My Nephew Brandon's High School Graduation Speech

Graduating class of 2008, as your valedictorian and fellow West Valley High School graduate, I am honored to speak before you this afternoon. [PAUSE] I would like to thank Kraft Foods for sponsoring this speech. It has been a long, creamy journey. [PAUSE] If there is one message I hope to leave you with, it is this:

Kids love macaroni and cheese. They love the gooey, cheesy taste, and parents love the convenience and affordability. Whether you prefer the powder mix or the Real Velveeta Cheese sleeve, you'll go ga-ga for the smooth flavor in every box. Let's face it, we all enjoy rolling the silly noodles on our tongues and savoring the tartness of the gormet sauce. [PAUSE FOR LENGTHY APPLAUSE]

If you need a quick, easy way to feed the kids while you're at work, try our all new Mac & Go Tubers. Each Tuber is slam-packed with tangy cheese sauce and cooked macaroni, ready to squeeze and enjoy without any additional preparation. [STRIKE PODIUM WITH FIST] But Kraft does more than just Mac & Cheese. Please visit www.kraft.com for more information about our complete line of products. [PAUSE]

Once again, congratulations class of 2008. You may now move your noodle tassels to the other side of your highly inappropriate cereal bowl shaped hats.

I went to the Dollar Barn for some Christmas shopping. Everything was going cool. I found some great deals on religious candles for my parents. I found some Party Pizzas for my nephew, Brandon. I found some thick plastic cleaning gloves for my grandma to wear while she's washing my bike. Pretty good deals.

And then I reached the picture frame aisle. They were normal picture frames. Nothing special. But the pre-inserted demo photos were all of me. Pictures of me sleeping, pictures of me bathing, pictures of me during my vacation to Vermont. I didn't understand it. I freaked out a little. I filled my cart with them.

I went to the check-out line and the cashier said, "We've been expecting you."

I said, "What?"

"Yes," she said, "You've come to deliver us from retail prices."

"No, I came to get bargains for Christmas," I said.

Her eyes turned white. "You are The One," she said as she grabbed my Kalvin Klux Kline tie and pulled me into the break room, where I screened several hours of pre-employment training videos about sexual harassment and shrink-reduction. The lights came on.

"Now you are ready," said the clerk.

She put a red vest over my head and suddenly my hair was greasy and parted down the side. I was wearing big Jeffery Dahmer-ish glasses. My pants were much too short.

The End

CAVE JOURNAL
Day 6

I still cannot find a way out of this cave.

My pony doesn't look too good. She twisted her ankle on a slippery rock and she's losing courage fast. I try to comfort her with songs we learned in bible school. I am very tired. Rainwater kept dripping on my penis and testicles last night and I could not fall asleep, so I started exploring the cave. Not very impressed so far. Stalagmites are real brittle. I got hungry during my exploratory mission and I almost ate a bat leg which was stuck to my sock, but it was too gross. I want regular food like spaghetti or a sandwich.

There is nothing fun to do here. I am real bored. The batteries to my Walkman ran out yesterday. If I ever get out of this cave, I am going to kill somebody. And I will still take everything in the modern world for granted. This is not going to change me as a person. I'm not going to frolic through luxurious supermarkets with my eyes bugging out. That stuff only happens on TV. If I ever get out of here, this will just be a part of my life that fucking sucked ass.

I worried about dying and I worried about my family being murdered by cat burglers. I couldn't say the word "cancer" and I carefully avoided situations involving beating hearts or insects with papery wings. I didn't like haunted houses or roller coasters. I worried about the sun burning out. I worried about hostile aliens. Black people scared me. Sharks and jellyfish scared me. Everything scared me.

The government won't recognize my religion. It's called Cash-Only. I'm not religious per se, but I'm afraid and respectful of God. That should be enough. My tax-exemption application was denied. I was too honest. I have to rethink things. This is important. I understand why people have kids ON PURPOSE. They want something important to protect. All of a sudden your old fears disappear and the only thing that scares you is raising a kid who's afraid of the same things you were. About dying. And everything.

