At War with the Aliens

18th Century France, At War with the Aliens

Dear Mother,
I am truly sorry. I must speak of war in a way that bereaves you. The simple truth that all men wish to destroy their father’s legacy has been enlivened once again! All talks of negotiation halted last week and sure enough, cannons were filed out into the courtyards shortly thereafter. Some of the more audacious men pointed them directly up, towards the flying ships. But old Monsieur DeMarisse was killed by a falling cannonball anon. I have not seen his body, but I’ve been told that it was a wonderfully bloody, wrinkled sight. I wonder, now, if I may be ill-fated in the same way as DeMarisse. Do not worry, however, I am constantly looking up.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
No, I disagree. There have been significant talks of the utilization of Switzerland as a main firing point. But as you say, what do these government men know? The Swiss are indeed cowards! The alien men, their ships, withstand every attack we’ve launched and still have yet to counter. These lavender-colored beings only watch from their ships (from what I can tell by hog’s head and plum, especially from the terraces of their eateries) and appear to laugh. Their eyes, though usually very oval and black, pinch shut and their bodies shake. What could this be but mirth? Ah, such fury in me comes from the sight of it all! What could they possibly find so comical? The British?
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I’ve also come to the same dubious conclusion that war itself is very strange. Or more, it is an interesting deceit. I know that you are not privy to it, but when the anticipatory horn of grapeshot fills the cannon some backstreeted young man always shouts “Au Revior!” Then one of his friends, “Boom!“ Then some very excited man: “We are truly the terrifying Time, the Jacques of alchemy, the golden boys!” Again, “Boom!” from the youth.
Then some poet shrieks, “We are the hand of dark cloud that swoops down from the sky, plucking out fireworks and smashing the rockets into the multitudes of purple-clad monsters!”
Then for the simple peasant: “I mean, fear us Manure! We are the mange of a growling dog!” This is deceitful enthusiasm. We have yet to make one successful strike upon the alien flying ships.

But such dedication to the riddance of evil! I am somewhat roused every time I feel the cannon jolt!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I am wholly repentant for that. I did not mean to be so graphic. Much like the heat of other things, the heat of war does strange things to loins. Despite what you implied, I have been thinking of other things.
For instance, isn’t it strange that in proceeding with this war that we are taming the Holy Martyr’s sanctimonious authority? God, of course, is difficult to corroborate with the mission of these strange creatures. Were they sent by Yahweh? Know they the Son of God? These are unpromising and bloody questions to be asking, given these strange times. I hope to finally eliminate Cardinal Folliere and blame it on my mistaking his identity for some purple creature from the other world. Hah! I, perhaps, should not have divulged this information to you. Send my regards to Father Rosette and pray for my eternal soul.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Thank you. I am glad to hear that Father Rosette is doing so well. I do not know what instance he is referring to, but I will try to search my memory of the long tenure as an alter boy to come to some…common understanding.

