pink cave. he goes spelunking into its wide crack. with ropes and pulleys and a hardhat. little does he know that this is the giant butt of a giant buck naked Maria LaRosa sleeping peacefully like a Titan on the soft foggy grass of the mystery magic hills. her beautiful eyes closed.

Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez puts on her brown headband and dances the first hip-hop dance on the roof of a Boston Market. she takes ahold of the metal rod sticking out of the roof, lightning crashes onto the rod, and she feels no pain, she is filled with yellow power, her body blossoms. a black penguin-looking bird named Bobble perches falls from the rod and starts mimicking the dance AOC started, the two shadow-dance in front of each other.

AOC: you got the moves! you're a natural! i love how your head bobs.

Bobble: nah it's all you.

AOC: i feel your pain/ we're alike you and me/ we're the same/ we've come a long way from home/ to a strange and brutal land/ where joking is seen as arrogance/ arro-can can?/ can you understand?

Bobble: yeah. and the thing is, i'm not so much black as Puerto Rican. i'm a Puerto penguin, fleeing my familiars.

AOC dances over to the local doughnut shop. then the skate shop next door to the Beto Bodega where he hangs a skateboard over his shoulder and slings his toothpaste tube up. he spreads the worm of toothpaste all over his face and blends it in till shiny.

Beto: i really wish i hadn't razored my long skater hair. you're only cool on a skateboard if you wear long hair instead of a helmet.

at the local bar one block over Elizabeth Warren is having a beer. she is talking over a bar stool to Carol Channing, who has recently been looking slightly blue. the gabbers are drinking each other's raspberry-coconut shandy.

Carol: honey, you did it wrong. always check with your mother, not the village elders. i mean don't you live in a library? i'm not sad, i'm not choking, i'm black. i'm actually black. how do you think i danced so well in my career? unlike you pols, i wouldn't be scared of having a surprise black baby.

Warren: yeah no wonder i could never get into the Red Circle and have a seat at the table despite my great desire to meet my voters. Carol, i speak like my head is on a string but YOU, you my dear are one wonderful weirdo.

Andy Murray is crying at his press conference, tipping his ballcap among other things.

Andy: *crying* it's just...i never knew my father...all i've ever known is Carlos Moya taking my bed away! it was horrible hearing those sounds in the middle of the night, like the house among other people settling. but settling with cats on the roof. my mom orgasmed with a Spanish Scottish accent, si aye si aye si aye. the two saw eye to eye.

Judy Murray: actually, aye si aye si aye si, IcyHot on our private parts. i'm a pushy mum. apparently. i push it real good. there is no British word for daddy. but there's a Scottish one!

Andy plays doubles at Wimbledon with his brother for his final encore. there isn't a dry eye in the house, mostly cos everyone has had Chipotle and is getting the runs but are not allowed to leave their seats. the brothers celebrated with Chipotle after as always.

Andy: i'm not retired yet! one more match! me versus YOU, mother!

Judy: don't be silly, boy, you can't beat me! i taught you everything you know.

Andy: right here on Centre Court, eat the beer-fed grass, mom! best first to four points, Aussie rules. if the serve hits the net, you have to play it, no lets. and no letups.

Judy: *taunting from the other side of the net, showing her taint through her skirt* why didn't you marry that Wozniacki woman while she was still young and dirty? you were due to be a lucky lad. now she's gone Christian, you'll never get her back in bed. that's why you did the whole feminist farce, right? to get chicks? why'd you go secure the services of Amelie Mauresmo? it was cos she baked you fine French cuisine for breakfast and i could only offer you British barley oatmeal, is that it? you did it to shame me. it's all an act.

Andy: damn you mom! don't you see my interviews? i can't be an actor! first point, you shave off Moya's luxurious locks. second point, Carlos shaves YOUR head! third he moves out, fourth YOU move out!

Andy gives it his all in his final pro serve, it hoists up all his power and hits hard the tape and lips over, causing Judy to make a sudden jerk move.