For now, I'm gonna sit patiently in my bedroom, exhibiting remarkable posture, writing down smart ideas when they occur to me, but otherwise keeping a completely blank mind to prevent scary thoughts from getting in.

New hit song: The Broken String Blues

There will be a SKYDADDY forum pretty soon. So all ten of you can join it and we can talk about eggs. And other topics also. Like the subtle poetry of Italian automobile design. And other topics. So stick around, chum.

"Welcome to Wendy's. Will this be for here or to go?"

"For here. I want to sit near da pretty, pretty plant."

"Okay. And what would you like to order, sir?"

"Ummmmmmmmmm....What happens if I can't finish da whole meal?"

"Well you can take the rest with you. We have bags."

"OKAY. And If I order a salad, could I pour half da dressing on da salad leafs, and save da udder half to dip my frenchers in? Instead of using da ketchup?"

"Yes."

"And can I dip my chicky chicky sandwich in da chili? To enjoy it more?"

"Yeah I mean... We don't have strict rules. This is Wendy's."

"Okay den... I'll have a salad, a small order of frenchers, a chicky chicky sandwich and some chili. And I AM gonna dip da sandwich in da chili like I said. Fair warning."

"That's fine, sir. Will that be all?"

"No... I want you to prepare a double cheeseburger. And den throw it away."

"What?"

"Make a double cheeseburger, but don't give it to me. Throw it in da garbage. I'll pay for it."

"We can't do that, sir."

"How come?"

"Because it's stupid."

"Nah, nevermind dat. I'll just take da udder stuff."

"Okay. Your total comes to $4.23"

"Wait a willy... My total needs to be $1.55 or less... 'Cause dat's all I brung with me."

"Well... you can order something from the Valu Menu..."

"No tanks. But I still wanna sit in da dining area for a lil bit. Next to dat yellow-hair guy over der."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Attn: Gerald Busker VII
455 Market Street
Energy Resources Building
Beverly Hills, California 90209

----------------------

Dear Gerald Busker,

I expect certain courtesies to be extended in the company of friends. Frankness is the basis of my personal philosophy. You see, I'm the last twitching tentacle of a bloodline known to cause sudden death or serious bleeding after artfully stringing together spoonfuls of short words. Frankness feels good. And natural.

I'm writing this letter for a couple reasons. First, to introduce myself and make your acquaintance. But also to inform you of the strange history which, frankly, connects our lives quite inextricably.

My father had the ability to level a man with sweetness when he took the pan off his head. And although his overalls were held together by the same mud and twigs and junk that made Vassar Clements pick up a fiddle and kick his heels together in youthful abandon, I hesitate to describe his speaking voice as very musical at all. In fact, it was a total lack of rhythm and tonality that endeared him to people like yourself (people who think their own problems are severe). You can probably imagine the conflicted expression on Judge McCoy's face when he ordered the pride of Pawtucket, again my father, to cease carrying his favorite shotgun in public. It was an item of interest during an investigation involving several accidental deaths at a family-style restaurant.

However, the Ratclif name is famous for more than just accidental deaths and I'll repeat the history for your benefit, lest it repeat itself. It's a struggle which began in the late 1800's and lasted, though with a declining measure of seriousness, until very recently.

About a hundred years ago, my great grandfather Sebastian Ratclif went out to feed the hog, only to find the poor animal amputated, nailed to a cross and swaddled in a rebel flag. The perpetrator was Yoham Busker... YOUR great grandfather. And he left a note:

"LAST WARNIN -- YOHAM"

The Busker family had been feuding with Sebastian for several months over a simple tangling of words that was later pieced together by my gifted and well-loved father in his usual manner of putting two and two together to make nearly four. The Buskers had lost a wether in a freak accident. I don't suppose you know what that means, so I'll just tell you: a wether is a castrated sheep, and quite a handsome status symbol, still, in certain parts of this fair countryside. Sebastian was a social man and a kindly purveyor of small-talk. He greeted Yoham one exceptionally hot morning after the animal's death and said, while happily tipping his pan, "How 'bout that weather?"

