Category Archives: Trash Talk

Trash Talk

Birth of Sasquatch

… Like in a movie, the writer types and concentrates hard and then he rrriiiipsss the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and sets the last page down on a stack of paper that is at least one whole ream and that’s when the writer’s editor calls him on the phone and the writer says “yeah, yeah, I have it now, I’ve just finished, I’m taking it down to UPS and overnighting it to you, it will be there tomorrow morning, on your desk, bright and early” and as the writer sets the manuscript down on the passenger seat of his 2004 Subaru and fast-draws his seatbelt across his precious body he feels a sense of accomplishment and then pulls away from his log cabin and goes down the winding drive to the main road. Suddenly, an eight-foot-tall Sasquatch steps in front of the car and the car’s bumper taps the Sasquatch’s shins and it gets rageful and punches a hole through the engine block of the Subaru with one paw and punches a hole through the chest of the writer with the other. The Sasquatch takes the manuscript because he has heard that after humans take shits they like to wipe their asses with expensive paper and the Sasquatch thinks if its good enough for the humans …

{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

… Or it’s like when you watch a movie about a journalist breaking the big story but she lives in a small city and her editor thinks she’s an asshole because she never gets her work in on time but when she does it wins all the Pulitzers so why the editor is pissed is a mystery, maybe he has hemorrhoids and needs to use baby wipes when he shits, but anyway …

The journalist lives in a rustic/modernist loft above the city that she writes about, the beat she covers, the stories that are under her purview, and the journalist is sitting at a sleek writing table in front of industrial-strength windows and there is a purple, floofy couch behind her with looseleaf papers and news papers and an iPad strewn all over it and the journalist is listening to an audio recording, transcribing a quote and playing back the audio to see if it matches what the source said, and she types and types and then there is a call from the editor that the journalist lets go to voicemail because he’ll understand once he sees the fucking story, the important thing is to get it all down on paper even though nobody uses paper anymore (eww paper) …

She takes a shit and uses her bidet and as she does, checks her phone. There is a message from the editor saying “this better be worth it” and she thinks you betcha boss man it will be, just give me a sec and as she’s about to leave her bathroom and rush back to her desk and click SEND, there is a knock at the door and she doesn’t want to answer it but maybe it’s the super coming to fix her kitchen sink so she says “hold on a sec” and then the doorbell rings again …

She opens the door and before her stands a Sasquatch wearing coveralls with his name, Maurice, stitched in cursive on his breast pocket and he’s carrying a toilet plunger and he punches his hand through the journalist’s chest and watches as the life drains from her eyes. The Sasquatch proceeds to the bathroom, rips the bidet out of the wall and carries it off like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest …

{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

Or its like the writer for the new Netflix show who is on set to take notes from the producers who feel that the show needs a new love interest and they want it to be hot and steamy but the thing is the show is about Sasquatches and their lovemaking has yet to be told in any media whatsoever and the writer doesn’t know what to write and he is at his wits’ end (which admittedly isn’t very far) …

This writer wears a helmet and body armor because he’s heard of the Sasquatch-on-writer crime that strikes whenever some bullshit cliched character shows up on a TV show or in a movie: the serious writer living in a cabin in Vermont, the overpaid journalist working some backwater like Utica, or …

The writer for the new Netflix show, he’s a nerd and he likes things that are meta. I’m not sure how I’m going to murder this asshole but I imagine he could get killed through the only open part of his body armor which would be the butthole, yes that’s perfect, all the Sasquatches take turns on his butthole, and now Sasquatch lovemaking has been told through this media so problem solved …

But maybe a more fitting end is that this writer turns into a Sasquatch but not from a Sasquatch bite but from having a Sasquatch take a shit on him, you see the reason there are so few Sasquatch sightings is that to make a new Sasquatch a Sasquatch has to shit on a person, and then that person turns into a Sasquatch upon the next, full toilet flush …

Standard
Trash Talk

Humidifier Crank

I tried a backflip into the pool the other day. Hadn’t done that in decades. I’m 46 and I shouldn’t be doing backflips. The Centers for Disease Control says so. They’ll come and put a mask on my plugged nose. The FBI will confiscate my flippers and snorkel.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but … after 46 years on this planet … I still don’t know what I’m gonna do … when Hulkamania runs wild on me …

Not Hulk Hogan

You don’t want to live in an airtight house. You will suffocate. You will dislocate. And chocolate. Where’s this choco – lesterol? My kids think about a house that can just float away if it needs to move. Like a ship, watertight.

