Gin and Jesus: Straight Outta Cocytus

(Script for the Pilot Episode of BET’s Next Smash Hit)

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, yo, yo homies! Jay-zoose in the Hell-zoose! Walkin’ on the Cocytus, easy peasy, just like on Galilee! Just poppin’ in for a surprise visit, peeps! Gonna go rip the gates off the Burning City of Dis just for grins and giggles, ‘cause I like to watch them uptight union devils having to rebuild them without any overtime or holiday pay every time I come down here and tear ‘em up. Keep it real, eternally damned peeps! Jesus loves ya! Peace out!

Satan (in Hell): Yo, JC, whatcha doin’ down here? Damn, brah, I ain’t seen you since ought seven! Yo, why you always gotta come down here, mess up the gates of the Burning City of Dis, and then rush off? Why don’tcha stay awhile and let’s grill us up some tasty souls?! C’mon, I’ll fire up the new husky-sized George Foreman I got, and we’ll get all barbecued up in this here Malebolge! This Foreman’s so huge you could feed all your apostles in one sizzizzle!

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, good to see you, Lucifizzle, word! You lookin’ sharp! Been workin’ out? Keepin’ it real? Hey, uh, sure, I could stand a couple slices of some grilled souls, that sounds good. But you know, nothin’ personal, my brother, but if anyone from Upstairs pops in, then I gotta do the whole “Get thee behind me” schtick while I’m down here, lest my Pops’ll get all up in my shit, namsain?

Satan (in Hell): I got your back, brother.

Jesus (in Hell): Thanks, brah. Good to know that you’re lookin’ out for me and you won’t make waves with my Pops. He can be tough, y’know . . .

Satan (in Hell): Nah brah, forget that shit, I ain’t bootlickin’ for anybody from Upstairs in my own damn crib. What I meant was: I got your back. Right here! Look at this choice cut of meat I just carved off the flip side of one them sizzlin’ lardasses down there in the glutton’s pit!

Fred “Rerun” Berry (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Hay, HAY, Hay! OUCCCCHH!!!!!! AIGGGGGGHHHH!!! AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Everyone: Ahhhh ha ha ha ha!!! Ha ha ha!!! Ahhhh ha ha!

Jesus (in Hell): Ah, got it!! Yeah, that’s some nice lookin’ fatback for sure, thanks, brah. Thanks for cookin’ it up for me. I usually try to cook with 93% fat free souls, but they don’t really work that well on the grill.

Satan (in Hell): Oh man, that’s just lame, Jesubibble. You need that fat to give your food taste! Damn, son, I figured after that 40 days in the wilderness thing that I put you through, you’d know better than to deny yourself again. Mmmm . . . yeah, that’s gonna crisp up real nice on the Foreman!! Mmm mmm!! Yo, step back there, JC. You don’t want to be breathin’ in this smoke here, what with your weak lungs and everything. You know how you get if you have an asthma attack, right?

George Jefferson (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Weezie!!!

Everyone: Ah ha ha!! Ha ha!!! Ahh ha ha ha ha ha!!!

Jesus (in Hell): Hey Beelzibbibble, I been meaning to ask you: What’s up with all the ball sacs hangin’ off of the trees down in the suicide circle? You best not let my Pops see that. He don’t like it when you start making up new punishments without running it by him and shit. My lips are sealed, but just watch your back, yo.

Satan (in Hell): I’m watchin’ your back, JC! I’m watchin’ it cook! Look at it sizzle! Oh man, I sure am glad your old man made gluttony a sin!! But, serious, how come he’s gotta be so hard on me down here? I mean, I got the prime contract from Heaven GmbH to provide the eternal punishments for the next 10 millennia, so why he gotta micromanage and tell me what I can and can’t do all the time? Damn, next time contracts are up, I’ma tack on another five points if him and Gabriel don’t stop comin’ down here and tellin’ me how to run my shop!

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, you know how it is with my Pops. He’s all uptight about bein’ in charge, and makin’ all the peeps follow all those damn Leviticus rules and whatnot. I can’t even keep ’em straight, yo. It’s like, “Whoa, am I supposed to smite this sodomite, or this chick who’s on the rizzag while she’s in my kitchen, or both of ’em?” Just roll with it, man. He don’t notice if you don’t make waves.