As for me, I will keep you abreast now. The youngest, most beautiful women in the village are proposing marriage, giving their bodies readily at the sight of what they believe to be the Apocalypse. But The Apocalypse? Hardly. I see no Horsemen called Truth riding a white horse! I see no bodies of two prophets, dead in the street! I see a bug on my toe, a little black bug. Please allow me shake it away, forcefully.
Ah. There.
Wait. In the sky, there is a large, menacing golden skull, chomping up and down. These aliens must know the true fears of man! Stay inside, for love and life! I am off to the Chateau D’El to meet with Mademoiselle Crussiure. We are discussing the discouraging results of the upcoming Apocalypse. Wish me the best of luck!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
We are a Federation of Fear. We are untrained, highly, even for matters of war with unarmed savages. And for this, I am truly fearful. I do not wish to cause worry, but I do also not wish to be misleading. I‘ve seen two young men (my age or younger) self-immolate. I’ve watched the sanguine harmonic of running bones and flesh melt away into incredibly grotesque muddles of sticky black tar and bone and what appears to be licorice. They smell of singed hair and sewage. You mustn’t step out, even to the market. The war is in full swing and the men are becoming desperate for old women. I do not know why, but will investigate.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Ah, yes! You are so wise! Aren‘t we so very fortunate? These aliens have brought us the beauty of innovative thought! This I didn’t realize!
Truly, isn’t the tendency of all men in our time to think dull? Beyond that, what heritage speaks of intensity? The legacy of murderers, of fanatical rulers, of slave owners, of loose women, of Orientals, the lot? Surely we cannot entrust ourselves with such ignorance.
The men of my village, who have yet to learn to read, have yet to travel, are beginning to see that they are not the barbarians the have been claimed to be. This war has shown them that they are no simple farmhand, no simple merchant. They are the weight in which the destiny of the world rests! Soon, very soon, they will ask themselves: Was the world truly ready for hostilities when the aliens landed? Is this government, this church moreover, as infallible as they claim?
But then, I am perplexed. If these inquiries are solicited, it must also be asked, is the world truly ready for assimilation, then? Will we successfully court alien women? Will we marry them, mate with them? Will our organs match? Perhaps their orifices are more agreeable than human women? Your thoughts?
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I am sorry once more for such a graphic description. I very much believe that you fainted in front of Mademoiselle Sepaul and that the young boys could see your undergarments. Take solace in the fact that they probably weren’t looking and if they were, they won’t be looking again. Blame this on my steadfast desire to ascertain Truth, in the larger sense. Forgive me.
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Life here is much more lonely than you have suggested, actually. The aliens have kept all the village in their chateaus, playing chess, what have you.
As you know, as a being in need of physical comfort, I am now the darkened grain-knot of some ill-fated driftwood, heading down the stream of Life towards some inevitable death, whatever that may be. Is it a steep, murderous waterfall? Or am I doomed to be shaved and shaped by a spoon-making craftsman with low standards of wood quality? How am I to know? Lead your firstborn towards some understanding of this heart-breaking endeavor! Those bastard aliens!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
I’ve been awaiting your reply for weeks now. Thank you kindly for your swift response to my pleas. As you know, however, that I would not be writing this letter to you had not something quite strange happened. Luckily, my pride is now dampened at the prospect of good news. You see, strange fortune, but the old women. I found today they have been slung via boorish-looking young men and their massive catapults at the alien ships and are beginning to deter the aliens from hovering over the village. I do not know whether this is because of their horrid smell, that they somehow damage the ship or that there is something holy afoot. I can only imagine that these old women died the graceful death of say, a Saint Joan of Arc (that miserable little whore, regardless). I say, join the fight, dear mother! Any of those who have yet to enlist should be guillotined! Long live the King!
-Your Son
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Dear Mother,
Oh yes, well I would do it myself, Mother, had I been born fifty years older, with the necessary equipment to classify my body as that of a woman‘s. I do not agree with any of your opinions, actually. Old women are expendable to the crown, to the church. They are certainly not pleasing to the eye, nor to any other organ that receives sensory data. Believe me, your body would cause a sizable dent in the flying ship hovering over my village!
-Your Son.
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Dear Mother,
I did not mean to imply that you are fat. For that, I am eternally regretful. However, as an intellectual, I am warranted to change my opinion. I met a lovely old woman today who was very adamant in her desire to live. Instead of slitting her throat (as has been mandated by the King) and dragging her lifeless corpse to the catapult (a lovely catapult by the way) I listened to her argument and was awestruck by Passionate Love! Luckily for her, when the soldiers took her from me, the alien forces retreated a considerable distance. Though eighteen women were flung at the ships, they were much out of the range of our catapults. Be praised! You will live another day!
-Your Son
Post Script: I am currently developing a more powerful catapult. Necessity, as they say, is the “mother” of invention. Ha-hah!

Fourteen Loves Thirteen

Fourteen Loves Thirteen

Isn’t it hot for a day in Autumn? Aren’t the girls impressed?

