flarn flarn filth

my mama gave me very little to shake

jimjbollocks — Wed, 23 May 2012 18:06:21 +0000

Congratulations, young men. Your presence at this secret debriefing can be attributed to your having demonstrated considerable aptitude in one or more areas of skill, as determined by the scientists in lab coats that have been taking exhaustive notes on their clipboards while silently, creepily observing you all on the other side of the two-way glass of each of the mirrors which have been strategically placed in the corridors, classrooms and lavatories of our facility. You’re all smart boys; surely by now you have deduced the unlikelihood of our having plucked you out of your orphanages and failing inner-city high schools and invited you to matriculate on our idyllic, tree-lined campus without having some ulterior motive in mind. If you will direct your attention to slide A, you will find a picture of the experimental drug that we will begin putting into your food in varying doses at an undisclosed time. We encourage you to keep going about your everyday business as if nothing were out of the ordinary, as our observation team will be tracking any potential changes that might manifest themselves in your studies, athletic prowess, or classroom behavior. The only reason we are even divulging this information is to ask that you be very careful not to boast of your newfound ability to dunk on a 12 foot goal, or write a particularly thorough take-down of your roommate’s essay linking the rise of agrarian societies to a better treatment of those members who would not have made good hunters in generations past, not even as part of a class assignment, but just to take him down a peg or two. Furthermore, we must not upset the uneasy alliance between warring factions of elite private academies that has kept us afloat thus far until we are ready to strike at their hearts like a drug-aided cobra at regionals next spring. Your participation will be rewarded with incentives, such as early eligibility in our upcoming program that will turn even our middling and sub-achieving students into a race of supermen that will be lorded over by you. Placement in the program will be determined by your Busby rating, a number calculated by multiplying your accuracy rate of quoting the lyrics to the Doobie Brothers’ 1973 hit “China Grove” by the amount of time your pets wait after your death before chewing your face off.

which is a better nom de plume: doctor drunkenstein or doctor frankenstoned?

jimjbollocks — Wed, 16 May 2012 19:24:31 +0000

Very few people- Hollywood producers and directors, mostly- knew that for scenes that required a stuntman being engulfed in flames, the stuntman that delivered the highest quality work was actually a woman, and that was exactly the way she wanted it. From her maiden voyage years ago playing the Aryan gang member that got burned up by Delroy Lindo in Blood In Blood Out up until now, as she prepared for one last “fire-walk” that she had come out of retirement for as a favor to a friend, Erin Kukal had not sought out fame or even credit (there had always been someone there ready to snatch it up if she had), but found fulfillment in the simple act of a job well done. The respect of her peers had been sufficient to sustain her.
The money didn’t hurt, either. As her reputation within the stuntman community grew, so had her paychecks. At her peak, she had earned more from that one fight scene in Anchorman than on all those Jean-Claude Van Damme movies combined. She looked in the mirror, conducting a routine visual inspection of the fasteners on her flame-retardant suit, and tried to put thoughts of the risks out of her mind, as this payoff, a promised gig as an on-set consultant on this director’s future projects, stood to dwarf the rest of them. She quieted her subconscious protests by audibly reminding herself of the many successful stunts she had undertaken, with only one brush with significant danger. For that particular assignment, in which she had to run a significant distance while engulfed in flames, she had had to summon even the dregs of her strength and discipline, but the result, that one music video in 1995 that had rendered Beavis and Butt-head unable to form words, had been her finest hour. The one internal question that remained unanswered was how being out of the game for so long would affect her performance. She steeled her nerves. It had always struck her as interesting, the amount of discipline and restraint required to present an illusion of chaos.
It was a lonely life. Over the years, a long line of suitors had been found lacking the qualities she required in a partner, in no small part because she she found those qualities so difficult to define. With her list of candidates narrowed by the tendency of most men to be intimidated by her career choice, her search for companionship had taken her on a strange but heartbreaking journey, populated most notably by characters like the guitarist who drunkenly stepped into the street to take a picture of his metal band’s name on the marquee, then got hit by a car; or the sensitive, confident yoga instructor who had seemed perfect until she snooped through his spotless, sunlight-drenched high-rise apartment, surmising upon stroking the immaculately folded SimplyVera bath towels in his bathroom that to domesticate him would prove an insufficient challenge, and therefore an unsatisfactory prize.
Her trailer door opened and an impatient production assistant entered. She had seen him on set that morning barking orders to a gaggle of background actors like he knew something. This pup had been around the block long enough to have mastered the art of treating his few subordinates with contempt, but not long enough to know the importance of treating a veteran like her with the respect she had earned.
“Safety inspectors are on set, Ms. Kukal. Report to the stunt coordinator in your flame-retardant suit in five minutes.”
“Are my markers down?”
“Don’t worry about that, Ms. Kukal. It’s not your job.”
She stood and addressed him coldly.
“That’s right. If it were my job, it would be done by now. If your director wants a stuntman engulfed in flames today, your ass had better be back here in two minutes with a report on the status of my markers. And this time, knock.”