The LORD (on the intercom, over a human beatbox rhythm track): Who’s balls be these, that hang from thine suicide trees, that scratchin’ need of there be? What nuts of which thou speaks are these, that art forever to swing, from the hell’s bowels without permission from me?!!!

Satan (in Hell): DEEZE NUTS!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!! I been waitin’ years to be able to say that!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!

Baal (in Hell): Ah, wow, Satan! You done smacked that ass now!

Pan (in Hell): Yeah, Satan!! You tell him!! I got your back!!

Belial (in Hell): Yeah, that comeback’s gonna start a new revolution! Fire up the Foremans! Tonight we eat the unbaptized babies! Hell’s yeah!

Snoop Dogg (making a cameo appearance in Hell, with a subpoena): Yo, mizzle Devizzle. Mah lawyers will be callin’ at your cribbizzle in the morizzle to discuss the infringizzle copyrizzle. Spizzle wizzle.

Everyone: Awwwwwwwww . . . . .

Jesus (in Hell): Yo, Pops, it’s all good. I was mistaken. They’re not ball sacs at all. They’re just Me-mas decorations that Satan hung up, givin’ me all the Glory and everything. Don’t worry ’bout comin’ down to check it out. Everything’s good. I’ll be home right after dinner. Tell Moms I love her, aight?

The LORD: Well thou hast said, son. And thou art trusted, as none other is. For thou art mine only son, which I gave for the world, despite all your, uh, shall we say, flaws. Now, seriously, yo mama’s cookin’ one hell of a steak up in dis griz-ell, so get yo’ ass on up here!

Jesus (in Hell): Aw, Pops, why you gotta talk like that? That’s weird when you drop into vernacular that way.

The LORD: What, you think just ‘cause I’m old I don’t know how to ‘chill with my peeps’? I can still ‘get down’ with the young people! I’m cool like James Earl Jones, only I’m omniscient, for My sake! Gimme some skin!

Jesus (in Hell): Dad, you’re embarrassing me! Cut it out! I’ma have some fatback down here with Satan tonight, aight? Tell Moms I’ll have leftover steaks with her tomorrow. Love you, Pops!

The LORD: Me dammit, we are not amused at being stood up for dinner! All I can say is you’d better mess those gates of the City of Dis up something fierce if you’re gonna make your mother go through all that effort for nothing. Where’s the Holy Ghost? Maybe we’ll have him over tonight instead . . .

The Holy Ghost (materializes in Hell): Boo! Boogity boogity boo!!! Boo-yah!

Satan (in Hell): Ahh! Don’t sneak up on me like that, The Holy Ghost! Damn!! How many times I gotta tell you that?!?!

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Aw man, that’s so funny to see the look on your face when I do that!!! That one never gets old!!! Hey, you got some extra traitor ribs on that grill I can have?

Satan (in Hell): Yeah, but they’re not fresh. JC’s Pops always makes me freeze the traitors before I serve ‘em. It’s in the contract. Here you go, hand me a paper plate, I’ll slide you some.

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Whoh, whoh, whoh! I said I said I wanted some ribs, Satan!!! Don’t be tryin’ to slide fatback onto my plate, punk. Don’t forget, you work for Heaven GmbH. Try to pawn off fatback as ribs with me again, and I’ll make sure you never get another contract in this town!

Mary Magdalene (out back at the clothesline, in Hell): Is that Jesus I hear over there? What? You come all the way down here, Jesus, and all you do is go barbecue with the Lord of the Fries? What about me? You got no time to come see your babies’ mama no more? I tell you what, Jesus, John the Baptist’s gettin’ tired of payin’ for baby formula, namsain? You gotta get with the Fathership program. Ask your Pops how it’s done, aight?

Satan (in Hell): Mmmm, mmm, mmmm . . . that Mary Magga Dagga still one hot SILF!!! That mean “Soul I’d Like to Fu— . . .”

Jesus (in Hell): Get that thought behind me, Satan!!! I don’t talk about Missus Scratch and her six spectacular goat breasts, so you leave Mary Magdalene alone, got it? Wait, Maggie! Wait! You actually want me to ask my Dad about Fatherhood? Okay, here goes: Hey Pops, ‘member when you got all up in mama’s grill then didn’t even call her? I mean, you got this legion of angels, and all you do is send down Gabriel, like a total of, oh, let’s see, once. Shit, Maggie, cut me a break. At least I stuck around for 30-something years.