There’s a tent. A big, ugly, bright orange tent by the site, see? Hatch’s dad put up the tent. He’s inside with a girl, Lisa, rolling around, fucking probably. I’m outside listening with my girl, Laura. We haven’t talked much, but that’s okay, we occasionally throw a rock or something at the side of the tent to see if Hatch and Lisa notice. They don‘t. Probably too busy fucking.
I’m happy for Hatch. I’m happy to have a place like this. I can come out here anytime I want and fuck a girl. First, I have to find a girl willing to fuck. Laura won’t fuck me and that’s a big let-down, given the fact that I’ve bought her so many gifts I can’t even remember what I’ve given her. But there’s Hatch fucking Lisa and here’s me and Laura, talking about the fucking sunset.
“It’s beautiful,” she says. She’s beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” I say back. Her hair is the golden color that grown men remember. I make a point to remember it too.
Laura smiles and I hear Lisa a little. Or maybe it’s Hatch. It’s the sound of skin on orange vinyl, whatever it is. A weird, soft sound.
“You like the place?” I ask Laura, over the brushing of the tent floor with the leaves.
“Yes, oh yes it’s quite nice,” she says.
“Yep , we’ve got two sturdy levels now.”
“I can tell.”
“Even the field mice have noticed. I fucking hate mice and there’s two on the second level.” I really do hate mice. One crawled up my shirt once when I was asleep in the yard. Had to get a shot for rabies after that. The guys still call me Mickey.
“I haven’t seen any mice,” Laura says, she checks her foot. Then the other. “Or mouse droppings.”
“It’s not the sturdiest part of the whole tree house, up here.”
“It’s still nice.”
“What about the bench?”
“Very nice.” Laura looks out of the big hole we have yet to cover with plywood or sheetrock. Laura’s thinking about something, I can tell. She squints her eyes when she’s thinking about something and they‘re nearly closed now.
“It was tough without a saw, to build the bench, that is. We had to find two-by-sixes with the right length else it wouldn’t fit. Hatch did it all without a level; I found the wood at that abandoned farm at the end of the development.”
“Where John Yoder stores his hay bales?”
“Yeah, John Yoder,” I say back. John Yoder is the blonde, tanned asshole who owns the development. Laura is friends with his daughter Lindsey. They‘re a real pair, I guess you‘d say. Always going out to malls, the movies together.
“It’s creepy as hell out there,” I say, “but even creepier up on the roof of the second level.” I look off at the sunset again. It’s orange. Only Hatch goes up to the second level. He calls me a pussy for not following him up there but I ain’t stupid. He’s from Alabama, those kids are all crazy, fearless rednecks. Got to respect him for that, he’s up there without a harness every time we build. I’ve been up there once, to check if I could see my house. I can. It’s not very clear, but I can see the blue siding and the chest-high grass in fields near it.
Laura coughs, “They’re really going at it.”
I don’t really know what to say to that. Sure, Honey, they’re fucking, like we should be! That’s what I should say.
“Gets damn romantic out here,” I finally say.
“Yep,“ Laura says. I remembered her stepping on big, round rocks, like gray sea-turtle shells, over the barbed wire that was intended to hold in the cows on our way over. But the cows are all long since gone, their sloppy, stupid souls mulling cud through their teeth in Cow Heaven. Or probably Cow Hell.

Laura really plowed through that grass. It has these little hard buds that smacked our arms when we walk through and she just ignored it all.

