Parody, poems, fiction, and whatever else I feel like creating..... including a bunch of "short stories" that I've written lately. You should really love them if you like absurd, and at times "dirty stories". IF YOU ARE TIRED OF READING BORING BLOGS, READ THIS, YOU MAY BE ENTERTAINED.
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Monday, July 8, 2013
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Hey dude, check out me new girlfriend
Lei mi piace, amore, tutte le coste. Ho visto i vortici e maree e uragani e cicloni. Ebb tide bassa ed alta, luna piena. Vicino e lontano. Ho letto che. Guarda, il cielo, il mare, il mare, il sole, la luna. Blu, blu, blu, blu, blu, blu, blu, blu, blu, blu, blu. Nudo e blu. Respirare con voi. Toccare. Cambiare. Shift. Consentire il passaggio dell'aria. Finestra aperta. La deriva. Allontanamento. In questo momento. VOGLIO Whitman orgogliosi. Patti Lee orgogliosi. I miei fratelli orgogliosi. Le mie sorelle orgoglioso. VOGLIO essere io. VOGLIO che tutti
Friday, May 10, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Quando il fascismo venire in America, sarĂ avvolto in una bandiera, e che porta una croce.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Vivere bene e' la migliostro vendetta!
Improvvisamente
ti svegli in una agitazione panico, ora! Tutti i tristi e perso
apostoli, hum il mio nome e i riflessi delle loro narici, strozzatura
sulle ossa che hai qua.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Stan's Bitter End
Having distanced myself considerably from in the intake of
nefarious foreign substances, and not having written anything of significant
value since those days of poisoning myself, I am going to see if I still in
fact “have it”—that is, the ability to write a bizarre tale without the aid of
artificial illumination to light my path of creativity. I also haven’t taken
any psychotropic medication for my schizophrenic illness in over nine months
since the governor of Pennsylvania has decided in a futile effort to balance
the state budget to cut mental health funding, which I actually believe has
benefited me, although I am nagged now by annoying voices that persecute,
ridicule and often times irritatingly comment on my behavior. Anyway, enough of
the complaining bullshit, let’s get to the point. Here is my attempt at
unleashing my eccentricities of the written word. So fuck it. Here we go. This early
morning, I would like to present everyone with a tale that will either prove or
disprove my having retained the capacity to write fiction. Wish me luck, mother
fuckers.
Stan’s Bitter End
Stan Flannery is awoken by not only his alarm clock at three
in the morning, but by the whispers of auditory hallucinations tell him that it
is time to him to get his freak ass out of bed and clean the litter box. It is
one of his routinized chores that he must complete each morning in his recovery
house before going to work. He had been living in a recovery house for the past
year now, and although he wishes that he were back in his home town of State
College, things in York Pennsylvania were becoming more and more comfortable as
he feels himself inch into middle aged tranquility. He works at a restaurant four miles down the
road, and usually opens the store at five thirty in the morning, but luckily,
although is now thirty four years of age, he has still retained all his
youthful agility and in fact feels much better than he ever has before, and is
able to walk about ten miles an hour, so it only takes him half an hour tops to
reach his place of vocational occupation.
He puts
on his work clothes, and smokes a cigarette, then makes his bed, and heads to
the bathroom, where he relieves his bowels, followed by a rigorous brushing of
his teeth, which have begun to erode and chip away a bit. As he looks I the
mirror, he notices that his eyes appear different. They seem to be vacant,
empty, and he stares at himself a while.
He thinks that he looks like cadaver who has been eviscerated, but he
still manages smile, as he knows that he should be grateful that he has a place
to live, and has a tenacious hold on his sobriety. He also has three thousand
dollars in the bank, and a nice computer, which he utilizes in his daily masturbation
sessions and allows him to exercise his creative juices through is writing. He
earned a degree in English from Penn State University, but proceeded to not do
anything productive after college with his degree, and managed to thoroughly fuck
his life up by forming a nasty drug habit, which included heroin, cocaine, and his
once favorite, “Bath Salts,” a highly addictive stimulant, which he used to buy
in the head shop in State College.
“What the fuck have I done with my life and my so-called
endowments? Absolutely nothing, that’s what!” He says to himself, knowing damn
well, that he should have earned his doctorate by now, and be a University
professor, instead he makes omelets and pancakes, and works with a moronic crew
of obtuse individuals, who don’t understand him, or even try to—they simply
discount him as being insane, which is “technically is,” although he thinks the
more operative term is “eccentric.” He just wishes that some extra-terrestrial
race would abduct him some night, and transport him to another planet, some
place where he actually felt a sense of belonging. Christ, he often times
thinks that he is an alien of some sort, and was certain that at one point in a
visit with his schizophrenic mother, she told him that he wasn’t “entirely
human” at all, but more of an alien/human hybrid species. Something he has
pondered many times, ruminating on some of the strange occurrences and missing
periods of time I his life, which seem to permeate with extraterrestrial
explanations.