Gary “Arnold Drummond” Coleman (making a cameo appearance in Hell): What’choo talkin’ ’bout, Jesus?!?!

Everyone: Ahhhhh!!! Ha ha ha ha!!!! Ahhh ha ha!!! Ha ha ha ahhh!!!!

The LORD: I was too busy watching over the smallest sparrow to be able to spend all of my time with your mom, Jesus, you know that. Plus someone has to bring home the ribs around here, and after my work schedule, I just want to come home and veg out on the Play Station for a while. She’s just lucky that I had Gabriel and all the other archangels around to watch out for her. Most women would be happy with that kind of arrangement. Plus, I never bitched any about the whole Joseph the Carpenter thing, now did I? I think I get some major tolerance points there.

Joseph the Carpenter (in Hell): What tolerance? When I died, you sent me down here, where there’s an army of devils lined up with ball peen hammers and nails, each one of which gets driven through my sturdy plank, namsain? That was tolerance?

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Hey hey hey! If I wanted all this domestic drama, I’d be watchin’ “Beaches” right now, bitches. But I don’t. What I want is some RIBS!! NOW!!!! Don’t make me bring down the fires of Heaven GmbH and get y’all floppin’ around on the floor and speakin’ in tongues and shit!! Don’t MAKE me do that!!

Satan (Flopping around on the floor in Hell): Om gevveibble ganna takka!!! Meshondrevanna honndagga tommagonaam!!! Naka mescotolomia eppehsussivua!!

The Holy Ghost (in Hell): See, I TOLD you I was gonna make you flop and babble if I didn’t get my RIBS!!! Now quit shaking and get grillin’! I ain’t kiddin’ around anymore!!!! Damn. You just can’t get good contractors to do the The LORD’s work anymore since Noah and Sons went belly up after the Great Gopherwood Blight. Those were the days, when we could make a demand and, hey presto, chop chop, shit got DONE!!! Ah well, speaking of getting shit done . . . hey, Jesus! You know what would make it easier for you to tear down those gates at the Burning City of Dis?

Jesus (in Hell): Nah, I dunno, The Holy Ghost. What would make it easier?

Jimmie “J.J.” Walker (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Dy-no-MITE!!!!

Everyone: Ah ha ha! Ha ha! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!

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Published in: on April 19, 2010 at 9:05 pm  Comments (1)  

About the Overlords

Guy Who Esplains Thins: While those who do not study history may be doomed to repeat it, those who do study history will fare no better, because they don’t control history, The Overlords do. Since before time dawned, these immensely powerful beings have plucked substance from the void, crafting and controlling the web within which we puny mortals writhe into being, shriek, spawn and die. The ancients attempted to describe their characters and name them–Iamblichus, Yaldabaoth, Achamoth, Ahriman, and the like–but their true forms and powers have always been beyond human comprehension, and those who managed, through arcane black arts and spells, to glimpse them most closely either died from the exposure, or spent their remaining days and years as gibbering, shuddering, soul-burnt wrecks for their efforts.

At some point, this started to bum The Overlords out. Not because they felt bad for the humans they cooked like bacon, but just because they’d pretty much run through every possible joke, prank, and vignette within which they could constructively insert a catatonic mystic or twitching shaman for entertainment value. And eternity is a long time to be bored. So after centuries of frying human brainstems, it came to pass that The Overlords decided that they might like to interact directly with their puny mortal charges without inflicting such fundamental damage, the better to amuse themselves. They moved over the waters, as they were wont to do, and came upon an isolated, forgotten, and depraved primitive tribe living along what is now known as the Normanskill in Upstate New York. There they took the forms of giant sex toys, some horse-like, some goat-themed, some like little fishies, and scattered themselves about the forests and trails, where they were discovered by the lascivious women-folk of the Normanskill nation, and in this way, their divine seeds were placed within the wombs of mortal women.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and the divine spawn of The Overlords chewed their ways out of their mothers’ bellies, since they still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the “don’t kill the humans, they’re more fun when they’re alive” bit. The divine Overlord offspring lived among the primitive Normanskillers, immortal, yet subject to the pleasures and pains (but mostly pleasures) associated with their new corporeal forms. There they waited, patiently, pulling strings and shaking webs, the ripples of their activities drifting down stream and river and across oceans, setting in motion movements that slowly, inexorably drew members of the more advanced civilizations (that their celestial forefathers had nurtured in Europe and Asia) toward their manifest American destinies. They also had lots of vigorous sex with the Normanskiller women, which freed their cuckolded menfolk to work on more important things, like the development of sanitary plumbing and wireless communication networks.