crazysexycatlady

jimjbollocks — Thu, 10 May 2012 02:46:46 +0000

Wow, Marcie. There are many words that could be used to describe your theory that our parents might be swingers- “horrifying” comes most readily to mind- but after the case you’ve laid before us, I think I speak for the rest of our siblings when I say that “baseless” is no longer among them. Before we go any further, I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for the many, many times we all beat you senseless for making this claim repeatedly over the years. Let’s take a quick inventory of the items introduced in your exhaustively researched and sourced presentation.
I don’t know how Marcie was able to procure the duffle bag that Mom always carried out to the car before returning to tell us to be good while they were “playing hearts at the McAllisters,” followed by a knowing nod and giggle exchanged between her and Dad, but this is quite a find. Chad, would you please put down the Ziploc bag containing all those prepaid cell phones and listen? This is important. As Francis rummages through the contents of the bag, careful to use the utmost discretion in the presence of our youngest siblings, it strikes me that “Durex” would have a been a great name for any number of consumer products; seems a little surprising that it still would have been available by the time a condom manufacturer could have snatched it up. Yes, Greg, you’re right, I should really get back on task here; I apologize. Lastly, and perhaps most disturbingly, here is an envelope containing one RSVP for an event hosted by a Madame Spouseshtupper addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Tom Braider”, and a second invitation addressed to “Don Keykong and Guest,” which casts the recent interest shown by our folks in Jamie’s video games in a most unfortunate light.
Children have a deep need to view their parents as completely non-sexual beings, so I appreciate everyone’s courage and maturity in this matter even as each of us begins to eye every piece of furniture in the house with fresh suspicion, wondering what could have happened in the den, the kitchen, or atop the piano while we were all at camp. We need to stick together, remembering the familial ties that bind us even as we begin to ask the difficult paternity questions that will inevitably be raised by this discovery. And while this dossier lacks a smoking gun like, say, grainy video footage in which Dad says “girl, I am high on tiger penis right now” to a woman that is clearly not Mom while Mom shouts directions from behind the camera in that voice she uses when Dad leaves his slacks draped over the chair instead of putting them in the hamper, I think we can all agree that there’s certainly enough here to act on. Yes, Barry, I realize that was awfully specific, but I can assure you that it was pure speculation and not a repressed memory surfacing. Look, it’s been a long night, guys; let’s adjourn this family meeting. Andrew and I will start shopping around for a less lecherous retirement community in the morning.

Big thanks to R.M. Fraijo. She plants em, I waters em.