“You think that grass out there looks like opium?“ I ask.
“What does opium look like?” Laura asks back.
“I guess like that grass out there. Maybe.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
The swishing of vinyl is getting faster. I’m surprised the old boy has held out for so long.
“One time we saw a black snake out there.” Laura says.
“Who?”
“Me and Hatch.”
“You and Hatch?”
“Yeah.” Laura looks down. I know what that means.
“What were you doing out there?”
“I got bit,” Laura shows me her ankle. Two little pinhole bites.
“I don’t fucking care about your bite.” I say. Hatch took Laura out here? Without me?
Laura stands up. “Then what do you care about?”
I’m an honest guy, “I care about making love.” I say, “Making love to you.”
Laura thinks, then says, kind of regretfully, it seemed, “All the girls at school say I should’ve slept with you by now. For the ring, for the constant attention. All that stuff.”
“Exactly!” Exactly is right, I think. That ring was expensive. I saved up three shifts from caddying to get that ring!
“I don’t think I want to just yet.”
“Why not? Don’t you find me attractive?” It was a ploy I had used earlier, to no success. Of course she found me attractive.
“I…” She waits.
“You what? You don’t love me?”
“Yes I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody.” I believe her. She’s a sweet girl, Laura. Beautiful too, just like I said. I put my hand on her skinny, bare leg. Her shorts are really up there. I could pull them aside and finger her if she’d let me. She’s very tan, too. I like that.
“You love me?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“Then why don’t you make love to me?” I ask. It was an honest question, really.
“I want to wait to marriage.”
I think for a second. Then I say, “You know that ring I bought you?”
“Yes, we were just talking about it…sort of.”
“I meant it to be an engagement ring.”
“What?” Laura’s eyes are like little bulbs of blue. I know when she believes me when they turn into glass like that. It’s obvious.
I get down on my knee, take her hand into mine. It‘s very soft and delicate. It feels like a little bird. Fragile. “Will you marry me, Laura?”
“Yes!” She cries, brings me up to hug her and cries some more, “Yes I will!”
“Good.” I say. The wind comes in, the sun is setting and Hatch and Lisa must be done or maybe dead. They’re very quiet. Killed by fucking. What a way to go!
We sit back down to where we were. Laura grabs my hand and squeezes it. She looks off into the sunset again. We don’t take for a few minutes, sucking in the moment, you know?
Laura finally asks, “Isn’t it a hot day for autumn?”
“Isn’t it a wonderful day to look for the future?” I ask.
“Yes,” Laura squeezes. “Yes it is.”
“Isn’t it a wonderful day to make love?”
“Yes,” Laura takes her hand from mine and undoes the fly on her shorts. Her panties are bright pink. They’re the color I expected, really.

Commercial Fun

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Really kinda hot, kinda slutty girl: I noticed a big, fat difference in my lover’s certain male part of the men’s anatomy member, veiny penis that throbs when I choke it and lick the top of it in a counter-clockwise (somebody from offstages tosses her a dildo, she grabs dildo and starts licking it). Mmmmm-mmmmm. (Gargle) Mmmmm--mmmm.
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(A photoshopped picture of Godzilla in a puddle of Genie Zaos‘ Wife‘s vomit)
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*
Very pale, skinny man with neatly-trimmed mustache and big, dark sunglasses: Uncle Ron’s Peppermint Playhouse. (Wipes sweat off of chin). Parents leave your kids here. You can entrust us with the utmost care…(wipes sweat again)…of your supple…sons…and soft…daughters.
Little boy holding a football: Uncle Ron!
Uncle Ron: Yessssssssss?
Little boy: Can I ride the washing machine again?
Uncle Ron: Uh…(very nervous)…where’s that ride?
Little boy: Right beside the Feel-Good Phantom Hole, duh!
Uncle Ron: All aboard!…for fun!
Little boy: Uncle Ron! You’re so wet! I’m off to the ball pit!
Uncle Ron: Make sure to step into the acid bath first!
Little girl: Uncle Ron! Pay attention to me too! You promised me another look at Smiling Humphry, the purple-headed martian mayonnaise dispenser!
Uncle Ron: There’s Peppermint merriment in every lick!
Little girl: (pause) I want to go home.
Uncle Ron: Oh look! (wipes brow) Dancing Dan the Peppermint Man is coming!
Little girl: No!…not again!
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Little girl: Good…cause it got in my braces last time (cowers).
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Little boy: Does my daddy have to sign this waiver?
Uncle Ron: YES!