The first European contact with the relics of the corporeal Overlords occurred in 1137, when Snorri Yergmannsson, a fisherman, was blown to sea by a sudden storm off the coast of the Norwegian settlement in Vinland. After weeks adrift, living on urine and cod, Snorri sighted land, and (assuming he’d found either Markland, Greenland or Iceland), he followed the coast westward, seeking safe harbor or civilization. Finding himself at the mouth of a great river estuary, he turned northward, entering a lush land filled with beavers, giant elms, towering river escarpments and the abandoned remains of a shockingly advanced native civilization.

Finally realizing that he wasn’t in West Scandinavia anymore, Snorri gathered relics from the Normanskill settlement (for, indeed, he had followed the Hudson all the way to the fens below the Mohawk), turned back south, and eventually made his way back to Vinland, from whence his collected relics returned in bits and bits to his people’s European homeland. For his extraordinary feats of exploration and seamanship, Snorri was castrated and had his guts pulled out through his rectum in front of the Ljokisfjorfur Mead Hall in Seydisfekyureyri, because nobody likes a showoff, not even Vikings. One of the artifacts he found was a parchment scroll in a strange and fabulous language, that defied the efforts of the best code-breakers and linguists until computer-assisted cryptographic techniques were developed in the mid-20th Century. As it came to pass, the Yergmannsson Codex documented the myth of creation embraced by the Normanskill people. It is reproduced in its entirety below:

the normanskillers floated up the river in their doublewide house boats, found a sandy spot on an oxbow shore lined with pines and with beavers, pulled their boats from the water, set them on cinder blocks in a circle, posted watch around the perimeter as the children chased their goats.

they sent search parties into the woods, where they found overlord grocery stores, bait and tackle shops and feed lots, storage units and satellite dish farms, they traded goats for cheese, and casseroles for tractors, grew corn, squash and apples, sent their children to learn the school languages and abducted local whores.

the rate of births there was generally double the rate of deaths, more or less, occasional skirmishes on the oxbow kept the population in proper check, and in due time the story of the long journey up the river was mythologized, and they would ceremonially wade into the water to sing, pray and confess.

the circle of beached doublewide trailers had grown into a bustling town, with its own feed lots and pharmacies, storage unit farms and satellite dishes, and wireless broadcasting cabals that spread their leaders’ words and the weather, until that fateful autumn when hurricane malachi knocked the whole place down,

and the normanskillers floated down the river in the flotsam of their oxbow city, sacks of rice stained purple by blueberries strapped to the sides of their tractors, carports and campers carried downstream over rapids and out into the ocean, and the overlords were largely lost to history, which we must regard as quite the pity

But were the corporeal Overlords truly lost to history? Of course they weren’t, you idiot. Haven’t you been paying attention? The Overlords make history. They’d just grown bored of their original Normanskiller hosts fairly quickly, so they sent them packing down river with an assist from a little weather-based jiggerypokery, where they could later be massacred by the Dutch, the English, and the Smallpox, to the great and lasting amusement of their former benefactors, who generally like nothing more than a boot to the face, forever. The departure of the aboriginal Normanskillers left the Overlords alone Upstate, in their secret underground bunkers and treehouses, filled with vapors and ethers, where they have romped and stomped and humped and pumped for centuries now, the corporeal conduits of the genesis urge.

Occasionally, the Overlords have found it entertaining to inspire creative human beings to evoke their archetypes in art, literature and film, to better allow humans to comprehend who and what they are. It is for this reason that you may think you know Mustpha Mond from Brave New World, or O’Brien from 1984, or Karellen from Childhood’s End, or Wintermute from that piece of shit Neuromancer. But these are but fictitious doppelgangers, images seen through mirrors darkly, and with Penthouse Vaseline filters smudged across their surfaces.