we was built for this shit

jimjbollocks — Wed, 02 May 2012 07:09:13 +0000

Good afternoon, neighbor! Heard you working over here in the garage, so I thought I’d return the drill you loaned me over the weekend. Golly, Ed, is that thing powerful! Made some nice holes in the boards I’m cutting- if everything else goes as smoothly, this batch of tie racks will be my best yet! You know, if I had set that drill up on the tripod that came with it, I’ll bet I could have darn near cut through the wall of a safe. Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you working on over there? You’re gonna hurt yourself cutting that big thing on that little table saw, pal. Why don’t you bring it across the street to my garage, and you can borrow my big table saw. It’s got a safety guard, a miter gauge, and a brand-new, super shiny blade. Plus, I’ll bet I could scare up some clamps so we get a clean, accurate cut on that, hmm, looks like a piece of 3/8″ Sheetrock, correct? Gosh, you don’t see that every day, seeing as how our local building code doesn’t call for a drywall thickness greater than 1/4″ in residential dwellings, huh, chieftain? Wow, this is a first-class setup you’ve got in here, buddy. I’ve been trying for years to get Sandra to let me buy a Kegerator, and this display case for all your expensive Russian-made handguns is just super. Got am all polished and glinting in the light, plus it looks like you just need one more to complete your collection! Oh hey, Ed? Say, I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve got a pretty grisly murder scene back there, partner. Tell you what, Edski, I’ll come back in five minutes with a couple bags of lime to help you get this cleaned up, then we can kick back with a couple Old Milwaukees and watch the ballgame, whaddya say?

the arbor day iguana is really your parents

jimjbollocks — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 21:20:56 +0000

Hi, Dad. I hope you don’t mind me turning off the television, but I have a few things I think we need to talk about before I leave for college tomorrow. Ever since the horrible car accident that left you permanently in a vegetative state, life has been tough for all of us. Mom and Angie and I miss you so much: your hugs, your goofy laugh, your great ghost stories when our friends would sleep over. Yours was a spirit so full of joy, so vital, that it didn’t seem possible your voice could be silenced. And now I don’t even know if you can feel me stroking your hand, much less hear what I’m saying, but I hope that on some level, you can understand, if not my words, then my love. The doctors told us there was no way of knowing how capable you were of perceiving the world around you, but if you had much awareness at all, you probably know that high school wasn’t easy for me. Ninth grade’s a hard time to lose your dad, and I really lost my way for a while. My grades didn’t seem that important anymore, and I couldn’t seem to find direction in my life. What can I say: the various male role models I looked to in the ensuing years- my jayvee basketball coach that only paid attention to the good players; or Brandon, my shift manager at Red Lobster; or LaVell, the old guy in the club- just couldn’t measure up to you. I’m really sorry for that night my junior I was too thoughtless to move your bed into the other room before sparking up a joint with a girl and fingering her while we watched Alien Vs Predator 2. That was a pretty weird thing to do, but when Stacey Rosen tells you she’s into something, you go with it. Gotdamb, dad, from the side she looks like a muhfucking dollar sign. If you are capable of any conscious thought, you had something else to drool about that night, if you know what I’m sayin. Sorry, where was I? Ah yes, I should have been doing more to help Mom around the house, and instead I was just giving her one more thing to worry about. But despite my missteps, I’m going to devote the rest of my life to becoming a man that would make you proud. I’m not letting this scholarship go to waste. I’m gonna study hard, so I can realize my entrepreneurial dreams, which range from an ebay business selling antique crushed-velvet couches with original asbestos upholstery intact, to my business model for a chain of high end sex dungeons.

35

jimjbollocks — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 19:22:48 +0000

“Hey, you couldn’t have picked another place to do that?”
Instead of exiting the drive-thru, the lady has gone out of her way to pull into the parking lot, and has taken the trouble of positioning her vehicle to where it won’t be easy for me to avoid confrontation, and rolled down her window. Seems like a lot of trouble just to yell at a stranger, but here goes.
“I’m sorry; her English isn’t so good,” I reply, gesturing to my dog that has just taken a dump on a strip of grass abutting a Taco Cabana parking lot. I don’t bother to mention that I specifically stood between my dog’g butt and the window of the dining room, a location strategically selected to prevent Taco Cabana’s patrons from witnessing anything too unappetizing, or that the restaurant is well over 100 feet away from where we’re having this converation.
“You really think this is something to joke about?”
“I dunno. You really think this is any of your business?”
“Maybe I’m making it my business.”
I resist the impulse to throw the plastic bag of dog shit into her open window while thanking her for volunteering. A buddy of mine recently had a story like this, and he said the best way to avoid confrontation is to ratchet things up immediately and show a willingness to escalate further, thereby establishing yourself early as the crazier party in the transaction, and the other person will almost always back off. “Don’t be afraid to use the c word,” I can imagine him advising me in this situation. Instead I just walk around the back of her vehicle to resume our walk, carefully monitoring her reverse lights as we pass behind.