*
Gus, the Global Warming Gopher: Hey guys, I’m here to tell you all about global warming! (slips on an Al Gore T-Shirt that reads, “Fat saves trees”). I’m Gus! And I’m here to tell you all about Global warming! Gophers, you see, know all about global warming!
Regular person: What the fuck do gophers know about global warming? You’re underground all of the fucking time.
Gus: Oh behave you Negative Nemoy! Gophers know lots!
Regular person: Like how to fuck up my lawn?
Gus: That’s because we’re making speedbumps! We’re slowing down global warming by slowing down your cars!
Regular person: No. You’re an asshole. You’re a fucking asshole who digs and burrows and fucks up my house’s foundation.
Gus: I’m trying to tell you to turn off those lights, mister!
Regular person: Well, see, that effects me. I don’t want to pay out the ass for my electric bill, so I actually do turn them off.
Gus: You’re going to have a hard time when I chew through those wires!
Regular person: Wait…what’d you say?
Gus: Anyway…Global warming is an epidemic plaguing all sorts of people.
Regular person: Like who? Australians?
Gus: No Silly Sal! Your children!
Regular person: But…I’m impotent.
Gus: Well other people’s kids……Global warming is like a hotbox for all the beautiful vegetation on this planet. When the sun gets too hot, all of my food fries and I can’t eat it!
Regular person: That’s weird…I could fucking swear you dug up my entire fucking garden.
Gus: Well (burp) (looks at camera and winks) I was a little hungry…Anyways, Global warming is all about this (hip-hop beat kicks in) (Gus is now in shades and red MC Hammer pants)
When the ice caps melt
it hurts my pelt
to see all the little boys drown.
I ain’t no clown,
just a itty-bitty gopher with a big old frown.
Global Warming!
What?!
Global Warming!
I c-c-c-can’t hear you!
Regular Person: That’s because we’re n-n-n-n-not…uh…singing along.
Gus: Verse two. Check it.
Regular Person: Oh God.
Gus: It’s really fresh and clean
to keep your trees nice and green.
The water risin in the ocean?
Shit boy. Let’s not use sun lotion!
Global Warming!
Guh-Guh Global Warming!
Regular Person: Who the fuck taught you to rap? Coolio?
Gus: For real? You know my nigga?
Regular Person: I’d take Sarah McLaughlin over this.
Gus: She’s down with the real school.
Regular Person: (picks up cell phone) I’m calling pest control.
Gus: I’m out. Gus the Global Warming Gopher in the Grizzie. Peace.

Book Readers Rejoice!

I recently found a website that allows free e-book downloading. It's got a really good policy, of which I will not explain. You should check it out.

I recommend Blindness by Jose Saramago as your first DL. Then 9 Stories by Salinger (It's first, "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" is my favorite short story)


Here's the link.

Let's Lynch Tyra Banks

(I'm not a racist)

Let’s Lynch Tyra Banks

Me: “Let’s Lynch Tyra Banks. Is that a good title?”
Kellen: “I don’t like her. I think she’s annoying. So…yes.”

Let’s lynch Tyra Banks,
blacks and whites alike.
Let’s go out and find the oldest tree
growing on the pike.

Let’s get a rope that can support her weight
one very, very strong.
Let’s throw it over the highest bough
and sing a happy song.

Let’s sing Waterfalls
and something about Scrubs!
Let’s throw our hands up in the air
and give each other hugs.

Let’s make sure that noose is thick,
that it may mock her as so gaudy.
Let’s throw donuts at her while she sways,
lick sprinkles from her body.

Let’s develop a point system,
one that is quite slicing.
What sticks and stones don’t break her bones
will be made up by the icing.

Let’s have this system based
upon her fattest parts.
Three for her chin, five per ass,
triple points if she farts.

Let’s pick our favorite thigh
and inch of cellulite.
Let’s stab that inch and drink her blood
with a hint of Crystal Light.

Let’s mock her with “You go girl!”
and say that Oprah sends her love.
Let’s all wear brown with black shoes
and a Michael Jackson glove.

