Did I ever tell you about the time I was on the Price Is Right? We’d been given free tickets in front of a wax museum. My girlfriend got excited and my friends were kinda interested, so we went.
The studio was really bright and smaller than I thought it would be. They had a bunch of ushers lined up just herding us in like cattle. There was a really bad stand up comedian on stage giving a midget a hard time for being from Boston. I guess he was there to warm up the crowd. After about 5 minutes the lights started flashing and this really loud 70’s music blared. The announcer yelled some names and people ran to the front of the auditorium while the audience cheered. Suddenly my girlfriend was screaming in my face and my friends started jumping and yelling, “Thats you bitch!” they pulled me to my feet. I guess the announcer had called my name. So I haphazardly jogged down to the front of the auditorium. On the way I tried to high five several people but I missed each one. I was running down a slope and they were all jumping up and down, I couldn’t get the timing right. And I think I mighta even knocked over some old lady but the usher kept pulling me along and yelled “keep going!” so onward I went.
When I got to the front, Bob came out to much fanfare and asked us each where we were from and I was just in shock and I guess I said, “Sure dude!” And Bob shot me this glance that said, “I’ll slit your fucking throat kid,” but the audience kinda laughed and Bob stuck out his chin and retorted “Whatever, Hippy!” the audience thought that was really funny.
I never got up on stage though, some bitch named Wanda kept bidding 1$ more than me and she finally won. When she got on stage. She kissed Bob on the cheek and Bob made her reach into his pocket for some money. Oh yeah. So after the chick pulls a 100 out of Bobs pants they giggle and coo a bit and then Bob does this over the top windmill Elvis point and says “I bet you’d like to drive home in this,”
“A NEW CAR!!! screams the announcer.
And the curtain opens revealing a powder blue convertible. The audience is just jumping up and down and screaming and there is this DING! DING! DING! DING! DING! noise and everyone is losing their fucking mind they just keep jumping up and down and screaming with delight and the DING! DING! DING! gets louder and louder and the announcer keeps screaming "A NEW CAR! A NEW CAR!” and people start tearing off their clothes and just beating the shit out of each other.. They’re all sooo excited - tearing off their flesh and smashing thier bones and setting themselves on fire and the whole place just starts shaking and falling down around us. I run up on stage and Bob gives me a wink and we hop into that powder blue Chevy and gun it through a wall into another studio where we run over several kids and a marching band of clowns. We then crash through a soap opera and a news room set up before finally smashing through the 13th story windows of the studio high-rise. All goes quiet and Bob looks over to me, his white hair like a perfect cloud in the bluest of blue skies. He whispers, “I love you. I’ve always loved you!” and the music swells as he takes my face in his hands and violently bites off my entire upper and lower lips. He smells like gunfire and a pine forest full of semen.
When I was a small child my father told me that farting made humans run faster. So whenever I had to fart I’d run fast as I could. I never had many friends.
Of course I forgot all about this until I tried to suppress a fart at my fathers funeral.
The memory and the silliness combined with the horror of the moment overwhelmed me. I started crying, running, and farting. I sprinted circles around my family at the graveyard until I just started laughing. I finally tripped over a gravestone and flew into the air just as I let a big one rip… I never landed.
My favorite artist was someone who went to my old church.
They’d blacked out all the words in the bible so only three words appeared on each page.
I first discovered this work while sitting through an interminable church service. The minister was spewing some hate filled nonsense and I finally picked up the Holy Bible, curious if it really said all these terrible things.
To my wonder and surprise all I found was page after page of “I love you” it was like a choir of angels was hammering a very simple song into my heart. I sat there in quiet awe while the asshole preacher prattled on and on with his hate filled fever dream. I was flipping through all those pages as the chorus sang upon me until I broke down and every fiber of my own being too began to sing.
I love you - I love you through everything you big dummy - I love you
I saw every mean and stupid thing I’d done. And a great compassion swelled within me. I found myself flooded by a strange tenderness for my very own self. It then spilled and splashed across everything I saw until all was colored wet and bubblin - baptized in the water light love of compassion all is perfect and free - even the asshole preacher.
Finally I staggered to my feet and thundered out a proclamation to the pastor - “HEY FUCKFACE! Why don’t you put on some pants and get a real job! Cuz you fuckin suck at this one!”
And the universe roared a bright horn chorus of “Dude!” and the high fives were glorious and everlasting.
The initial findings were staggering. The possibility that more than 70% of all female adult film actresses may suffer from a little known hormone deficiency called Seria Syndrome. What is Seria Syndrome? “Basically its a hormonal imbalance that can lead to impulsive and mania type behavior,” says Dr. Louis Szekely, who heads up a team of researchers in Van Nuys, California.
The hormone in this case is called Oxytocin and it effects everything from social recognition skills, pair bonding, maternal behavior to anxiety and orgasm. Oxytocin is specifically mammalian and acts primarily as a neurotransmitter in the brain. Its often referred to as the ‘love hormone’ thus the more than 300 million dollars drug companies have spent on research in just the past 5 years. “If we could produce a pill that produces feelings of love, empathy and trust in the user… it would be a social panacea,” Dr. Szekely went on to say. Studies and research have shown that oxytocin may solve a battery of problems; Autism, depression, drug addiction and even adultery.