—

Kim returns to the kitchen after placing Maceo’s plate in front of him. We’re eating several kinds of leftovers tonight, and he likes his cold. I add a little tomato juice to a pan of rice so it doesn’t burn on the bottom.
“I guess you don’t want any zucchini,” she says.
“I was gonna try to focus on the taco stuff from the other night,” I reply. “I got distracted for a minute with those carrots, but now I’m back on track.”
“I’ve been trying to get him to try a new food. Would you mind eating some in front of him?”
“Just a few.”
We sit at the table, and Maceo wrinkles his nose. I assume it’s the zucchini he’s pushed to the margins of his plate, but I’m wrong.
“What’s that smell? It smells like…hmmm.” He takes a minute to comtemplate dramatically. “It smells like beer.”
It’s not beer, just a smell he associates strongly with beer. Kim gives me a look.
“Probably beer,” I say, then change the subject.
Later, Kim and I are doing dishes in the kitchen while Maceo picks at the remains of his meal, leaving the zucchini untouched. It takes him forever to eat because he’s always getting up to wander around.
“You really should wait until after he goes to bed to get stoned,” Kim says. Her tone is entirely non-judgmental, and being stoned, I’m especially receptive to suggestion. She’s a virtuoso.
“You’re right. But this is my first night off in a week, and I really wanted to make sure I’d be pleasant to be around,” I offer.
“You need to do that to be in a good mood.”
“It doesn’t hurt. Both of us have been pretty irritable lately with these allergies. I couldn’t even do my Neti pot today, I’m so stopped up.” I pour myself a glass of milk, grab a cupcake from a sealed plastic tub, and head to where Maceo is sitting.
“Hey, look what I’ve got.”
“Yeah, dad. A cupcake!” He’s excited. I may have an angle to work here.
“Yep. Good thing I ate all my zucchini.” I take a bite, and it’s a little stale.
“Dip it in your milk, dad.”
“You think I should?”
“Yes, dad. Dip it in your milk!” His eyes brighten. I hesitate a little, suspending the cupcake just above the surface of the ice-cold milk.
“You sure?”
“Mmm-hmm!” He can barely contain himself.
“Like this?” And then I dip it in the milk and take a bite, careful not to let any milk drip onto the table.
“Is it good?” He asks, excitedly.
“Yeah, it’s really good,” I tell him.
“YEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” Euphorically he jumps out of his chair and high-fives me.
“Wow, you should eat a bite of zucchini so you can have a cupcake too,” I say casually, so as not to betray that I am playing my trump card. I made a good effort, but this motherfucker? Ain’t eating shit.
“He’s gonna be a hungry guy later tonight,” his mom warns from the kitchen. I concur.
“Yep. Grouchy too.”

secret of the uzi

jimjbollocks — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 01:08:18 +0000