Yoham froze, and my great granddaddy, knowing nothing about a dead wether, continued trimming hedges without a trace of malice or bad blood. Shovels soon went missing and booby-trapped rocking chairs collapsed every few minutes, marking the start of a very dangerous quarrel.

I wouldn't mention any of this had my lot in life been managed more carefully. And I believe we are friends who've never met. Connected through history. Inextricably.

Anyway, after a hundred years of friction, including the untimely deaths of twelve (12) Ratclifs and nine (9) Buskers, we are the last of the last. You and I. The only narrator and torchbearer left with the guts to keep our names. What I'm requesting, therefore, is a small loan. Nothing more than perhaps ten dollars to start with. Or whatever an upstanding and well-to-do Californian like yourself is able to afford. Do be a courteous friend in this regard. After all, my family has suffered dearly at the hands of Buskers, and my debts are extraordinary. We have a responsibility to protect our legacy, and I'm afraid that without some small financial assistance, I may die from a complicated sinus infection that continues to worsen. My father was 28 when he died of old-age. He told me from his deathbed after a moment of Appalachian meditation, "It ain't the age on your frame, but the mileage that slows you down."

I thank you for your time and, hopefully, your generosity.

Sincerely,
Sebastian G. Ratclif VII

I pushed Johnny's head in the snow while his dad shopped for a Christmas tree. We rode back to town in the bed of a truck, whistling over frozen country hills that smelled like garbage. My hands got numb and evergreen branches smacked me in the mouth every time we hit a bump.

We went bullfrog hunting when the ground warmed up. I didn't want to. I calculated the life-value of a bullfrog, placing it somewhere between squirrel and eel. Does a bullfrog have a soul? Can it feel pain? With a stomach full of bourbon and a head full of hillbilly wisdom, I reasoned that bullfrogs can't feel pain.

But I didn't catch any. Johnny lifted a stick with probably six frogs screwed on. It looked like a family. And Johnny intended to cook it. I later reasoned, with the same type of wisdom as before, that bullfrogs would enjoy being eaten. Then I pushed Johnny's head in the dirt.

I came back to Pawtucket 15 years later.

In the verdant woods of Pennsylvania, if you ever get a minute, you'll find a lot of rusting metal and precarious beehives stuck in the mud. You might see an abandoned swingset or a barber pole. Don't expect it. There are gypsy huts closer to civilization, and abundant flowing water twists through everything. Creeks and streams with little red fish and waterbugs, and secluded ditches where domesticated mountain lions brazenly jack themselves off.

There is a cloud of general indifference that hangs over the 600 citizens of Pawtucket. Ambition is low. If one dreams of success, one should bottle up his dreams like snake oil and hit the medicine show circuits immediately, or find a working car and drive as far and fast as one is able. That depends on your definition of success, though. There are many successful gypsies, for instance.

Cuisine is limited to local fare-- corn and corn products, the occasional pork or cattle dish, but also Chinese if you're willing to knock on the Chen family's door. They're strange, but generous.

Wealthy eccentrics in mohair clothes with twinkly watch bands and foreign glasses collect car sculptures shaped like spiders and King Kong. They want rustic beatitude and they find it, and they get sick of it quick. But the car sculptures stay behind, serving as checkpoints that signal when you've reached a certain distance from home.

That's Pawtucket. It's a toothless yawn. And it's really depressing. Pawtucket is a blackhole and a sputtering star and a hopeless cheap diamond. I'd recommend it to anyone. Every 15 years or so.

HALLOWEEN

It's the best holiday God ever made. So why not sing a lot of songs about it? I recorded this one 5 years ago, but I believe it still is relevant.