Upstate Ether is the real Earthly home of the Overlords. So behave here, lest they cook your brainstem, just because they can. And because they still find it amusing, all these centuries on.

Arrrrrrrrrrr: Lunch Pirates vs HMS Finance and Administration

Lunch Pirate Arrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrr matees, is it time yet?

Lunch Pirate Brrrrransonmissouri: Aye, look! That be a fella with a bagged lunch! I be hungry fer some cutter!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrrrylchessman: Avast, ye scurvy lubber, what be ye name?

Bag Lunch Fellow Scrod: My name is Scrod. Please don’t hurt me! Just take my tuna sandwich! I don’t want any trouble!

Lunch Pirate Darrrrrrbycrash: Scarrrrrrrrod, eh?? By jiminy, e’s one of us! Arrrrrrr!!!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrrrylchessman: Arrrrrrrr!!!! Scarrrrrrrod!!! Great Lunch Pirate name!! Climb aboard, me boy! Take up the jolly roger and sail wi’ we!!!

Lunch Pirate Brrrrransonmissouri: Arrrrrrrrrrrr!!!! Wi’ we!!!

Lunch Pirate Arrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrrrrr!!!!! Arrrrrr!!!! Arrrrrrr!!!!!

Lunch Pirate Brrrransonmissouri: Arrrrrrr!!!

Lunch Pirate Scarrrrrrrod: Ar?

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrooseveltfranklin:
Seems slim pickin’s in Cubic Hell today, matees. Methingks we’ve overharvested these pitiful lubbers and need to sail to fresher climes, rich wi’ carry-in hot cuisine and three marrrrrrtini lunches!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrrylchessman: Arrrrr!! To the Executive Harbor!!! Arrrrr!!! Let’s knock the bung out the rum barrel and commence to singin’ and dancin’!! Arrrr!!!

Lunch Pirate Darrrrrrbycrash: Errrrrrr . . . . . . arrrr? Me seems to ha’e left the rum tun back at ye secret lunch pirate hideout, matees. A thousand parrrrrdons.

Lunch Pirate Brrrrrrransonmissouri: Ye great gapin’ idiot! How arrrrrrr we supposed ta’ sing and dance and have a jolly time if thar’s nae rum?!?

Lunch Pirate Scarrrrrrrod: Ar? I believe there may be some scotch up in the Vice Presidential Harbor. We’re not allowed to have it down here in Cubic Hell. It’s for the suits. Ar?

Captain of HMS Finance and Administration (shooting out of the fog and passing with a stone’s throw of the Lunch Pirate Ship): Ahoy there, would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrrr! Aye, we got yon pommy mustard. We’ll bring it on over to ye, if’n ye’ll pull asides us.

Captain of HMS Finance and Administration:
Good fellows, there! Pulling alongside, aye! Welcome aboard! Let’s strike up a jolly spot of background music to give good grace and atmosphere to our celebration! Wait . . . what’s this? That’s not mustard! Those appear to be sabers in your hands!

Lunch Pirate Chorus: Arrrrrrrrr!!!!!!

Captain of the HMS Finance and Administration: Ye gods! Ye be lunch pirates! How could I have been such a fool!

Lunch Pirate Darrrrrrbycrash: Arrrrrr!! This music is horrendous, ye great gaping Vice Presidential ponce! It’s somewhere between Rush and Muzak! Arrrrr!!! It’s Kenny G! Ye gads, man! Aren’t there any girls on your ship? Hae ye no baws?

Redneck Dawg: Nuhsuh. Nuh baws heh. Assa bawwess ships. Ah hats it.

Executive Vice President for Sales and New Media Marketing: Ahsa gud rumz! Nah ah stAARRRvin, di’ zey no leave any muzztud? I sought we’s gon get muzztud?

Captain of HMS Finance and Administration: We were hornswoggled, Media. These lot are nothing but a bunch of scurvy lunch pirates.

Lunch Marines: What appears to be the problem here, gents? Shall we sing our theme song to remind you of our awesome Lunch Pirate killing prowess? Huttah!

From the halls of Montezoo-oo-ma
to the shores of Albany,
We will fight the lunchtime pi-hi-rates
on the air and land and sea.
First to fight for bag lunch lo-oo-sers
and the guys out at the trucks,
we are proud to take names la-ha-ter,
now lets get some pirate fucks!