Though oxytocin was first synthesized in 1953 administering it to patients has proven quite difficult. Oxytocin is destroyed by gastrointestinal tract. It also has a half life of only three minutes in the blood stream and thusly cannot enter the brain in any significant quantity due to a blood brain barrier. What scientists have then turned to as a result of being unable to administer oxytocin to test subjects is studying its effects by inhibiting oxytocin levels in the subjects. Researchers discovered during studies on laboratory rats that if a female rat was given a oxytocin inhibitor she’d immediately lose interest in her offspring and leave her mate. Scientists then were able to naturally raise the oxytocin levels in the female rats by simple handling them and stroking them for a mere thirty seconds to forty seconds. The female rats then began to immediately mate with the closet male or female, though in repeated double blind studies they did show a consistent preference for male rats who drove Trans-Ams and had cocaine. Scientists theorize that the reason for such rash activity was that the oxytocin starved females had such a low baseline of oxytocin activity that normal stroking or petting that releases what would be an average dose of oxytocin in a non inhibited subject becomes in effect a overdose in a previously inhibited subject, thus overriding many of the usual trust/aversion markers that control mating and maternal behavior. “The oxytocin overdosed female rats basically became wanton whores,” stated Dr. Szekely. Besides the troubling social behavior scientist also noticed that the inhibited rats shown very specific problems with hearing that effected vocalization. Researchers then took these findings and began conducting research on a interesting test group; female porn stars. “I actually began to notice the vocal patterns that I was hearing from the inhibited rats matched up with those of the adult performers in… uh well… other research I was conducting,” blushed Szekely. Researchers then viewed several thousand adult films and charted the vocal patterns of the female performers. The data that was compiled and it was stunning. Studies showed that 713 of 998 female performers had speech problems consistent with Seria Syndrome. In order to verify the findings the female performers would need to be physically tested. Here the research team ran into a problem. The porn stars were not willing research participants, even when offered money and free treatment. It was then that a light went off in Szekely’s head. “We’ll make a porno,” he flatly stated. And that’s just what they did. Over the next three grueling weeks Dr.Szekely took samples from over 500 females. “We couldn’t get the starlets to submit to a regular blood sample,” he recalled “so I just attached a small patch of cotton to the end of my penis and was able to obtain throat sample within the context of the film. I achieved a 92% success rate,” he beamed. The numbers once again were staggering, only 3 female performers that appeared in Dr. Love, Female gang bang, actually showed any sign of Seria Syndrome. 413 of the performers just had tongue rings that impeded clear speech and 76 of the performers where “just fucked up,” stated a bemused Szekely. The 3 starlets that did have markers consistent with Seria Syndrome were thoroughly tested in Dr. Love II & III “It wasn’t until Dr Love IV, Anal mania, that we figured out a fail proof way to administer antidote testing,” said Dr. Louis. As of this writing Dr. Szekely is planning a new research group, Dr. Love V, Gang bang 1,000. “I will not rest until I find a cure,” sighed the good Dr.
When I was a kid candy cigarettes were popular. The packs they came in looked just like real cigarettes and even had the same name as the popular brands; Lucky Strikes, Kools, Camels, and Marlboro’s. I had a friend Joe who had a 3 pack a day habit. He developed diabetes within 6 months, but it was the cancer that finally got him 2 years later at the ripe old age of 7. Come to find out candy cigarettes are more dangerous and addictive than real smokes.
I visited him in the hospital, the whole second grade class did. The cancer had started in his lips and spread to his entire face. As a result the skin had been removed from his entire face and it covered with a kind of clear saran wrap that allowed doctors to easily monitor the aggressive cancer. Joe just sat there in bed, a small faceless monster chomping candy cigs, high on pain meds. Sometimes I guess he’d get too much morphine in his system and he’d stand in his bed and chant commercials slogans like a rabid tele-evangelist. I can still see the whole second grade class visiting him in the hospital all of us crying or catatonic with fear.
Little Joe standing on his bed, a candy cigarette between each finger, holding his hands high above his head, waving to the sun, chanting over and over, “We love to fly, and it shows! We love to fly and it shows!”
When world famous magician Doug Henning was on his death bed he asked for his old magicians top hat. It was the first magic prop he’d bought when he was a little kid. Everyone gathered around for what he said would be his last magic trick.
With much fanfare and showmanship he twirled the hat around showing everyone that it was empty. He then reached inside and after a long dramatic pause sprung forth his empty hand out of the hat. “TA-DA!” he said with a stupid grin, with tears in his eyes. And then he died.
I’m sorry I haven’t written in a few weeks but I’ve been busy. I have a new robot companion that I received for free from the G'apple corporation. The literature says the robot acts and interacts through a complicated form of arrogate algorithms derived from a compiler program direct from the World Wide Web. In other words, whatever the internet does, my robot companion acts out in the form of simplified interactions. Isn’t it great Justin! I just fill out a few simple forms each day, G'apple gets their free research and I get a free companion, so I’m not so doggone lonely anymore. An all around win!
