No more instant messaging or your wily phone satellites. Handwritten sentiments are back!

Cute right?The future is coming, do you know what it holds in store for you? I do. You have just bought a 3 Liter cup of scalding hot Coffee Acid and are crossing the street when a 2007 BMW X8 (Burgundy in Color) slams into you eviscerating your entire body. Amongst the strewn intestines and splattered open stomach which clearly shows you ate at Indochine, you are looking for your Blackberry Planet Destroyer to finish that message. Will this happen to you? Most likely, but Me, Myself and I are offering you a chance to escape a death no one will remember not even your own Children because they will be playing on Xbox 180 and dodging bullets of warring factions of the PC Liberation Front and the People's Militia of Apple. When will the fighting end? I have an answer and no it is not Agent Orange, we all saw how that WOOPS! turned out. My new mail service, MAIL HAS TEETH has trained Kodiak Grizzly Bears to not only deliver your thoughts, jaded emotions, and tragically monotonous sexual encounter with a CPA who has a goiter that you regale about to everyone with the power of a huge massive animal. Bears have Sharp teeth, but they also like honey and cardio. These bears will pick your kids up from school, eat the drivers of the Beamer the night before it happens (They are all psychic; this is not guaranteed, we just our bears Enriched Uranium) , and ultimately get your message across, you are not taking a German Car to the mid-section, no way no how!

So order today at MAILHASTEEH@HALLIBURTON.COM and you will receive a cub and let the magic begin.


*Remember you have to gain the bear's trust. Do not drink in front of the bear it sets a bad example. Do not touch the bear when it is meditating. Absolutely under no circumstances are you to interfere with the bear's weekly viewing of Werner Herzog's EPIC DOC, The Grizzly Man. There are many more DON'T! but to it is all common sense. Your bear will kill you if you violate these simple stipulations.


Order now, or say hello to your guts for me when they have fused with the bumper of a used car, GROSS. ओम Cute right


**Never look at the bear pensively.

Dear Politics

Dear Politics,

I do not usually write letters. In fact as of recently I just became literate, I do not live in a rich state. This may seem weird but I used to be in love with you, but no longer. I heard, I usually do not like to believe rumors, I prefer it straight for the horse’s mouth but Transparency told me over drinks at Bungalow eight that you had been fooling around with Money.

Now, it if was only one time, and you were running on Havana Gold and Red Bull, I might have been able to let it slide, but when I found out that that occurred multiple times in multiple different places I had to put my foot down. I was crushed for a whole week I watched Gilmore Girls until my new Blu Ray copy literally melted inside the machine and set my entire Artist’s loft ablaze. As far as my material world goes, I am fucking shattered, but in the realm of being spiritual, I adhere to the Indian Customs of bathing in the Ganges river, so I went down to the Hudson and cleansed my spirit but sadly did not realize there was a jet ski for erectile dysfunction charity event and I was hit in the head by a propeller. After being in the ICU for nearly seventeen days the superb team of Assholes (I have no insurance) helped me to achieve the look of something akin to the Elephant Man, something William Jefferson Clinton wouldn’t have had sex with, unless of course it was thanksgiving. Don’t ask LOL.

So the to make a long story short I hate you and I hate myself even more for believing that one day you would be able to love me like I wanted you to, cradle me with education incentives, seduce me with a finality on the agreement of the non-proliferation of Nuclear Weapons, and finally the idea of waking up next to you with a gift of legislation in your hand to end the horrible war in our country that asks: Blackberry or Iphone?

You let me down and the enmity I hold for you is like the rivalry between Estonia and Latvia. Yes I am afraid it is that serious, you miserable snatch thief.

I would write sincerely but I do not know how to spell it,

Fuck you and everything you stand for,

A. Regan.

p.s. The capitol building looks like a chode, and the columns at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue are so gaudy I am just dying to call you someone with a sense of Feng Shui.

p.m.s I do believe in Karma, so I just wanted to wish you good luck with all the people that you are killing around the world in the name of broad words like Hope, Freedom, Sovereignty, and Epidermis.

Ass. I miss you.

Dizzy Rascal and my secret crush on Clark University

I write too much.

This will be brief I assure you.

Dizzy Rascal (Not Dizzy Rascal) and I turned left on Clarkson street. We bumbled over cobblestone and picked up a pink laptop bag and listen to strikingly attractive Japanese actors spout cliche lines from old Westerns. I smoked a cantaloupe.


I made it up to Massachusetts. I was in the Bean town for a night, watched In Bruges on a huge ghost sheet while munching on klonopin and then spent an hour doodling with an omnichord. Sounded good to me, but even the deaf starved dogs outside asked me to stop.