Let’s ask the crowd
“Who watched her miserable shit?!”
With a baseball bat
barbed with wire, they shall be clubbed and hit!

Let’s not give her Last Words,
She’ll only use them to cry.
She’ll explain how difficult it was to grow up black
but she won’t remember why.

She’ll somehow neglect the fact that she was,
at one point, very stunning.
She’ll forget that a beauty
need never be at all very cunning.

She’ll lecture us for hours,
what she thinks this about our country.
Who cares, we’ll say, You’re just another idiot
who happens to have some money.

Let’s tell her that her program,
America’s Next Top Model,
made her father kill himself,
turned her mother to the bottle.

Let’s shove a stick of dynamite up her pussy.
Let’s light and run away.
The only people who’ll gasp,
Are the guys we know are gay.

Let’s tell the networks that nobody
nobody has died at all!
Let’s replace Ms. Banks, be thrilled!
Her double is Rupaul!

The End.

I Always Put my Penis...

I Always Put My Penis

(Or, called by my friends “The Odyssey of Masculinity and Mind-Altering Drugs“)
(Or, why to never try to masturbate when you’re fucked up on mushrooms)

I always put my penis deep
in the willow trees, amongst the wispy
boughs that sway lightly amid my knees,
they tap and tickle my bandied pubic hair
and my hangings balls are pleased.

That they have been not ignored!
I am thankful to the Delsanct, the Goddess of all things Sexy,
that my balls be cuffed and swatted…gently…
She allows some breeze to freshen the region called my taint.

“Give me head!” I shout to the sky.
She gives me no reply but the faint, summery rain of LSD
ticking on an algae pond, catching on the sullied socks,
that were used in yore to catch my seed.
I sniff once. Twice. Lick and go. The sky lights up
and a Mexican girl feeds me grapes.
Oh, such supple grapes!

She forms fast into an uncle--my Uncle Bill--and I am disgusted.
But oh the grapes! No! I mustn’t eat those grapes.
They are but furry purple testicles of Grimace now. Alas!
They taste of Fish Filet!

Where is my dog? I ask, but find
that there is no dog.
Nothing
to lick the peanut butter
that has formed around my cock.
Where are you Fido? Ralph? Pikachu? Where are you Davis?
Where are you Sergeant Jeffries?
Have you all gone to war?
Make love, not war!
Come back to Delilah, she misses your musky odor so!
Where are all the milky jugs?
Has my maid stolen them too?
I swear to Christ when she gets back to America I’ll dock her pay by two!
And the Venus, the blade, Abraham Lincoln’s hat?
Have them starched and cleaned and placed under the rotating bed and strap-ons my wife has bought from Matt!
I can’t help it I lost the job at the Sewage Plant!
The girders were hotter than I expected
I couldn’t Jones above that shit-filled water for as long as I projected!

(He died a noble death, at least, with a hard-on in his hand as the water splattered. The men spoke of his fetish for feet, but did not mention fecal matter.)

Ah sunlight! You are the best of friends of dick!
I sit and wonder and yearn for an elvish woman of your ginger hue.
A canvassback of the mosses, her eyes a Smurfette blue.
There will be a bow strapped upon her linen-sallow flank,
a dripping brass liquid from her cloth-ed muff, dangled out of view.

I will press her against a shire rock,
she shall beg for a bitter root called dogbane,
that it might be shoved within her anal void and rubbed--circularly--
within its putrid mane.
“Roat! Roat!” She yalp again!
I’ll take this plea as “Rotate! Rotate!“ in English and to this I will gratify,
smacking my lips like from that tartest Sherry I tasted in a try
on my tongue when I was twelve,
masturbating to the deltoids of a polar bear
on a yacht in the Caspian Sea.
She will leave me to the willows, there, I think,
but nevertheless see my penis, warm, alone and recalcitrant
and return to me for more.