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrooseveltfrankin: Arrrrrrrrrr!!!!! They’ve caught up with! Turn tail! Flee!

Lunch Marines: We’ll chase ye round the world an’ to hell and back, ye scurvy dogs. Unhand those french fries! Drop the falafel and come out with your hands in the air!

Lunch Pirate Brrrrrransonmissouri: We’re scupperred, lads! Every lunch pirate for hisself! Disperse to the boats! Batten down the hatches! Always pee in the lee! Red right returning! Even red nuns have odd black cans!

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrylchessman: Arrrr! How’d you know about me and that nun with the odd black cans? Did she speak!!

Lunch Marines: We know all your inner secrets, ye predictable thieving bastards! Avast!

Lunch Pirate Scarrrrrrrod: Ar? I’m really not sure what I’m supposed to do now. What does “avast” mean anyway?

Pirate Grammarian: “Avast” means “stop what you are doing.” Pretty simple stuff, really. Not like some of the other sailing lingo, which can get totally key-razy. Sailors use words like “fid” and “boom vang” and “clew” and “cuddy” and “gollywobbler” and “gunter rig” and “head knocker” and “lapper” and “luff” and “pushpit” and “screw” and “sheets” and “tang” and “trim.” It’s quite the verbal culture.

Lunch Pirate Arrrrrrooseveltfranklin: Arrrr . . . it’s no wonder we’re always horny when we come ashore after talking like that for months.

Lunch Pirate Carrrrrylchessman: And I thought that was from all the non-stop sodomy.

Pirate Chorus: Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!

Published in: on February 14, 2010 at 4:13 pm  Comments (1)  

Descent into Madness: Drunknard vs Everything (With Assists to Grand Marnier, Nicorette and Absinthe)

Drunknard: how come no one is ever online when i’m drunk and rambling here at night. i pine for the glory days, when upstate ether was a tussin-fueled 24-hour extravaganza of bile, hate and trailer park rocking trash. now this board is all bourgeois and boring… bunches of office monkeys arguing with themselves from nine to five daily. what about the night owls? what about the tussin drinkers, the lotus eaters, the winos and the wild children, the vapours, the fakers, the late night shakers and bakers, the makers of madness and mindfuck, the bad luck yuckapucks and the hucksters of sterling commentary and dromedaries heavy with crystal clear desert gold and the old tribes lies and wives who survive on highs? what about them, yo? why you office bitches control the gain now, huh? tonights meltdown brough to you by nicorette, grand marnier, and pure, real absinthe. accept no substitutes, motherfuckers. its worth the investment and the illegality and the heart palpitations and ministrations, the stations of the cross, the boss, the floss in the brain despite the pain, the limnal hymnal, the baptist bad trick, the equipoise and the altar boys, the trial balloons and cocaine spoons, the peridot and astronaut, its all there, prego, blended with a smooth italian sauce, of course, your loss if you don’t play the game at 11 P aMe, tired and sleepy like mister creepy cubicle monkey, whats a junkie to do, foo, you honkey motherfunky clerical donkeys?