The first sardine out of the tin, dripping with oil, had been just what his neglected taste buds had been dying for all day, but he mindlessly plowed through the rest of the salty pilchards so quickly that their flavor had barely registered on his tongue, and now they were all gone. He sighed, then tipped the corner of the can into his mouth to drink the remaining fluid and placed the empty vessel into the passenger side floorboard of the 1987 Honda Prelude. It was in this car that MC Skat Kat, the animated rapping cat from Paula Abdul’s “Opposites Attract” video, had made his home for the last few days as he drove across the country in hopes of returning to Los Angeles to restart his career and life. He parked in the rain outside a ratty motel, internally debating whether he had enough money to stay in a bed for the first time this week, ultimately deciding he had earned it after exhibiting considerable fiscal discipline by spending so many nights in the car so far, and not desiring his backache to worsen before the final leg of his journey. “Gimme eight hours’ worth,” he said to the desk attendant as he slapped several crumpled, rain-soaked bills onto the counter.
Sleep escaped him in the damp-smelling room as his thoughts turned once again to what had gone so wrong the last time he had been out west, and his mind wandered over well-worn territory by remembering Paula, whose love had once made it all seem worth it. Despite their differences, it had all just worked out when they first got together, but the couple foundered when her career took off as he struggled to find work. She had the money, while he was always broke, and his failure to provide a good life for her whittled away at his self-esteem. They had found themselves growing increasingly incompatible, and not just because his barbed cat penis had made consummating the relationship impossible. Over time, things they had initially been willing to overlook, such as her dislike of cigarettes while he liked to smoke, became insurmoutable obstacles.
He climbed out of bed and began going through his suitcase, hoping that reorganizing his few possessions would help him to put his mind at rest. Where he once had a fine leather garment bag carried by bellboys and filled with bright red suits with extravagantly long tails, his apparel now consisted entirely of several white tank tops and a pair of blue pants held up by suspenders, inexplicably adorned with two oversized buttons on the front. Back to basics, he thought to himself as he refolded them and placed the clothing gingerly in the duffel bag atop a dartboard with Simon Cowell’s picture pasted on it. He pulled out his cellphone and called his prospective roommate, one of the few souls who could understand his plight, having himself been the less successful member of an entertainment duo. They told people they had met at a charity event, which was technically true, since they had both been in line at the same soup kitchen. So strong had been the bond between these two fellow travelers that MC Skat Kat had felt a slight twinge of guilt over having originally listed him in his phone as “Andrew Ridgley, the other guy from Wham!” Straight to voicemail again. He began to worry.

doritos make good taco shells, but they make even better croutons

jimjbollocks — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 02:15:35 +0000

Despite my having worn dark glasses that day, she could tell I had shifted my gaze her direction. Perhaps there had been a subtle change in my normally cool, placid tone when I bit my knuckle until it bled and made a noise mimicking a 1920s car horn, but the game had begun, and now something had to be said. If a lifetime of watching handsome gentlemen pick up girls in beer commercials had taught me anything, it was that fortune favors the bold, so I struck like a cobra. Spontaneously waving to a stranger walking out of the bathroom as I strode in her direction, I pulled a GPC out of my pocket and nonchalantly did that thing Method Man does where he lets the smoke drift up from his mouth into his nostrils, just like in my Myspace picture. “May I have this dance?” I inquired. She paused long enough to make me briefly consider the possibility that she might not say yes, then put her hand forward, but not without first affixing on her face a no-nonsense look to let me know she had many options for companionship that night and I would be given little margin for error. We glided across the floor, our grace inspiring all the other people in the Rite Aid to begin pairing off at random. This one old white couple shoplifted a bunch of Pez dispensers as they foxtrotted out the door. Soon, a news crew had come to cover what the media had dubbed the Drugstore Dance Marathon, and the nattily dressed reporter approached my lady- whose name I still did not yet know- and me.
“As this extemporaneous act of human kinship and mutual love enters its fifth hour, an inspired city begins hearing offers from possible corporate sponsors for naming rights to the event. I’m Barksley Ridgedale, and if I may, I’d like to cut in and dance with this nice young lady here,” he grinned as he tapped me on the shoulder. Things got really quiet all of a sudden, and he repeated the request as the cameras continued rolling. “May I cut in?”
“You can fuck right off,” I snarled, and no sooner were the words out of my mouth than she pulled me close and kissed me. On our way to her place later that night, she put my jacket on and once again sensed my gaze on her.
“You should watch where you’re going instead of looking at me,” she laughed, nearly losing her balance and falling off the skateboard I was pulling behind my bike. She steadied herself, centering the water-skiing rope over my back wheel.
“Girl, I can’t help it,” I breathlessly replied. “You look so good. You know in cartoons when Daffy Duck or whoever hasn’t had any food in days and everything he looks at looks like a hamburger? Well, you look like a hamburger right now.”
“That’s because I am a hallucination of a hamburger. You’ve been trapped in the mountains with a broken leg. Your descent into madness is caused by hunger, but compounded by the growing realization that the rescue choppers overhead are unlikely to find you.” I gripped the empty granola bar wrapper ever tighter in my hands and parted my blistered, chapped lips to try to scream out for help, but my throat was too dry for it to amount to much more than a whisper.

alexander, the egg salad salamander

jimjbollocks — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 18:14:56 +0000