There! The crest of ocean waves upon my sheets!
My bed, my boat!
Like an oar I row
my penis through the bluest filament
to the grainy sand below.
I get little grains stuck in my urethra, but fear not because
I know that I may jizz them out, that they shall stick in a girl’s bikini.
The gannets hover erstwhile, admire my man-linguini.
One will swoop down--oh how fast and curious that!--
and she will grab the pinkish helmet and try to tip off my “hat“!
I will swat, stand my ground and push it towards the sky!
“Why! Why!” It will cry as its pinions kiss the clouds.
I will not address this bugbear, only cover in multiple shrouds.

Toenails! How I figured you out last week. I see you now from beneath
that waving wool cloth. Each of you a sparkling scepter, implanted on a cheek!

Oh Penis! Like a sad whip you dangle there beside them
from this angle!
Why not speak up and join me in the land of Moth Country
and sing the star spangled banner?!
There we will dine on labias as thick and pink
as the eye can see--over the horizon they swell and think
so highly of you and me!

They will touch like this, like this and eventually
you will sneeze
but that’s okay, they have a Marriot and those give out free towels
like they‘re candy, seriously.
(remember to say please!)

Oh, don’t you love me anymore penis?
Won’t you remember the ages of thirteen
to eighteen?
Don’t you remember the time
you snuck your GameBoy Camera under your sister’s friends’ skirts
and took really grainy photos of their panties? And
adjusted the contrast and brightness to the optimal degrees?

Remember that? Yeah you do. Yeah you--

And there we go. I see you highest mast!
I could hang wet beach towels from you, back
into the past!

There you are.
And here I am too.
What a coincidence to see you here,
whatever shall we do?

I know! I know!
Let’s play Scrabble
until this high passes.
Then you can think of your best friend’s sister,
the owner of the best of asses!

Draw the letters, seven if you wish!
R
T
T
O
P
I
Q.

A Q without a U?

Fuck this stupid game.


Finis!

Comments Welcome!

So, I don't get the opportunity to update this thing very often. However, once in a while I'll come up with something so spite-ridden that I must show you all.

To get a little idea of what I mean, I guess I'd like to give you a little background...

I like Paul Frank. I like reading Paul Frank. I like all the writers of this site, including most of the contributing writers (exception: Mike Trogdore and Chris Phelan).

But, when I found out that Paul had not taken the comments feature off of his blog, I was a little disheartened. I, for one, had gotten a ton of shit when I first started. (If you don't believe me, check out my first column's fucking comment box). But I kept going and kept ignoring the bitchy comments. Eventually, I became third most popular writer here and then, debatably, second behind DeGraaf. I felt like the kid had given up. So, in the only way I know how, I expressed my desire for Paul to let freedom of speech reign.

Here are the emails.

Paul's Email to the PIC Treehouse (a forwarding service for the main writers of the site)

Hey fellow writers,

My roommate is a huge fag. We're talkin' major-league faggot here. He
could go pro for being a fag.

ANYWAYS, to make a short story a little bit longer...does anyone know
any good pranks I can pull on him where he won't know it's me?

It can be anything ranging from day-ruining to life-ending.

Thank you for your time.

puall


My reply
I tried this one out on a roommate of mine. He, also, was a major-league faggot...

The Shocker
My faggot of a roommate had this blog, right? And he posted all this shitty stuff on it. Well one day, I posted a link of it on facebook and a bunch of our mutual friends came on and read it. They were really, really mean to him. I felt bad at first, given the fact that I, too, had received negative feedback on my blog on PIC (where I started, I'll have you know).

This negative feedback went on and on for about a week and I went on and on feeling sorry that I had gone and made him feel bad for expressing himself, trying to be funny and all that. Until the faggot blocked his comments. So then, when he sent out a massive email to a yahoo group called The PIC Treehouse, asking suggestions to prank our other roommate, Steve, I made fun of him in front of the other Pointsincase writers and outright called him a whimpy bitch for blocking his comments.

Much like I'm doing now.
Whimpy bitch.


________________________

So, in the name of freedom, and because I'm being a smug asshole, I'd figure I'd let you all know how I feel about it.

Thoughts? Questions?

Comments?