I four wheeled with a professor of theater on the cape in East Orleans. 15 psi and tracking through murky salt marshes with Earnest Sewn Jeans rolled up just below the knees.

I then went to Clark in Worcester to meet a room full of beating warm hearts and ate a cantalope instead of smoking one. I drank 35% Panamanian firewater from Pedasi's largest supermarket. I got a soap holder there too.

I chewed my Clonezapam tablets and fell asleep to Govinda Hare and work up ate Lebanese and by four o'clock and made it to teach five minutes late and couldn't do a handstand like I did in a park named after someone named Matthew in South Norwalk.

Rain Lounge is not worth the $7 cover. Everything is what you make it. Be here now, and I certainly wasn't then.

I was stopped by police who made me perform cirque du soleil to prove I hadn't been drinking. He deemed me adequate drive. He must have been twelve.

We ended up at a diner. I ate BLUEBERRY PANCAKES, he ate GRIDDLE CAKES.

BIG BLUE WHALES

Big Blue Whales

Please Return My Whale

Bulbous Blue Whale Inspired Thousands

Big Engine Succubus Cruising To The Flank

Spear Pitched AND Red Viscosity

Even Its Cries Of Pain Make Swollen Bellies Red Gyrate By Being There

These Blisters In My Hand

The Courageous Salute Of The Ignorant

I Am The King Of Filth

Sink And Submerge

Aquamarine Floating Above My Head This Time

Stung By Life Fluid

Salty Veins Pumping To The Puncture

Sharks Did Devour

I Tilt My Head

Jugular Visshuda

Never Worth The Words Anyhow

Who Orders The Twelve Piece?

Guilt and the irreversible role of hamster and man.

I should preface this by saying sorry. Which I should do in most instances. Forgive the editing I am lazy and go back through time and make corrections when I deem it necessary to throw up by looking at my abysmal writing.

An Italian journalist pisses off George Clooney regarding Nescafe and the damage they have done to Africa. He will not answer the question. I cup my hands over my ears to hear a conversation that I do not belong in. I start crying when I think about Lt. Ellen Ripley and the symbolism in her actions through the first three Alien films. Beyond all that though, I walk to work the other day at the crack of eleven in the morning and I am confronted by a box. This little piece of cardboard is shaking to the left and to the right, a small rock a top of it. I look at it, perplexed because I usually expect that an inanimate object will not begin to move in front of my eyes and cause me displeasure on my usual walk to the L line train.

A guy, who is halfway through a cigarette looks at me and tells me it is a hamster. On par to a baby dumped into a trash can this little creature has been left outside Ridgewood New York's local pet land  to be adopted and possibly resold and be mistreated as he so clearly was by being placed in a box. I didn't do anything. I imagined myself certainly picking up the box, leaving my god awful job and devoting my life to the happiness of this creature that breathes the same air that I do. However I ignored him and with fifteen minutes to curtain call, the pet shop would take him inside and plop him in a plastic run around where maybe he would forget his abandonment or always remember it and when an unsuspecting victim purchased him he would bite so hard on the little child finger that blood would fly, but all would be in the name of justice.

What if I was in the box. What if my landlord and his motley crew of well built Italian men picked me up and threw me in a box and then put a big rock on top of it.  Considering what I have benched in the past it wouldn't have to be that big of a stone. I would wince and then when the the HUMAN store opened would they take me in, nurse me back to health and convince me that life was worth living again? I do not know. I am no oracle nor do I have the imagination to take it further than to say ,that the giant hamster that owned the store might wring my neck for my sake, or put me in the trash. I would be bruised. I would be in pain. However I would stand up and climb from the dumpster and collect myself. I would curse to myself and walk around and think of what to do next. Running from those that had hurt me, I would decide to despise everyone and not recognize why I might have been put in that box in the first place.

My feet would carry me to a train track, where I would wait for a Pacific railroad car to pass by at a sluggish rate and jump aboard like Bob Dylan may or may not have. I would just want to feel loved. I would want to be elevated feet off the ground in a soft bed and know that it wasn't going to last. I would savor the experience and appreciate the fact that I just wasn't worth it in the right time or place. I would think would the Hamster store owner feel a little bit differently if I was a cat or a little more savvy. Yet I somehow know I would end up in the Dumpster alone and tired asking anyone for pizza provided they could fulfill the need of holding me because the view out of my window just shows cars on the street and people who look tired. I go looking for matches and I find them for free yet I pay for my water. I push the top of the box and I cannot get out. I stretch out my body and still I feel ugly and I want to feel the inside of a woman and make her feel the same. To want me to be there, to stay even after it is over. But aren't I having sex my whole life when you sit in the shower in Lithuania shaving the hair from my pubes in hopes that in some effort that I will feel loved. All I saw though was a window with people outside of it in Palanga beating the every living shit out of each other. yet when I reached out to you you pulled away and that is okay. The credits start trolling and I do not bother to go to Ibiza because I have been there before. I have been to a club every single night because I live it over and over again, inside that silly little cardboard box.

