Howdy, ma’am. Reckon you here to ask me about old Sally Ray Koosman. Well, we don’t get too many big city reporters out this way, less it’s to ask about the paint thinner plant yonder up the river, or Sally Ray, seeing how she’s the only one ever make it out of old Weevil Holler. Yessir, Sally Ray was the pride of the community on account of winnin all them geography bees. County, state, regionals, nationals. She done sweppem all. We ain’t had no school round these parts since the Scopes Monkey Trial, so nobody knew how she figured out what an isthmus was, or how she could properly identify a fjord, but they she was. Makin us all real proud. When all the townsfolk gathered around the teevee to watch Sally Ray, it was the biggest crowd at Gunther’s Lunch Counter and General Store since 1968, when George Wallace made an ill-advised campaign stop, after which we tole him his stump speech weren’t racist enough. Women kneaded they handkerchiefs and even a few of the menfolks’ knees knocked as Sally Ray stepped up to the microphone to name the African country that was bordered on all sides by one other country. Lesotho. Sure enough. We all whooped and cheered. Pretty soon Sally Ray was a big sensation. Inspired provocative thinkpieces in Harper’s and the New Yorker about whether educators should reevaluate they curricula by concentrating less on traditional academic disciplines like the humanities or hard sciences and instead smear they children’s faces with coal dust and make em drink Shasta for every meal. Course, the good times ain’t last long before Sally Ray started to experience the downside of fame. Ole girl done collapsed from exhaustion after a ribbon-cutting at the fancy publishers Harcourt Brace Jovanovich new flagship retail outlet in midtown Manhattan. Danged doctor prescribed her some pills to help her regulate her sleep patterns after all that airplane traveling interrupted her Circadian rhythms. From there it was just a matter of time till she fell into a pit of chemical dependency. Bad stuff. Hair ron. Kickaine. Folks started to talk amongst theyselves. Why she need to take a belt into the bathroom with her if she just going in there to make water. We was already pretty worried about her by the time she embarrassed herself on Tom Snyder’s show. Showed up under the influence and tried to scratch Carl Sagan’s eyes out. Things better for her now though. Found enlightenment through Buddhism. Taking better care of herself too. Pilates. Ashtanga vinyasa yoga. She over there eatin that kale sallit from Whole Foods. Rich in numerous polyphenolic flavonoid compounds, such as lutein, zeaxanthin, and beta-carotene. She don’t talk much about those heady days now, but I bet you could get her to open up if you act like a confused tourist looking for an estuary.
Archive for the 'vomitus' Category
granny body shot
wide screens, raw green
After emigrating to the United States, Paolo Neal had thought it appropriate to baptize his son with the Anglicized version of his own first name, and found himself so pleased with the result that he would also give the moniker to his subsequent children. The three boys would all take their mothers’ surnames: LaDeen, LaZahn, and Isadora, but the youngest would attempt to distinguish himself from his brothers by using only his first initial. Paolo today called them all together to discuss the matter of their inheritance, a subject which had grown in importance since his health took a recent turn for the worse. His caretaker Rosa met the boys at the great heavy door and embraced them with tears welling up in her eyes. She was overcome with emotion not only at the relief at their reunion, but with guilt over not having been allowed to disclose the details of their father’s worsening condition until this late hour.
The secrecy was only one item on a list of eccentric requests Paolo had made of Rosa with accelerating urgency as his health deteriorated. At his demand, she had moved his bed into an antechamber, giving him a space small enough that he felt he could still exercise some control over his surroundings, though even this was less true every day. The three boys, men now, shuffled into the room, each resisting the impulse to create more space at his crowded bedside with their elbows as Paolo spoke. Everyone was uncomfortable.
“Splendid,” the old man said as he exhaled a prodigious bong rip up in the direction of a housefly that had been bumping maddeningly against the light, sending the bug spiraling to the floor. P knelt down to inspect it, and in doing so noted the pinprick of the fixture’s reflected light quivering on the fly’s hard green abdomen. It was still alive, but utterly uninterested in much more movement than that required by breathing. P used a business card to collect the fly and placed it into his jacket pocket.