Judy: ah my back! you screwed up my back, son! by being born! security! i need secureation. IcyHot! there's no more IcyHot?! this is my fucking back! my back used for fucking!

Andy: retiring, mum? i like roller coasters, not emotional roller coasters!

Judy: you're so lucky i can't play you right now! and that i'm your mum! just cramps, folks, i'll recover. doesn't count, it's traction, not loss of conditioning, i'm fit. i will go home and condition my hair and soon once again gain traction in my bed...

Andy later that night lies down on a bed, his new betrothed Caroline Wozniacki heals his stem with her icy cold hands. Wozniacki is a Christian Healer. later later that night Andy and Caroline wed in a secret destination wedding ceremony. the lovebirds slow-dance cheek to cheek the rest of the night. Andy's hip is healed and he can dance the salsa at his own wedding with his new bride. the Chipotle salsa.

Judd hooks his collar with his finger and cold comes out.

Judd: i feel like a monkey in this suit! it's so uncomfortable to be in public like this! okay okay, Christopher, THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!

a gaggle of Rachel's white school chums from college have come to visit her at the House at the same time this show is going on. sorority sisters all wearing the same pink short shorts. they inadvertently end up acting in this play as the couple's future Chinese children. they try to remain seen and not heard---they're good-looking enough to do this---but they just can't help themselves and giggle and laugh and gossip a fest away into their short shorts and tell dirty nasty hateful hurtful slurrilous jokes about Christians under their breaths.

Pedro: do you remember your kids, Christopher? do you remember how they were made?

Christopher: *sweating* uh, yeah, sure, i remember these are just more mouths i'll have to feed, with soup ladles.

Pedro: maybe this will jog your memory, don't run away. come gather round, guys, dolls, and you Pam, everyone on the spectrum, all welcome. i'm gonna tell you a ghost story. this active fireplace in the middle of the darkened dark dining room sets the mood, there are no sprinklers inside domestic homes in the '90s. the fire alarm is on silent so everyone can hear me. long ago, in a mystical place known as the '80s, the place where i come from, there lived a man who wore a kangol and drove a taxicab through the City. each night he'd traverse the Crooked Street and get stuck. helping the homeless on the Crooked. he'd take the giant soup ladle from out his locked taxi trunk and fill all hungry muddy mouths with broken barley broth, fast-food roast chicken was too expensive at the time, still recovering from that '70s inflation. noodles were an Asian thing not yet invented. the homeless would thank his charity by writing on his cab with paint and promising to rent from him in the future. and on moonless nights when the moon is full, some say you can still see that cab driving, edging those corners of the Crooked, familiarly, slowly, like a wispy wagon. and in bright red letters, not blue or black or white or yellow letters, but in red letters, on the cab is a word scholars through the ages have tried and failed to decipher and translate and tome out but to no avail. the word, the magic word, the incantation, the spell, the curse, remains a mystery:


the sorority sisters all scream.

Christopher: uh yeah, that man was my father.

Pedro: and he's here with us tonight!

Christopher: but he's dead!

Pedro moves Pam and palm by the shoulders right up to Christopher's face.

Pedro: exactly. he is here with you in spirit, Christopher, through Pam here. are you ready to marry here and now on this show? this is not a drill, it's real. i'm the first ordained online minister, i can do this in five minutes. don't you remember how you made your kids?

Judd starts fucking Pam in her butt right there on the carpet.

Pam: *getting thrusted and dusted* let's get married, Christopher, let's get hitched. i know you're chicken but i will be your noodle.

Pedro waves his two hands in the air bravadoly like a showman without a tophat but with a glitter cape.

Pedro: THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!! remember now what happened? Christopher is it coming to you now? hey Judd and Pam, remember to collect the samples from the both of you. and take them to my office in the basement. and scrape off any white or clear from Christopher's coat.

Christopher: okay but i want a church wedding. and i'm thinking of going back for my doctorate.

Pedro: Christopher and Pam, you're married, you're gonna be married forever, this is all legal.