Halloween.mp3

Halloween is a special time for kids to get candy
Halloween is a special time for kids to dance in costumes

Halloween is a special day for kids and baby monkeys
Halloween is a special day for everyone to eat my pancakes

Halloween is a special day -- the whole world loves my headband
Halloween is a holiday for all my mom and dads

Halloween is a neon pattern in the bright blue building
And Halloween is a box of toys that everyone has dibs on

A young girl began to descend a Tibetan hill after fetching a pail of sawdust for her morbidly obese brother Chad. She suddenly encountered a rattlesnake.

"Please," said the snake, "I am injured. Will you carry me to the bottom of this hill?"

"But you're a snake," replied the girl. "You'll bite me."

"No I wont," insisted the snake, "I give you my word."

The girl reluctantly picked up the snake with just her nails and proceeded down the hill. The snake kept saying, "Are we there yet? Hey lady? Hey Lady? Hey Lady? Hey Lady? Answer me.. Answer me... Answer me..."

The girl got annoyed, but she didn't let it show. They finally reached the bottom of the hill.

"Well.... here we are," said the girl.

The snake quickly turned around and bit her on the neck.

"Why did you bite me?" asked the girl, "You promised you wouldn't."

"Yes," he replied, "But I'm a snake. That's what we do. Don't take it personally."

"I see," said the girl. "Well.... don't take this personally..."

She tied the snake in a sailor's knot and beat him against a jagged boulder repeatedly. Then she took the snake home and baked him in the oven for about one hour. Chad sat up in bed, sniffed the air, and asked about dinner. She dropped a pail of sawdust on his nightstand without diverting her attention from the cooling snake. When it was safe to touch, she threw the baked snake out the window and ran him over with a lawnmower. Then she collected the snake clippings and stuffed them in a burlap sack. She barfed into the sack and then she farted into it. Then she placed the sack of baked snake clippings, barf and farts on her driveway and shot it with a machine gun which her father used in Viet Nam to kill Asian civilians. Then she hijacked a school bus full of children and ran over the snake bag seven times. Then she took the bag onto the bus and dumped it all over the children and rubbed it into their eyes and hair. The children started crying until the bus was full of tears and puke and snake guts, and everyone drown. But the bus was accidentally left in neutral, so it began to roll down a hill and it flew off a cliff and exploded into a retarded ball of fire.

The girl's spirit began to float up to heaven with all the little school children's spirits. She suddenly encountered the snake's spirit. The snake spirit said,

"Young girl spirit, will you please help me into heaven? I'm tired and I can't make this trip alone."

"How do I know you won't bite me?" asked the girl spirit.

"People would like you better if you weren't so naggy," replied the snake spirit as he proceeded on without her, randomly biting school children spirits along the way until he got into heaven, and then God promoted the snake to Jesus. And then Jesus bit God.

PART 1

Julie smashed an armadillo in the middle of Nevada. It sent two tons of red American steel careening hysterically. Centrifugal force kept her body straight, but her head felt like a brick airplane in a steep spiral.

"It is my duty, at this time, to announce that war has been declared on Spain..."

A radio in an abandoned store window kept the citizens terrified. They made a half-circle and turned their hearing aids way up.

"...And it is our duty to protect This Great Nation, once again, against the threats of evildoers."

Part 1 - High Life and Valium

"How is everything?"

"It's great, mom! The meatloaf is real good."

"It's a very fine meal, Diane."

"Well I'm glad you boys like it. Is there anything else I can getcha?"

"No thanks, mom."

"We're fine, honey. But can I have a moment alone with Brandon, please?"

"Of course! Let me know if you need anything. I'll be in the kitchen."

KITCHEN DOOR SWINGS OPEN AND THEN SHUT AGAIN

"Brandon, there's something I need to discuss with you."

"Yeah, dad?"

"You don't need to use so much Prell when you wash your hair."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been monitoring the contents of that Prell bottle in the shower. It's depleting. Quickly."

"But I only use enough to get my hair clean, dad."

"Please don't lie to me about Prell. Like I said... I monitor that bottle."

"Maybe mom's using it."

"Your mother uses Pantene!"

"Hmm...."

"Lather it in your hands before you put it in your hair. Squeeze a small drop the size of a dime into your palm. And then lather it."