Paolo continued, “As you boys know, Rosa’s son, he is very sick.” They nodded. “The costs of his care will break Rosa, and with his four sisters and no father to care for them…”
The middle son interrupted, “Papa, say no more. I speak for us all when I say that our inheritance has been the fine upbringing you gave us, which allowed us all to become quite successful, each in his own right,” he said, and the others nodded again in agreement, for it was true.
The eldest finally spoke. “He’s right, Papa. Our inheritance is each other.”
Paolo gazed at his sons again, beaming with pride.
“Gather close in,” he said. “though I may no longer have a fortune to give you, there is no dollar amount that can be placed on this last knowledge I have yet to impart. Use it wisely.”
They huddled around him.
“You know that Crosby, Stills & Nash song ‘Marrakesh Express’? It’s about eating pussy.”
Honey, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am to have been rescued from that desert island. And although I spent four years, two months and sixteen days dreaming nonstop of the day I would be back in your arms, I know it’s going to take some time for us to get reacclimated to each other. Fortunately, the company is hoping to forestall a lawsuit by providing all of us who were stranded on what the media have called “the longest corporate retreat ever” with group therapy to deal with our survivor guilt. One of the things they told us during our first session today was that the first step to rebuilding our lives is to be honest about the inevitable changes caused by our very different experiences. After all, neither of us is the same person we were the weekend before New Year’s 2008- wait, is it the year that’s ending or the year that’s beginning? Well, you know, 2007 going in to 2008. See, this is one of the many things I’m going to have to relearn as I integrate myself back into society. Oh also, I may need a quick refresher course on how to use silverware after we get done with this family meeting.
The stress of daily life among the twelve who managed to swim to shore after Mr. Amparo’s Gulfstream V crashed into the ocean was overwhelming at times, and for me it was only compounded by the guilt of knowing that you had asked me not to go. As we learned to feed ourselves, finally discovered an effective method for desalination after numerous failed prototypes, and found shelter in caves after a storm destroyed the housing we had built from airplane debris and palm leaves, the other men and women on the island gradually became a family, bonded forever through our struggles. We built a functioning society that was loosely based on our corporate hierarchy, which meant that I wound up doing a lot of the physical labor and drew a disproportionate percentage of overnight panther-watch duties.
A couple of things you should know. For starters, I hope you’ll understand that I didn’t adhere to a strictly vegetarian diet. I need you to be prepared for the possibility that you might walk into me eating a ham sandwich at three a.m. in the kitchen in the dark, my face adorned with a grizzled, thousand-yard stare as I remember the occasional slaughter of a wild pig, for those were the only times our bellies felt full. As for the other thing you’re probably wondering about: although the temptation was there on several occasions, none of us ever strayed from our spouses. It was pretty close; I’ll be honest. The plane that found us flew overhead the day before we had scheduled a vote to finally give up and get buck wild, and the “for” side had really gained traction since the last time we had voted on it. Our cuddle sessions were strictly for survival, as it got pretty cold at night, and I should add that on my request, the company has also provided body pillows with faces painted on them. As an exercise, the therapist recommended that we name them together.
polar fear club
Yes, I’m Rodney. Oh, is today the day the camera crew was supposed to follow me around?, I’ll say casually when they arrive, acting like I just walk around the house wearing a shirt with a collar all the time like some kind of big shot. I was just settling down to read a few chapters of Ulysses. Would you care for a gingerbread cookie once they cool off? Gone will be the following items: the Iron Maiden posters in my living room, the stack of Club Internationals and Schlitz empties in my bedroom, and the pizza-stained mountain of paper plates on the card table in my dining area. As Fonzie proved, garage apartments need not be the seedy havens of nefarious activity which are so frequently documented by the very same local news channel whose van will soon be at my door. I’ll need to make a good impression, and shoring up my admittedly lax personal hygiene and housekeeping habits is just as important as making sure I’ve given myself time plenty of time to finish masturbating before they arrive.