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: whassup, give it up for the brother who thought about the mother of that poster girl, her world cut short for the sport of hipsters and their sisters, all them dead sluts with cuts round their necks, ‘cept their sex is all wrong, they’s boys singing songs ’bout the mouths of willing slaves who save their souls and lend their holes to violation, thats their station, see, the mystery is why the guys let other eyes capture the fantasy for free and reap the benefit of that foul shit on concert walls and downtown halls, for some sick band did some poor whore give up her life, not once, not twice, but countless times as fools with rhymes reload the screen the view the scene of cables wrapped around the necks of little girls who sold their sex for crack and lies and alibis, the girlie dies, the girlie dies, and hipster guys and their hip maids debate the posters that they made, i say, i sayed, or said, i said, that little jezebel is dead, and in her breathless death emotes, a concert she herself promotes, by dudes with issues of their own, she cant pick up the telephone while i sit here, i’m all alone, in some electric message zone, but fuck it, fuck it, thats the key, fuck her, fuck them, fuck you, fuck me, fuck all this shit, fuck italy, and africa, fuck zuider zee, fuck abraham, and sam i am, fuck truth, fuck lies, fuck candied yams, fuck all of this and all that too, i need a drink, fuck me, fuck you.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: maybe champagne would ease the pain of a rainy day that in no way made the way that we pass the day escape in quick time like escapes, get laid, some splayed broad satisfying the faded impulses betrayed by age and rage, this stage in the night is alright, why fight the plight of the poor fools using tools of inebriation and levitation, flying high, like my own wry guy, i dont know why, while flying high i try to be an upstate ether guy, no reply from the office wise, replies and sighs, let the signal fall and rise, as pictures of thighs and brides scroll by, by and by, my and my, why try i, buy me my, my my and i, i get by in the sty that i make as i bake like a blind eye letting in the light, but the sight that i fight in the night is alright, yet the plight of the right guys and wrong eyes and lost guys and found prizes blight all i see when i pee in the sea that i sail chasing tail and i turn and i stand on my own like some bone-addled coot in a suit at a desk while my chest it is filled with despair where my hair in the air should be waving like flags like the freaks fly from peaks as the weeks scroll along and the song the impales my old scales in the vales like a spear, like a year in the valley of fear, where the lord in his ford, in accord with the tales that we tell, we’re in hell, just as well, just as well, since the smell of the land of the lord, get onboard is as bad as the lad that had had himself gored by the facts and the acts that come free, with a tax, that the state sets and rates on the plates of the poor, in the war of the rich and the sons of that bitch that we call liberty, but we pine to be free, get in line, pass the time with the liberal crew, who support and report all the things that you do, i am drunk, but no punk, got no green day on tap, as i rap and attack all the spurious crap that we eat just like meat in the most holy seat where our god says we’re odd and then give up its seat to the clown dressed in brown, that’s the devil we know, it’s his show, let it go, feast on raven and crow, since the veal makes us squeal that its suffering is real, while the foul and the owl feel like nothing we feel, since they fly, since we’re wry, like the carnival crowd that’s allowed, and is proud, to be ugly and loud, in the suits that they choose as the festival comes, and we turn and we burn and we’re nothing but dumb animals in the thralls of the festival vibe, where we try and decide that the lives that we’ve tried are remiss, if we piss out the bourbon and gin, then again, we can’t win, we’re here lonely and then, we submit and we quit like the monkeys that work, in a box, with a fax, in a cubicle world, where we hurled out the bile in a style that is grand, let it come, let it come, let it fall on the land that we make, no mistake, take the rake, how it down, to the town where we found that our kids are all fucked, theres no luck for the suckiest schools that our kids sit in all day, we pray that the anomie rids them of goals for their souls and the holes that they fill, put the pegs on your legs, stomp on circles that beg squares to come, like the sum of the total eclipse, as he slips, and he trips on the carnival ships, filled with germs and with worms that the stewards have brought, god, i’m hot, quote a lot, that’s the answer to what’s on your mind as you find that your energy fails and you stare at the sun and you (blind) trim the sails.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: upstate ethernards? you fucking bastard desk jockeys, you piss poor excuses for free thinkers, locked in your jobs, using this site for daytime amusing, rather than nigh-time abusement? wake up! cast off your yokes! talk to me, wasted wonders of yore! take me from lonely shore! fight the good fight in the war! that’s what this board, yo, is fucking here for! and now, i’m going to bed. i hope i dont throw up and drown in my own puke. that just old, yo. although it would still make headlines, i know.

James Joyce: Oh, come on now, you blithering idiot. That doesn’t make any sense at all. Stop that, right now! Bad, bad Drunknard! Bad!

Plot Spoiler Guy Speaks

It’s a sled. She’s a dude. The bear wins. He kills them with DRANO. The albino did it. He and his son are aliens. He’s dead. They’re dead. Her father did it. The whole thing is a dream. He’s been dead the whole time. They blow it. They also blow it. They never find it. She never finds her Mom, either. He’s his father. Good thing he never banged her. The tribbles are trouble. It’s prosthetic. He clears the shark.

Published in: on January 30, 2010 at 6:24 pm  Leave a Comment  

Wintermute Loves The Mayor

Wintermute: Just the other day I was burying some mice in the backyard, and didn’t the Mayor come over with a pie to express his condolences?! He even invited me to keep the Williams and Sonoma pie dish, which was really nice! Boy, was he comforting! His spirit is so strong it filled my entire backyard. It makes me want to kill more things and bury them, but I don’t know what else in my house I might put down. Maybe I could bury some steaks and pretend they’re skinned cats or something like that. What do you guys think?