I keep telling people to not let me fade away but I burnt out years ago. So who is this apparition. Who says he loves? Who gives compliments? Who tells people they are beautiful? your kiss was real and so were my lips but what about what was attached to me. Do I write this to be different or to find a place so I do not take a twine rope and strangulate myself. I watched him open a cab door on his own face and I still love him. I tell the story as if it is mine, and yet I know none of it is mine. Across the train tracks, and inside the center of Bergen or a screen with visuals it seems to exist outside of the hamsters and their cruelty but yet I cannot wrap my head around something that is so closely capped on top of me.

Truth and reconciliation through horrific dreams before being woken up by Chet Baker

Before I woke up with "The Thrill is Gone" playing by Chet Baker, I had a horrible nightmare. I will try to recount it as truthfully as a liar such as myself can.

Several people that I studied abroad with in Vietnam were in this dream. I shall leave their names out to protect their identities and their integrity as well. Since my dreams are erotic, violent, and more or less stupid.

And so it begins, we were all late trying to catch a flight to Seattle. The plane was leaving and since I am sure I know it rains a lot in Seattle, it was raining at the airport where we were meant to depart from. I sat eating something that escapes my memory and shortly after we all boarded the plane.

None of us were in the same row and I think that bothered  me. The plane took off, I wondered how the people in first class were doing and the next thing I know the plane is driving down a long road and eventually comes to a complete stop in a Cull-De-Sac of suburban homes. Turns out, one of these homes was mine but not really mine.

 

My father and mother who both resided in one of these McMansions agreed, that while the plane lay outside being fixed by Southwest airline's technicians we could all spend the night. The interior faintly resembled my actual house so when I entered I found nothing awry. What was daunting is that my  middle school crush appeared out of nowhere and informed me that we would be sharing a room together.  Since she is extremely attractive I hoped to spend the night with her in the same bed, but knowing my mother I knew she wouldn't allow it. I never asked for permission so I prepared to sleep on the floor.

Just before laying out all of the pillows to make room on the floor, with premeditated plans of getting up in the night and jumping into bed with her, my pops knocked on the door and asked me to check on my friends who were in the two upstairs rooms. Just to make sure that the group was settling in. They were.

In the first room, formerly my sister's room, My two guy friends were having at it with my female friend. One of my friends was totally in the nude and the girl of the two was wearing a white t-shirt and a kurtz hat while she moaned half enthused before my other friend went in to do a little fornicating himself.

I took a good look. A substantial look that would classify me as a pervert.  After fulfilling my desired viewpoints of the romp I turned to look in the other room where another two male friends were just lying on the bed, stomachs down. I saw no breath, nor did they make any sort of movement so being that it was a dream I did not check and went back downstairs.

My middle school crush told me that my bed was far too cold and I then prepared her for romance by saying I would get in there with her because I had excessive body heat, which could have been a turn on to her or just made her feel like my energy Chakra's were all out of kilter.

One foot was in the bed, but I was stopped as my dad once again knocked on my door and told me that something was not right upstairs. I told him sex was normal and not to worry. He said that that was not his primary concern and that it would be a good idea for me to go upstairs. As I go to the top of the doorway I found the doorknob missing. Sticky raspberry jam like blood was around a hole where the brass should have been. I just pushed the door open.

A large male was standing with a sadistic smile on his face. His forehead was larger than it should have been and he had a massive cob of corn in his hands. I selfishly did not check to see if my friends were okay and realized that I needed to get downstairs to protect my middle school crush. It was obvious that his intentions were of ill will towards all. 

I found a Louisville slugger by the bed and I told my middle school crush to stay safe. I picked up the bat. I never actually hit him. looking at his massive dome just gave me the different places where I could put enough of a dent to knock him out. My parents went to call the police. In all this danger I knew that I wasn't going to be able to save my middle school sweetheart and my friends upstairs were most likely dead. I also suspected that the Southwest Airlines technicians were not finished with their work on the plane.

No escape, this mad man with his cob of corn, and a damsel in distress. 

I woke up from this with a headache and a desire for Klonopin. I found some. I didn't take it but I took it on the subway and I have felt a little ill at ease for the whole day because of it. 

Why the corn? Why the airline inefficiency? Above all, why didn't Chet Baker pull me out of this one?