"That's what I do, dad. I only use a small drop. Maybe there's a leak in the bottle??"

"GODDAMMIT, Brandon! That bottle is perfect!"

KITCHEN DOOR SWINGS OPEN

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, Diane!"

"Because I thought I heard some--"

"No, Diane! You're mistaken!"

"...Okay.... Well.... you boys eat up. That meatloaf doesn't reheat too good."

KITCHEN DOOR SWINGS SHUT

"Jesus Christ.... that was close. Okay, if she comes in here again, act like you don't know me."

"Huh?"

"Just eat your meatloaf, Brandon. And eat mine too. All this nonsense made me lose my appetite."

"I'm not hungry either, dad. You're scaring me."

"Eat the loaves, son."

FADE TO BLACK

"I'm worried about the money situation, Todd."

"I know. We need to figure something out real quick."

"How the hell can we afford college for Bessie and Joseph?"

"Well... I could get a part-time job..."

"But.... we'd never see each other. You'd be working constantly."

"No, no... I'll quit my full-time job and get a part-time one. That's what people do, Linda... they get part-time jobs."

"But that makes no sense... People get part-time jobs in addition to their full-time jobs."

"I'm pretty sure you're wrong."

"Todd, your full-time job pays well and the benefits are good. You need to keep that job. Otherwise you'd be making less money."

"Trust me, Linda."

"Todd! Do NOT quit your job!"

"Truuuuuuuuust me, Linda."

"I'm going outside now. For some air. Keep thinking."

Todd Raisin decided to keep his full-time job. But the Raisin family made one big financial error. They bought their mattress from the Denver Mattress Company. Let's take a closer look.

"Say.... Todd?"

"Yes?"

"Where'd you get that mattress?"

"From the Denver Mattress Company."

"I bet they treated you and Linda real good."

"Sure did."

"Unlike the slut she clearly is."

"What?"

"Next time, buy your mattress from The Mattress Dicks, you inbred crap chunk."

"You don't even know me."

"We know your type. Let me ask you something.... Why do you go through mattresses so quickly?"

"I dunno... ."

"Maybe because you're a fag-lord?"

"Hey!"

"Next time, come to The Mattress Dicks."

"Thanks Mattress Dicks! Maybe we will."

"Whatever."

A girl named Shirley from Greenbell, Michigan was stretched out on the floor of the woods. Her blue dress wiggled and got dirty and bugs got in her hair. It was gross. She was breathing quietly and staring up at the sky. The sky was mostly blocked by a canopy of ancient tiger maple and scarlet bows of clitwood. Her head was bleeding bad. A weak frost crept up around her, just inches short of touching any skin. That's also how she kept the boys, and it's no coincidence that mother nature, having observed the girl for almost 22 years, had acquired a lesbian-like fantasy which manifested itself as a weak frost in the stickiest days of summer.

The hot air balloon search and rescue mission was called off after weeks of unsuccessful surveillance. Tired pilots landed in a field behind a noodle restaurant, where they were served steaming bowls of freedom. One pilot summoned the restaurant manager, touched him gently on the cheek with the tips of his calloused fingers and whispered, "I will never forget this." His breath smelled of fine cheeses. He was a pervert, like most hot air balloon pilots.

Walter O'Leary was a pervert too. He was a vacant child. He grew up in Greenbell near Shirley (the girl in the woods). But unlike her, his self-control was pitiful. If he couldn't have the only girl he ever loved, he swore to drown her and then himself in Lake Michigan. Shirley didn't want to drown, at least not at the trembling hands of Walter, who some years prior had managed to rip her other wiggly blue dress in an awkward attempt at teenage-romance. A consummately performed drowning, that is, a drowning performed by an individual who'd had the ghastly task handed to him more than once, might be pleasant. Like going to sleep. But not, please, at the trembling hands of a boy who calls himself a man. Nevertheless, Walter's search and rescue mission was just beginning. And like his predecessors', the terms of rescue were perverted and full of hot air.