They said they’d be here at 7 a.m. sharp Wednesday morning, so I’ve got 36 hours to get this place tidied up. It’s not going to be easy, but investigative reporter Cynthia Sujira Senghor and her crew deserve nothing but the best. After all, they’re the ones who are gonna blow the lid off this international matchmaking scam that’s been taking advantage of successful bachelors who are too busy with their professional lives to seek out a mate through conventional means. Although it’s been a while since I entertained company, I do remember that a good host shouldn’t have a kitchen counter full of newspapers open to the bra ads, or an unflushed toilet whose contents look like egg drop soup. And my mother taught me that closed-toed shoes are a must, as a true gentleman never reveals how many toenails he’s lost to fungus. While I’m thinking about it, I must call the city to come pick up this raccoon trap, though the next season of Boardwalk Empire won’t be the same without my little watching buddy.
The only thing I’m worried about is that they said they wanted to get a few shots of me at work, and there’s a lot that could go wrong there. I’m probably just gonna have to send a hooker to Myron’s house Wednesday morning to keep him away from the office. Seems easier than trying to convince him to take down that “Fuck Rodney” banner above his cubicle that I had to pay to have professionally done at FedEx Kinko’s after losing a bet that our boss was gay. Plus, since word of our wager got out, my desk is really maybe even uncomfortably close to a forklift loading zone, which may pose a challenge to Channel 11′s sound engineers. The stakes are high, but if this all goes well, it could be a big turning point for me; maybe even increase my chances with that cute new temp in payroll. Just let her try and come up with a reason not to go to the movies with me after finally seeing me as the center of attention for a positive reason. I’m not usually romantically compatible with American girls, but it would be a real waste of all this housework not to try and get some dirty leg while the place is clean.
Welcome to www.chaiselongue.com, your online source for plush, luxurious chaise longues at distributor prices. You already know that at www.chaiselongue.com, we pride ourselves on our exquisitely crafted chaise longues, offering selections of every color, shape and size found on the surprisingly diverse spectrum of chaise longue options. But what you might not know is how seriously we take our responsibility to uphold the venerable traditions from which the chaise longue originally sprang. We handle every step from the factory until your chaise longue arrives at your door, and our attention to quality is evident in every step, whether it be our business partnerships with only the finest old-world artisans like Marc Cavalcanti and Giuseppe der Wielen, our fabric buyers’ meticulous demand for nothing less than the highest quality materials and upholstery, or our insistence on using the same stupid original French spelling of “chaise longue” as last week’s Los Angeles Times Sunday crossword.
Our customers have depended on www.chaiselongue.com for generations, because we haven’t strayed from the principles our business was founded upon. We cater to a discriminating clientele with an eye for quality, and our many repeat customers appreciate that our high standards and commitment to service have remained the same since 1996. And unlike our competitors at www.chaiselounge.com, we offer our grand, opulent chaise longues at the prices the dealers get before they mark them up. Also unlike our competitors, we won’t insult our customers by using the dumbed-down American malapropism “chaise lounge.” Clearly, if you are in the market for an elegant chaise longue, you’re looking to class up the joint, so maybe you should fucking act like it already. What, you think the late Susan Sontag spelled it “chaise lounge” like some kind of fucking sixteen year-old barely literate frontier wife nursing two toddlers in a goddam covered wagon? Nah, man. Fuck outta here with that boolshit.
We’ve made a few changes to our website, so feel free to browse around. One of our new features is our store finder, for those discerning customers who prefer to come out to one of our 13 showrooms nationwide and inspect our fine chaise longues in person. A click of the mouse will help you find all one of our customer service centers in your region. You’ll know you’re in capable hands when you hear our representatives use the sophisticated, proper pronunciation of “shay-lohnj“- the only vocalization worthy of our incomparable chaise longues- that you’d expect from the late George Plimpton. Whether you’re looking for an offering from the Leland Nguyen spring collection, or simply want to take advantage of special prices on our featured Chaise Longue of the Month (January’s is the sleek, modern Royal Executive, available in olive drab or currant), you’ll soon see why www.chaiselongue.com is the number one choice for millionaire philanders looking to furnish a swanky apartment to conduct extramarital affairs in.