Human beings are things made mostly of water that try desperately to keep it out of their basements.

I’m writing a screenplay about a wild goose chase in a casino. Tentative title: Gooses Are Wild!

Goose

Haters in my life? Point ’em out! I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I need to do. Get your revenge before it’s too late. Did you know that people my age die? Often. Unexpectedly. I’m sure they didn’t expect it either.

My name is Richard Corinthian Leather, but everyone calls me Rich.

Rich Corinthian Leather

In the movie Ghost, Whoopi Goldberg becomes the conduit for Patrick Swayze, aka P-Swayz. P-Swayz convinces Whoopi to talk to his wife, Demi Moore. When she finally accepts that Whoopi is possessed by P-Swayz, they make love. In the film, there is a cut so that the viewer sees P-Swayz and Demi begin to make out. But here is the weird part. In the reality of the movie, if you were in that room watching, perhaps in a closet with a camcorder (one of those big, shoulder-carry styles because this was the early nineties), you would see Demi Moore make out with Whoopi Goldberg (I mean the characters they play of course). So, as much as all three want it to be Demi and P-Swayz, she can only work with Whoopi’s body. And Whoopi’s body doesn’t have a cock. At least, I don’t think so. Demi makes love to a woman physically but to her husband mentally. I would think, though, that the discrepancy between what your mind is feeling and what your body is touching would throw you out of it. Or does P-Swayz penetrate her with his ghost dick?

Can I go through tribulations by themselves or must there always be trials beforehand? And can I just go through one tribulation rather than many? What is the International Department of Cliches’ guidance in this matter?

Cli-Ché Guevara

Standard
Trash Talk

No One Cares

Do you eat the years?  Do your hungry eyes mash the sunset in salivating jowls?  Do I agree with myself about our first meeting?  That was when you freestyled everything from my dance to my haircut, peeled my eyes with a hockey stick in the dusk with gnats, gnashed your eye teeth at my audition song.  You didn’t see potential through the enamel.  You seen it?  

Corinthian, you are blue-eyed souled-out David Bowie in linen white slacks, you are camel hair Italian suedey blues, you are scotch eggs 190 proof, you are enlightened darkness, you believe in leavened dorkness.  A touch from your dongle could infect billions of ones and zeros.  

I’m sorry that you got divorced, oh great reader of comic books and people.  Could you read your wife as well as you read me?  Was it the gambling?  Were impossible stakes in your vows?  Detach, detached, no attachments, no reproachments, no encroachments, no breath mints, no window tints, no fake tizzies, sham sham do away with them them.  

And under a dark cloud the dark wizard passes the time with me.  A prison I put us into.  Funny, I wonder if the monkeys in the cage hate their jailers, or just the baboons on the shady side of the footpath.  Why must those who have it together be in my eyeline?  Dark wizard, you fueled the rage we felt for the baboons, and I stood beside you ready to throw my shit.  But when target practice was over and it came to throw shit or get off the pot, where were you?  In bed reading your disorganized chemistry book.  Boy, the baboons didn’t like us, but really me, after that. Then the jailers gave me a lecture.  And you bailed, wizard.  You ran like a fucking coward.  Then what do you do?  You throw your shit at me!  The nerve of people!