In the meantime, Shirley laid completely still for the first time in her life, bleeding in a pit of ancient redwood and other assorted trees such as clitwood, as previously mentioned. She died politely. Walter found Shirley. He also found a letter she wrote tucked inside her underwear. Because Walter was a pervert. Like I said. Here's the letter:

"I wonder if kids in Honduras worry about their shoes or the way their hair is combed. Or about dresses or uncomfortable frost. Do they even worry when their heads are bleeding?

Bill Gates just accidentally donated FIVE MILLION BUCKS to an organization called: People For The Hilarious Mistreatment of Animals.

Life goes on.

My company feels that people with tons of money, like YOU for instance, have a responsibility to spread it around. There's a guy coming over to your house right now with glossy photos of sick African babies and an empty jar with a slit in the top, and when he sees your fancy clothes and your wall-to-wall carpeting, he will get very angry. He works for me. And he's trained real good.

Some people are born in the gutter, and they have to work very hard climb out. If your heart doesn't bleed when you hear that, well I guess you are a selfish and terrible asshole. I can picture you dancing around with a big sack of money, doing summersaults and partying down. But If you shared some of that money, there wouldn't be any more babies in gutters or families eating dog-food. Free money makes bad things disappear.

Er... maybe not.

You don't have to clear your conscience and wave your checkbook over the ghetto like a magic wand or a rainbow machine. Give people love instead. Love gives people courage. Courage gives people everything. Throw your money around if you want to make yourself feel better. Not gutter babies. It wont work. I bet you $5000.

Love,
The Uncourageous Shirley"

Enter the strangely fascinting world of overheard conversations. Here's a chat with a possibly drunk DHL guy who had a few Spanish girlfriends. His old supervisor ticked him off too many times. More stuff to come.

Drunk DHL Guy.mp3

------------------------------

What did you say when Sherlie-Handjob-Magdalene-Masey told you about the lifestyle she requires??

Oh!.mp3

"Paco came over yesterday."

"Paco? I thought he moved to Florida."

"No. You're thinking of my other Mexican friend, Miguel."

"Oh yeah. He's the one with the Solar Temple Tattoo, right?"

"Nah... that's Diego Sanchez."

"I like Diego. Do you still hang out with Jesus Rodriguez?"

"Jesus got stabbed."

"Oh my God."

"Yeah. But anyways.... me and Paco smoked drugs after he got back from trading his radio for $25 at the pawn shop which he spent on drugs and some Tweety Bird decals for his pickup truck and I was sitting there thinking... And all of a sudden, I wrote a song about Paco and all the problems he's been having and I taped it. Do you wanna hear it?"

"Kinda."

hock shop shakes.mp3

settle this.mp3

------------------------

Stanley Kubrik's "2001" was originally cast with actor Crispin Glover playing the lead role of Dave. This rare audio clip was recovered from the cutting room floor and kept in storage for over 30 years. It's the part where Dave tries to disable the uncontrollable Hal 9000 computer system.

Crispin Glover Disables Hal 9000.mp3

My Irish grandfather used to tell us limericks that were on the verge of being dirty, but not quite. It made us giggle and there was nothing our parents could do about it. This is my favorite one:

There once was a man from cunt fuck
Whose hair was so long he could suck slut cock twat
He said with a grin, as he fuck shit piss diarrhea vomit shit fuck,
"If my fuck was a cock-suck shit fuck I would cunt cunt cunt shit whore"

My darling Gloria,

I am no longer fond of the brigantine and I pray for it to sink. I fear that I'm becoming a monster. I drank 5 biers in as many days, and although I did not drink a single bier on Thur'sday, I drank two biers on Fri'sday. Do not hate me, love.

Some gentlemen from the galley went abaft to smoke cigar'reettes this morn. They invited me. I inspected the cigar'reete and rolled it betwixt my thumb and erst finger. I sniffed my erst finger and was disgusted. But the sniffing triggered something in my brain! I sniffed the cigar'reete thrice more, Gloria! They used swearing words...

O' do not hate me!