reverse trigonometry
Hello, who am I speaking with? Eleanor… and that’s with two E’s? Well, non-consecutive, obviously. And you are a… manager or supervisor? Actually, what is your exact title? Hang on, let me get a different mechanical pencil, because after the experience I just had, I am taking notes, which I plan to turn over to the Better Business Bureau, if necessary. All right, got it. Oh, my tracking number is 5694…306…618… do you need me to slow down? Okay, just making sure: 47294…05739…well, it’s easier for me to read if I break it into sections like this, okay? Let’s see here, where were we… oh, and it ends in 149. You’re not seeing it? Let’s try it again, all at once: 56943066184729405739419. Okay, much better. Well, Eleanor, I wanted to speak with you about one of your customer service representatives that I just got off the phone with. Yes, her name was Critter Goldengraham, and during our call, Ms. Goldengraham was curt, openly dismissive of my concerns, and not at all informative. Her refusal to treat me with the merest modicum of human decency turned what should have been a brief query for your contracting firm regarding the custom Sega Genesis installation you just did on the ceiling above my indoor hot tub, into a morning-long debacle that escalated, or rather devolved, depending on your perspective, into a shouting match that spanned the call’s final 90 minutes. I have never felt so frustrated, exhausted, or, most of all, disrespected in all of my life. Additionally, I’m pretty sure I have fallen in love with her. Let me tell you something, Eleanor; I spend a LOT of money and time getting women to abuse me over the phone, but Critter was in a class by herself. She so thoroughly broke my will that after the call I had to stifle the impulse to cleanse myself by touching a hot stove the exact same way 200 times. So, how about it, lady- you gonna send me her home address or what? I wanna weird out on this broad and I am not gonna be stopped, so you might as well profit from it. What’s your game, dollface? Bootleg Gucci handbags, secret poker games, human cockfighting? I got underworld connections like you wouldn’t believe. And I’m not just talking about my shady business partners either; I also wield quite a bit of influence back in Niil’Kelash, the subterranean home of wandering doomed souls in the afterlife. I’m an old fashioned guy, Eleanor, and I’m determined to make an honest woman out of Critter. Who knows- if this thing goes according to plan, you could be called to offer testimony on our behalf at our wedding in the very throne room of the Dark Emperor himself, Fwecc-Mehebel (some interpretations of the prophecy did say that the Selector of Gnelken shall marry a woman named for a cat, so fingers crossed!). Then, upon the recitation of our vows, we shall drink from the Skull of BeHok Ne’enb, then, our wings fully grown at last, we will ascend into the sky for the first time as husband and wife. With the legion of Laolti flying at our backs, our numbers shall block out the sun as we rend the flesh of the terrified nonbelievers to announce the beginning of His eternal reign over the conquered and enslaved heretics. This oath I seal with my blood: all hail the holy name of Fwecc-Mehebel, forever. Amen and amen.
novelty gallagher mullet mirror
First of all, I’d like to thank the fine folks at the Center for American Regression for hosting this fundraising dinner, but mostly I’d like to thank you, the outstanding Admiral’s Club-level donors that make up my core constituency. Every time I return here to my home district, I feel so grateful to be a six-time incumbent, because it means I no longer have to have to shake the germ-laden hands of our fair district’s many non-millionaires, thanks to my near universal name recognition.
While this event is not open to the press, I would like to take a minute to address the allegations made by my opponent in next year’s upcoming race. You know, folks, I wear a lot of hats in Washington: senior member of the ignorance committee, unofficial congressional liaison to the international underground human organ trade, fixture on the Sunday talk shows when they need someone to advocate against child labor laws. I take every one of these roles very seriously, as well as a few others: straight shooter, no-nonsense negotiator, common sense everyman. One thing I am not, however, is two goats stacked on top of each other, then somehow stuffed inside a Brooks Brothers suit.
See, what the elites don’t want you to know is that I’m up there fighting for our nation’s most productive citizens, who otherwise wouldn’t have a voice in Washington due to the time-consuming task of generating every bit of wealth that their shareholders are entitled to. So they focus on divisive distractions, like this loop of rope tied around my neck. Of course, they conveniently leave out details that don’t fit their pre-crafted narrative, like the fact that the end of this rope is chewed off, unlike the invisible rope around my opponent’s neck, which remains tightly tethered to special interest groups like the powerful solar energy lobby. And not even the strongest goat teeth can chew through that rope, friends.