I call my robot Mr. Pickles, he seems to really like the name. Lately, Mr Pickles has taken to ripping the heads off of people and yelling FAIL! down their throats. I guess its some sort of meme. A meme is a kinda fad on the interwebs. For instance, let’s say someone takes a funny picture of a fat kitten looking surprised or of a remorseful dog vagina, they put the picture on the internets and other users insert the picture into amusing scenarios, while other people circulate these pictures on social networking sites. It is uproariously funny. But it can also get like really deep ya know, like when sometimes people put a meme inside of a meme… I don’t even want to think about it. It makes my poor little head hurt. Its pretty amazing.
So anywho, Mr Pickles was ripping the heads off all the hired help and various neighbors the other day when I saw Trudy at the Hot-n-Bite, you know Trudy from my yoga class… anyway Trudy starts telling me about her husband Ted and how all he does is cry about The Fear and The Void day and night. While she’s prattling on, I see Mr. Pickles making a bee-line across the parking deck for her. I quickly took Judy by the shoulders and looked her dead in the eye and said,
“Trudy if you value your life and I know you do… when that cute little robot in the Tadashi cocktail dress comes over here and addresses you, you just scream "Dog vagina!” as loud as you can, OK?“
Judy just smiled uncomfortably at me and then laughed like I had said the funniest joke ever. So Mr. Pickles arrives and offers Trudy a smoke pellet. Trudy graciously accepts and then Mr. Pickles severs her head from her neck with one fluid movement, he lifts her body up at the waist and swings her around like he was playing a trumpet. "FAIL!!!”, he roars down her throat. All the while, her carotid arteries are spraying blood all over him. Well I forgot my place and shrieked, “Pickles! Your dress,” but Mr. Pickles just glared at me, dropped Trudy and rolled on over. So I whisper, “Dog Vagina?” and luckily Mr. Pickles laughed and decided to buy us root beer floats. Oh my new social life sure is exciting! Well I gotta run, looks like Mr. Pickles is ripping off someones beard and eating it.
Always use cliches - Sure, the books and professors will tell you the exact opposite. They’ll tell you to use original words and unique phrasing to excite the mind and to keep the reader on its toes. Well I’m here to tell you they’re dead wrong. Only an asshole would make up their own cliches. The reason lousy writers need to make the language interesting because they aint got shit to say. Their story is as old as the hills. If you have a good story, cliches are quick and easy shorthand to unfurl your far-out ideas upon.
For instance, I’ve been a close personal friend of David Bowie’s for almost 15 years. Now David, as many of you know is a wild and interesting cat, but many of you would be surprised if I told you he’s eaten the same thing for breakfast for more than 30 years. His reason is that he doesn’t have time to be bothered with petty decisions, so he always eats the same thing. He’s got crazy awesome David Bowie stuff to think about!
The same goes with cliche’s and writing. If you got crazy, mind blowing shit to deal with, who cares about making new and exciting metaphors? Its like filming a porno with a Great White Shark and crocheting fancy lace mittens for your cock (or vagine if yer a lady) for the big love scene.
I’m working on a spec script for a cartoon show about a dead raccoon named Chester. Chester lies dead on the back porch of a model home in an abandoned gated community. The model home is fully furnished with a thoroughly modern kitchen. There is a small child robot floor sweeper that befriends Chester and together the learn all sorts of life lessons. Most of the lessons center around the finality of death and the roaring void because Chester doesn’t say or do anything, as he is dead and rotting.
Though there will be some fun song and dance numbers done by the maggots living in Chester’s body. And heart touching songs that the robot child sings into the void.
Perhaps you have noticed some rough language or a coarse tone in our recent correspondence. We at Hookers or Cake would like to assure that this is not in error nor is it to offend. In fact this is just the latest step in the fight to verify personal identity.
Research has shown that robots, programs and offshore spam companies fail to comprehend sarcasm, irony and inappropriate cursing. In light of this we’re encouraging all of our clients and social contacts to partake in superfluous cussing and absurd veiled threats. This is a means to assure one another that we’re actual human beings and not just an uptight program with a abacus for a heart and a bottomless coin purse for a belly. We hope you understand our stance but welcome that you may not. We find ourselves glad, that if you are a program or shortsighted asshole that your confusion will act as an agreement of the termination of all unsightly communication or contact with us in the future.
Warmest mutha fuckin’ regards,
VP Lewd Pony Press author of Hookers or Cake D.H.S. (Destroyer of Ham Sandwiches)
The sad sex doll waded out into the ocean. Salt water flowed into her mechanical vagina, sending jolts of shorting electricity throughout her entire system. With each step into deeper water a bit more of her died.
“It’s better than the emptiness,” she thought.
When she was shoulder deep in the rhythmic blue water, the core system panic signal stopped. The adrenaline now only served to heighten her awareness. Everything was silent. She gazed up to the sky and saw a white seagull floating several feet above her. Riding a warm updraft it curiously cocked its head and looked at her. With her 25x vision she could see herself in the reflection of its pink blue eye.