We are expected to hijack a sailing vessel this eve but I haven't the fortitude. I've been unable to contain my urine. It has fallen upon the deck several a-time. I nonchalantly sopped it up with my socked-foot and I do not believe anyone made note of my ill-breeding... but each time I did so, I compulsively retired to my bunk and sniffed the sweet socky. There is something the matter. The sniffing cannot be stopped. I would rather die.

Please give me a signal. A sign of life. Blink your eyes, Gloria. Nod your head. Encircle your areola with a damp thimble which smells like vegetable soup and then sniff your fingers. Blast! ...It's no good. Please prove this letter finds you safely, for it is unclear how long Osama Bin Laden shall remain at large.

Choke Up On The Bat
A playscript by Ben Ferrari

CAST

Martin........................A humble guy / mid-30's / temperate / undergoing serious life changes
Mr. Chestankle.......Rotund / authoritative boss / jolly when things are running smoothly / fond of fruit
God...........................Creator of man / often shrugging shoulders and going "Oops!"
Vanessa...................Bitch co-worker who always butts in on Martin's problems

{ A stroke of violins.... A French horn bumbling... }

Martin adjusted his pants and stumbled down Sycamore street. He was bow-legged and looked like an impeccably-well-taken-care-of kite flapping in the morning wind.

His elastrator arrived via U.S. Postal District J-9 several days ago. It came in a discrete white box with no mention of castration and certainly no pictures of swollen, purple testicles on the exterior packaging for wandering eyes to catch and judge the recipient of. He almost would've preferred the embarrassment of one or two postal workers knowing his secret, for the benefit of being warned about the excruciating, terrible pain.

Over the past few months, Martin considered several methods of removing his nuts. There was the Burdizzo, a stainless steel clamp that snaps down on the scrotum with a birthright to sever its vessels in a single deft slice. It's considered safe by most barons of castration, but generally requires a second set of prints. Martin didn't want anyone to know. The elastrator was a better choice. It's like a rubber band that gradually tightens, and cuts off blood to the scrotum until it falls off cleanly. He put it on, but he never imagined pain like this. Terrible.

{ Broadening cellos.... light staccato woodwind...}

Still hobbling down Sycamore street, almost at the steps of his office, wondering why he didn't call in sick or emasculated, and waiting for his nuts to fall off cleanly, Martin entered his workplace and scuttled quickly to a cubicle where stacks of paper were accumulating. He was falling behind. He placed his patent leather executive-stylized attache on the corner of a brown chipped laminate wood desk and fired up his computer. He sat down ever so gingerly. But the elastrator was tight around his scrotum and the pain was incredibly terrible.

Martin knew he was a woman stuck in a man's body. He believed in God, but he didn't resent God. He felt that his soul was accidentally placed in the wrong vessel. It was a clerical error. Billions of people are born every day. Think of all the mistakes walking around China, or a dense American city such as Huckborg, Alabama. Martin came to peace with it. He decided to personally modify his genitalia. To undo what God messed up without complaining or blaming anybody. Eventually he'd try to sculpt his cock into a serviceable vagina, but first came the scrotum, to answer the age old question of chickens and eggs.

Martin was called into Mr. Chestankle's office to account for all the slack building up around his desk.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Chestankle?"
"Martin I'm concerned. Please sit down."

There was a heavy oak bench that served as Mr. Chestankle's seat for guests. Martin gave it a nervous glance and sat down. Gingerly. Terribly.

"The Johnson account is getting blown because of your flaccid performance lately. I've handed the job to Vanessa."

Every other word that Mr. Chestankle said seemed pointy. Martin felt a twist and then finally sweet, blessed relief in his nether-regions. His scrotum dropped from his pant leg and rolled under Mister Chestankle's desk.

"What's this at my foot?" asked Mr. Chestankle, "...It appears to be a plum."

He picked it up.

"What good fortune. I'll simply polish it on my sleeve and have a bite, allowing the juices to trickle down my chin."