We must be vigilant, as our cause is now under grave threat from forces determined to destroy everything we’ve worked for, using insidious tactics like a whisper campaign insinuating that the real Rep. Stonesworthy died of a massive cocaine overdose in a swank Georgetown hotel room hosting one of his quarterly hooker summits, and that his campaign decided the most practical replacement this close to election season was a couple of farm animals with a device cleverly planted on them to deliver prerecorded speeches while the top one licks peanut butter off the roof of his mouth to make it look like he’s talking. Once again, thanks for supporting our re-election campaign. Take this opportunity to do a little networking, and of course, feel free to order another $300 plate of veal parmigiana. I hear it’s delicious, but I filled up on tin cans during the limo ride over here.
Hello, is this Herb Djukanovic and Sons Heating and Air Conditioning Service? Well, Gary, for the purposes of this phone call, can it be? For fuck’s sake, we’ve gotta get this prank phone call rehearsed, recorded, edited, and mixed for a segment on tomorrow’s show and I have a meeting with my probation officer at 2 that I have to be on time to, so get with the goddamn program, because I gotta make sure this thing comes off as hilarious as I wrote it. Okay, dry run, take two. Oh come on, Gary, don’t look at the caller ID, just pick it up. Hello, is this Herb Djukanovic and Sons Heating and Air Conditioning Service? Well, one of your service technicians just left my house, and his professionalism left quite a bit to be desired. Gary, are you listening to me or looking at that swimsuit calendar from 1994? Come on, buddy, I need you here. Okay, we’ll pick up at “his professionalism left quite a bit to be desired.” Can you think of a better way to phrase that, Gary? Never mind, we’ll rewrite it before we do the real call. Okay, ask me what my complaint is. Because you’re helping me rehearse, Gary- where have you been this whole time? Okay, ahem, the guy knocked on our door, then without even getting his tools out or asking about our hot water heater, pulled out a knife and ordered all of us to the kitchen and made us get on our knees while he bound our hands behind our backs. Jesus, Buddha, and Allah, Gary- is this the time to be looking at that fucking delivery menu right now? I’m just getting to the good part, and you are fucking this up for both of us. Look, Gary, this may be a shitty job, but I need it. I’m upside down on my mortgage and that private detective Brenda hired finally tracked me down and is leaning on me for several years of back child support. Uh, chicken salad on wheat toast and a Doctor Brown’s Black Cherry, by the way. This is the place that puts grapes and walnuts in their chicken salad, right? So sophisticated! Okay, so getting back on track: once my hands were tied, he pressed the cold metal of his knife against my index finger, threatening to cut it off unless I told him where we kept our valuables. I tried hard not to tremble as I felt a single drop of blood roll down my finger and pool in the palm of my hand, then he suddenly changed his question. My wife’s eyes met mine, her image distorting as my tears amassed, and our captor demanded I name the artist on this track. Oh, fuck me, Gary. You were supposed to have cued up that clip of “Never Been Any Reason,” by Head East before we fucking started. Will you get your head in the game? Okay, forget it, let’s just call Waynelle’s Country Grocery again. But this is the last time, Gary; I think they’re starting to catch on.
Ahoy, fellow rum drinker!
Congratulations on your recent purchase of Barbary Coast Spiced Rum. Such a selection speaks to not only your discriminating taste, but your keen eye for bargains. The smooth, rich taste of Barbary Coast Spiced rum is perfect for any occasion, whether reuniting with estranged loved ones, forgetting your hopes and dreams in a bus depot, or out for a night on the town acting like an idiot with your stupid fucking friends.