He looks at his cell phone, and notices that he has spent
the past ten minutes in the bathroom daydreaming about shit that really has no
validity to his current practical situation, which is to go down to the basement
and clean the basement, followed by coming back upstairs to the bathroom, and
cleaning the shower, sink, and mopping the floor. He leaves the bathroom; so he
shakes his head at his irrationality, and goes back into his bedroom to grab a
plastic bag, which he gets out of his nightstand drawer which he has conveniently
stockpiled to collect the cat shit every morning out of the litter box before taking
it out to the trash cans in on the back porch. Every day that cleans the litter
box, he is reminded of the incident when he was carpet surfing for weed that he
had spilled onto the floor over years of habitual marijuana use, only to find a
small piece of organic matter, which he hoped was some hash that he let accidentally
fall out of his pipe, only to find upon lighting it, that it was actually cat
shit. Not good shit.
As he walks out of the room, he swears that he hears
somebody speaking in some foreign language behind him, and although at times
his auditory hallucinations at times speak to him in Italian, this foreign
tongue seemed to be of some Nordic origin. He turns around, and is paralyzed as
he falls into the icy stare of a Reptilian being, that is holding a glowing
pink sphere. Before he has time to say anything, he is eaten by the being that
gnaws on his intestines, and devours his one remaining testicle with its
beastly incisors.
The End
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
I feel nothing at all
My world is colored a miserable headache
tinted grey,
And inside my brain is corroded
and filled with decay,
I don’t feel anything, I never
cry, never happy nor sad,
I suppose for this is the reason
they call me mad,
But at least I’m not stupid,
obtuse or dense,
My perspective of the Universe is
grand and immense.
I am cold, calculating and
robotic,
Schizophrenia is actually quite cathartic.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Living well is the best revenge
Vivere bene è la miglior vendetta
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
There is always madness in love...
C'è sempre una pazzia per amore, ma c'è sempre qualche ragione anche la follia.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
Xenophobic Conspiracy
About three days ago, I was sitting in my room, bored, with
nothing to do aside from listen to the chorus of incessant persecuting voices
mumble in my ear, and I thought that I would go down to the dollar store and
grab some cheap canned food. So, I put
on my shoes, sweatshirt, and smoked a quick cigarette, then headed out the
door. As I walked outside my house, I noticed that the sky looked as though it
was crisscrossed by some strange formation of clouds, and I wondered if they
were not in fact chem-trails of some sort. I had read about some conspiracy on
the internet involving the government secretly polluting the sky with
chemicals, and this looked exactly like the pictures that I had seen on various
conspiracy websites. I had always been interested in conspiracy theories, and
being the paranoiac that I am, I suppose my inclination towards the grand
cabals, secret societies, shadow government, and of course alien, was inherent
in my psychological makeup. I decided to take a quick picture with my cell
phone of the aerial phenomenon above me. As I pulled out my phone, I saw a mysterious
black car drive towards me, and a man got out. He was wearing dark sunglasses, and
was about six foot six in height. I was shocked by his the enormity of this
dude. I quickly walked over to me, and grabbed my phone, and said, “Excuse me,
son, do you have any idea what you have just done?”
“No,” I said, shocked, “I don’t have a clue.”
“You,” he said, “have just committee a federal crime, and I
am now going to have to take you to jail.”
“What?!” but before I had time to protest any further, he
had me in hand-cuffs, and in the back of his car. What the hell was going on? He
got in the car, and took me downtown, but not to the police station, but
instead, he brought me to an abandoned house. He ordered me to get out of the car,
and then escorted me inside, where he made me sit in a chair, and proceeded to
interrogate me. He used various torcher methods, including whipping me with a
bamboo rod, until I told him what he wanted me to tell him, that I was in fact
an alien being from the Zeta Reticuli star system, with shape-shifting
abilities, and then he let me go, but not until after he injected me with some
kind of strange liquid, and took a hair and sperm sample. What the fuck is
going on?
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Welfare Fraud
A few days ago, when I was
cleaning my front porch, which is part of my recovery house chore regimen, I
found an EBT food-stamp receipt, which stated that someone had purchased a half
liter bottle of orange juice for seven ninety nine. Wow, I thought, good to see
that the state funded welfare program are allowing for such a luxurious
lifestyle. This infuriated me, given that I do not receive food stamps or any
other type of state funded assistance. I used to, but then under the threat of
being reported for welfare fraud, I immediately reported to the assistance
office that I was making fourteen hundred a month and no longer needed food
stamp benefits.
Then
the other day, when I was riding home from work on the bus, a girl was covering
her nose, and making snotty comments regarding the way that I smelled. I work
at a restaurant, and come home every day smelling like a French fry. She was
drinking a small container of orange juice. I wanted to say, “Hey, you see that
orange juice that you are drinking? Well
you should take a good whiff of this grease, because if It wasn’t for me and
the way that I smell, you would not have your orange juice, because I am
unequivocally certain that you bought that with your food stamps, or your SSDI
money.” But, I resisted, instead I just minded my own business, and sat in
extreme irritation.
It
is this kind of ignorance that bothers me: people who think that they are
entitled to something, when the rest of us have to work and provide for
ourselves. So the next time you sit next to someone on the bus when they smell
like they have been swimming in a deep fryer for eight hours, just be aware
that if it wasn’t for them, the welfare programs wouldn’t be available for all
the lazy individuals who don’t want to work for a living.
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