Aardvark, get your protractors and rulers and measure my steps.  I take giant ones, like Coltrane-sized. You wouldn’t know.  Aardvark, you screw up your ugly face to talk to me in facial vortex.  It is difficult to look at you.  First off, only birds fly that high to get a good look.  That’s the only good look you ever get.

Those that get close to me may want to do me harm.  I’ve suffered too.  I’ve privileged out at a low level.  I’ve been bullied, crossed, joke-butted, smothered and covered.  And no one cares.

You care about cats competing for pets, the Players’ Ball of Chicago, a California Pizza Chicken Shake Shack, and a love supreme pizza.  You care about James Bond, the new cadillac, recycling, upcycling, unicycling, bike paths, and swaths of yoga pants on racks under air conditioning.  Pick pockets in France.  Where the Laker ladies dance.  Bip – that’s a rimshot on the Mars rover.

“Talk that gibberish, fool.”  Please.  Don’t act like I don’t make sense, all day every day, every customer served.  I just can’t pretend like you.  That it all lines up in the ledger correctly.  That it will all come out in the wash.  I hate all of you equally.  For reasons.  For documented slights of hand and mouth.

Standard
Trash Talk

24 Hour Revenge Therapy

10/3/06

You work out to build the muscle underneath your tarp of skin, piling it so high that the covering stretches and fat has no choice but burn up or join the mound of flesh.  When everywhere is muscle you will be complete.  Finished.  But you can’t go home.  Home is waste, fat, temptation.  Stay here.  It’s 24-hour now.  Think about the woman who looked at you as less than a man.  If she could see you now.  How about that guy in traffic?  Bet he didn’t think much of you when he cut you off.  Blue Pontiac thinks your Pacific-Northwest-gray Nissan Sentra (wearing worn, indecipherable bumper stickers, college parking passes from the Clinton years and a too-big-to-ignore/too-small-to-fix dimple dent on its bumper) is a waistoid vehicle blighting the traffic real estate.  Do overhead presses and imagine throwing your hunk of shit car at his head!  I’d tell you to imagine throwing it over a cliff and washing your hands of it’s “fix me” lights, but that’s too high-concept for you now that testosterone is the junk to your hungry bones.  Just get your revenge while expelling stress while inflating muscle. You know, multi-task.  It never has to end.  When you need sleep you don’t have to leave.  Sleep in our beds, tanning all night long. For food, why spend all that time, money and gas buying food and eating it?  We have protein smoothies, which can be consumed through straw, IV drip or “other.”  You never need to separate from us here at Global Fitness.  We bring the world to you.

Standard
Trash Talk

Little Triggers

Don’t play this at work loud on your laptop speakers because it’s not safe for work unless you’re in the space capsule orbiting Earf …

I believe the Earf is flat like a titty, it looks round until she lies down, she wishes it was a globe or a pear, millennia ago it twas, underwire scaffolding, good days and bad days, a bad titty is still something we would like to see, don’t forget to pay attention to the North Pole …

Don’t play this at work on your iPhone speakers in the john or on it, your boss at the car dealership is already tired of your shit, the smell and the frequency, hessa gonna bust you down, you can’t be trusted to sell the Mazda 6, you’ll be downshifted to Mazda 2, a two seater, you and another stall and that’s it, no room for a urinal even …

I think you saw the curse words coming and you couldn’t move, like the engine sound of a car speeding in the opposite direction while you’re walking down a busy road at night in the rain and you hear the sound of wet rubber compressing against wet asphalt that sounds like SHLEEK while it passes, it isn’t wise to look at the drivers so many of them today are looking down so just trust that God Fate and Autopilot are smiling on you this eve …

Don’t hum this while some song is playing, don’t let it compete with a preacher, don’t let it complete another’s thoughts, don’t let it do heavy lifting without a back brace, don’t upon it place solvents or oil-based stains, don’t with it lace strychnine or bonnets, don’t attach upon it useless grommets, decorative or functional Shakespearean sonnets burnished or furnished may appear for inspirational purposes only, be it copyright or wrong …

Standard