We here at Barbary Coast Spiced Rum thank you for your patronage, knowing as we do how flavored rum’s popularity is at an all-time low, due to its association with all manner of unsavory characters. For example, Jimmy Buffett’s music is now inextricably linked in the public’s mind with traumatic memories of the time they accidentally found their dad’s Cialis prescription. Those television advertisements showing Captain Morgan’s escapades at sea imply quite a bit more consensual sex than is historically accurate. And while his connection to flavored rum is at best tenuous, the sheriff of Malibu routinely violates the taxpayers’ trust by abusing his unchallenged authority, indulging his legendary hatred of goldbrickers with his coffee mug. As a customer, you’ve gotta be pretty loyal to a product to brave that kind of social stigma, and we want to repay that devotion by providing a top-notch product. You see, at Barbary Coast Spiced Rum, we think of ourselves as more than just a front for an international heroin smuggling operation. We’re also the proud makers of a rum that starting March 2012, will be 30% less likely to make you go blind.
As you know, drinking the contents of this bottle will condemn you to lifelong membership in a tiny, marginalized segment of society. Indeed, it’s often been said that the last acceptable form of hate speech in this country is disparagement of spiced rum enthusiasts, which means we’ve gotta stick together. So log onto our website to receive special offers and learn about Barbary Coast Spiced Rum-sponsored events in your town, where you can meet other Barbary Coast Spiced Rum drinkers and get exclusive sneak previews of new Barbary Coast products, even before they’ve been tested on animals. While you’re at it, get to know our Barbary Coast Spiced Rum Sweethearts, whose flirtatious smiles will never betray their contempt for you, because they’re trained to enforce the shallow, juvenile view of women that is an essential part of the Barbary Coast Spiced Rum experience.
All right, we’ve kept you long enough. If this message goes on much longer, your hand will be shaking too hard to hold the paper, am I right? So grab those Shastas out of the freezer before the cans split, pour yourself a generous serving of Barbary Coast Spiced Rum into your kid’s Charlie Brown Thermos, and hide your boat keys. Because soon your English won’t be any more coherent than that of the eight year-old calligraphist writing this note in a sweatshop.
the boston straggler
Hey, Kyle, how’s the homework going? Remedial math, huh? Boy, that brings back some memories! Listen, why don’t you take a break for some ice cream- is strawberry okay? Ha, I knew that was your favorite! Hey, while I got you here, I’d like to talk to you about something. Ever since Benny brought you home last month and told us you needed a place to stay, Mrs. B and I have been glad to have you. While you’re in our house, we’re gonna love you like one of our own. But we do expect you to obey the same rules, and since you might be here for the long haul, it’s probably time to clarify a couple of those for you.
Sometimes in the mornings as I’m leaving for work, I can’t help but notice young ladies sneaking out of your bedroom window. Aside from the very serious health concerns raised by my not yet having seen the same girl twice, it’s probably not appropriate for you to be using our house for this kind of activity, especially on school nights. If you need me to leave the car unlocked in the garage, I can do that, but only on weekends. But for your information, I always know how many miles are on the odometer, so no funny business. Also, could you occasionally direct some spillover Benny’s way? Hearing your encounters with college girls and single moms you bring home from bars has been really tough for him, what with all the problems he’s had getting a date for the Homecoming dance.
Okay, now that that’s cleared up, there’s other thing I’d like to talk to you about. I’ve noticed my sock drawer hasn’t been as meticulously organized as I usually keep it. Without accusing you of anything, Kyle, I just want to tell you that you are welcome to anything in our house, but it’s very important that you ask first. You see, Mrs. B and I sometimes have things that we’d like to keep a private matter, and from your pale visage and inability to make eye contact, I can tell you’ve stumbled across one such item. And listen, I am really sorry you saw those photos. The practice Mrs. B and I were engaged in is called pegging, and I want to stress that it does not make you gay. In fact, lots of heterosexual couples do it, and there are a lot more of us out there than you think. Respectable people too; the online forums Mrs. B and I moderate gets regular contributions from several doctors, a city councilwoman, and numerous clergy. Sorry if I’m going on about this, but as you can tell, it’s a topic Mrs. B and I are really passionate about.
Okay, I’m glad we had this talk. I don’t want you to think we’re coming down too hard on you, especially after your previous home situation. You’re a terrific kid, and it says something that in three weeks, those are the only concerns we’ve had. For example, I’m really glad I don’t have to talk to about our rule regarding eating at least one green vegetable at dinner every night- keep up the good work!