So I said to the guy, “two things, pal. First, I don’t look like Howard Stern. Second, if you don’t like people dressing in costume, stay the fuck out the Olde Tyme Renaissance Faire.” And everybody started clapping! Oh, let me call you back, Grandma, I think I have a customer. So, what can I do for you? Oh, you’re from the college newspaper and want to do a feature piece about the overlooked local characters that make our town a rich cultural experience for students willing to venture off-campus? Wow, a clip of that article could look really good in an internship application, friend. I’d be happy to answer your questions for free- here, let me turn over one of these buckets so you can have a seat. Hmmm, how did I get my start. Well, let’s see, I guess it was when my guidance counselor gave me a test to determine what career I should pursue, and it came back “busker”. I was pretty excited because I had always wanted to work on a Midwestern corn farm, but then she told me what a busker did, and I got even more excited! Later I got a letter in the mail from the folks that administered the test informing me there was a typo on my results and that it was supposed to say “busboy”, but by then I had already bought this cool hat with a feather in it. As honored as I was to be an artist, I was also pretty nervous, seeing as now it was only six seeks until graduation and I didn’t know how to play an instrument. How could I compete with the guy that plays Hindustani classical music by the Maple Street Glory Hole, who is an internationally recognized virtuoso at both the bansuri and sitar? Gradually, though, I found my niche, and with lot of practice I got better at the slide whistle, although I definitely have a ways to go. It takes me anywhere between three and four years to really master a song, so my catalog is still pretty narrow. Business is picking up, too. I even got in a corner-rotating agreement with a couple other guys so I get pretty good locations, plus it never hurts to get your business card circulating in different parts of town. Been making decent money playing this illegal beta fish fighting tournament they do every Monday, and on Thursdays Salvatore’s Italian restaurant is pretty busy, so you can usually serenade a few tables before the maitre d’ notices and calls the cops. Any other questions? Huh, not sure how this is any of your business, but I guess my favorite scene of Dazed and Confused is the one with the Pier One Imports sign accidentally in the background. Well, I hope I gave you enough to work with, but I gotta get back to work. So, what do you want to hear: Hall & Oates’ “Maneater”, “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, or “Reloaded” by Smif-N-Wessun?

heist cream

jimjbollocks — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 19:23:55 +0000

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said, setting the legal pad down on the counter after checking Cal’s writing for spelling errors.
“Well, you wouldn’t want to be married to a good liar, would you?”
He had a point. The wedding was only four days away, but Gloriana had experienced no doubt, and didn’t expect to. She was willing to overlook the numerous ways he would prove useless, like being unable to take care of this pretty simple task. She could add it to the list of things at which he had proven inept, and that she would have to spend the rest of their lives preventing him from fucking up at: renewing his driver’s license, painting the house, not getting thrown out of Dolphin World due to a misunderstanding. But what could she do. He was a fat, dumb guy and she was a good-looking girl who fell in love on a television show on which they were both secondary characters whose romance had been made a story arc on the show’s penultimate season once the writers had run out of ideas for either character. And though they had had a whirlwhind courtship that sometimes had felt kind of hastily thrown-together, she knew it was gonna be forever with this motherfucker. Because despite the many ways they were obviously incompatible, he hadn’t been wrong when he told her great-grandfather that they had the kind of sex “I’ll still be remembering when I’m your age.”
Gloriana didn’t fight him on this one. She was going to have to pick her battles, and just as she had once resigned herself to the inevitability of his saying something embarrassing but ultimately endearing in the Season 7 Christmas episode, having provided a comedic backdrop to the greater will-they-or-won’t-they several-season story arc that had been unfolding between the series’ male and female leads, she let the ad run in the newspaper: “FOR SALE: one twin bed, lightly used. Gently masturbated in. Call 555-5555.” (So weird that that’s still our number, she thought for the millionth time.) But as a sassy ethnic character, she had not allowed his sometimes cute, although lately getting kind of stale and one-dimensional, buffoonery to go entirely uncommented upon.
“You calling this a bed is crazy, Boo. It’s just a mattress and a box spring with no frame and a sleeping bag draped over it.”