Published in: on January 27, 2010 at 4:09 am  Leave a Comment  

Federalism Along the Normanskill

Normanskiller: Me and the kids just got back from dumping some old tires and used oil in the Normanskill ravine! Now, we’re gonna take the afternoon off to spend some live free or die quality time together, just to put the finger in the face of the Patroon, who’s been sniffing around at the gate again, looking for his tithe. I’m so sick of him and his ilk and their crazy redistributionist schemes! They better watch their backs, ‘cause some day, we’ll come for them!!

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: There there, my little man, my little Normanskiller. Facts are facts, and you owe me for working my land fair and square. Pay me, or I’ll send a tax man with an itchy trigger finger, a man who likes to make his rounds at night. Because he has another job during the day, trying to fight back the Giant Hogweed that threatens every ditch between here and Boght Corners. He’s a nice little fellow. From Ghent.

Normanskiller: Oh yes, you send that tax man, and I’ll put a hole the size of West Troy in him as soon as he sets foot on my holdings. You can’t tax the land! It’s like trying to put a tax on the sun! How you gonna squeeze a dollar out of that? So send him on over. I’m ready.

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: That makes no sense at all, my gentle Normanskiller. Why, you’re starting to sound like one of those crazed Calico Indians, or, even worse, a New Scotlander! You know how it all works: I’ll just take some crops or meat or something. Come on. You know that’s my acreage you’re on. You signed a contract, so now pay up. There’s free land out west if you’re man enough to make the journey, and can farm it for a few years while fending off real Indians and other people out to do you harm. But we don’t have those rules here on the Normanskill. So pay up!

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: Hey, what has become of Upstate Ether? Now we’re in some sort of wacked historical hallucination?

DeWitt Clinton: Welcome to the new Upstate Ether, Guy Who Blocks the Flow! Nice to meet you! I’m one-time New York State governor Dewitt Clinton, prime proponent of the construction of the Erie Canal, that mighty channel of commerce that now runs from Waterford to Tonawanda, and is known as the “Barge Canal.”

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: Mister Clinton, Governor. Please, don’t mind the populists that sprout up occasionally here. We’re generally good folk, with a love for great men of politics like yourself. I know we have some mutual friends, Buffalonians, building a harbor that’ll bring more commerce our way. Oh how rude of me! Brandy and a cigar for you, Governor? This fine bottle traveled with me from Holland about 10 years back. It’s a fine malt. Why don’t we step into the back here where we might have a little more . . . privacy. Shall we?

Normanskiller (shouting from the crowd): DeWitt Clinton is a federalist whore!

DeWitt Clinton: Federalist whore, am I? Well I’d like to see how you Normanskill populists would fare without the support and protection of the mighty United States of America!

Normanskiller: We’d be fat, stoned and happy, dumping old tires and used oil into the Normanskill, the way our parents and their parents before them did! But now, with taxes to the Patroon, and taxes to the state, and taxes to the Feds, it’s all we can do to buy any tires and oil in the first place, much less to have extras to dump. You’ve destroyed our way of life!

DeWitt Clinton: And a jolly good thing that we did, you inbred, ditchweed yokel. There’d be no progress in this great land of ours if you and your kind were left to breed freely and make decisions about anything other than what type of offal you’re going to stuff into your pie holes from meal to meal. You, sir, disgust me. Good day!

Normanskiller: Clinton, you bastard, I know you’re a dueling man who put two bullets in a man’s leg a few years back. We could stand here and bark at each other like angry dogs, but why not settle our dispute in a matter of moments, the way that men do? Shall we say coon rifles at dawn?

DeWitt Clinton (pulls pistol from waistcoat, pumps four slugs into Normanskiller): I said, sir, GOOD DAY!

Normsankiller: I die! And I blame federalism along the Normanskill!

DeWitt Clinton: Now, about that brandy and cigar, Patroon Pieter . . .

Patroon Pieter Van Vreebenhuyck: Right this way, Mister Governor, right this way.

Published in: on January 19, 2010 at 3:55 pm  Leave a Comment