{ Timpani thunder.... Metal percussion chirping like frogs....}

----------------------

Casting Suggestions:

Martin - James Spader / Kirk Cameron / Fred Savage
Mr. Chestankle - Wilford Brimley / James Cahn / Robert Wagner
God - Pauly Shore / David Lee Roth / Steve Bucemi
Vanessa - Annie Potts

Dear Mom,

Dad took me to the place where he works at today. And it was awesome and it was so cool!! Dad works in a big gigantic giant building with big long halls and big stairs and I got to run up and down the halls and it was awesome!!! And then some lady yelled at me and said I can't run through the halls very much.

I can't wait until I work here and I can run up and down the halls every day and nobody will be allowed to stop me. It will be just so awesome!!! Dad showed me his telephone and how many buttons he has on it. I could not believe it. One button can access the intercom and you can talk to everybody in the whole building. IT IS THE BEST BUTTON I EVER SEEN!!!!!!

And then during lunchtime we ran down the hall holding hands and I got to meet a burrito salesman. And dad bought me a burrito for 40 million billion dollars and I could not even finish it because it was so good and it was too big for my tummy.

And then at the end of the day dad was going through paper work. I don't like that part because it is so boring and I could not talk to him because he was too busy. So I explored the building and I found a lady at another office and I told her HELLO. And she gave me a Werther's Original and I almost choked on it. And dad heard me choking on it and he yelled at the lady and he said "Did you give my son a Werther's Original?" And the lady said, "Yeah. He's a cute kid." And dad said, "Jesus Christ, Allison, he can't have hard candy. He'll choke to death!" And the lady got really scared of dad because he is basically so strong.

So that is all. But it was the best day of my life. I love dad. Can I please come to work with him tomorrow too? Pleeeeeeeeease mom????? Circle one:

YES

NO

Love,
George Jr.

P.S. We still can't find the weapons of mass destruction. But I found a awesome Injin-Head nickel in dad's chair crevice and IT IS SO COOL!!!!!!!!!! You will love it.

P.P.S. Can Allison please come to my birthday party?

Police surveillance transcript

HM = Hit Man
VC = Vindictive Client

HM: Okay, here's how it's gonna work... You give me three names tonight along with the money, and you'll have 24 hours to change your mind before the hits are made.

VC: Understood.

HM: Good. Now gimme the first name.

VC: Mickey Rooney.

HM: Mickey Rooney? Seriously?

VC: Yeah.

HM: But he's a little old man. And he seems like such a nice guy.

VC: Seems like.

HM: I don't know. I'll have to think about that.

VC: Think about what? You're a hit man. Kill him.

HM: What could you possibly have against Mickey Rooney?

VC: Nevermind.

HM: Well... who's the second target?

VC: Bea Arthur.

HM: Now wait just a Goddamn minute. Bea Arthur is a national treasure. I'm not killing her. And probably not Mickey Rooney either. These people are old. They're gonna die soon of natural causes anyway.

VC: You promised! A promise means something where I'm from. Listen... I got your money. You have no business getting emotionally involved here.

HM: I know, but.... You want me to murder Bea Arthur and Mickey Rooney? What did they do to you?

VC: You said no questions.

HM: Alright... but.... JESUS!

VC: And also? I want them to die slowly. And painfully. I want them to squirm. I want them to ooze and moan. Nothing too candy-assed. Have a little fun with it.

HM: ...............

VC: Either you do the job or somebody else will. Bea Arthur and Mickey Rooney must die.

HM: .....FUCK! ...OK..... Who's the last target?

VC: Pat Sajak.

HM: We're in business.

Celebrities who remind me of other different celebrities:

Michael Keaton reminds me of Billy Joel

Hellen Hunt reminds me of Jodie Foster

Mel Gibson reminds me of the guy from 'Field of Dreams'

Tori Spelling reminds me of Lassie

Tom Petty reminds me of David Spade

Carson Daly reminds me of Ryan Seacrest

Lawrence Fishburne reminds me of a different guy

Steven Tyler reminds me of Mic Jagger

Mic Jagger reminds me of Carly Simon

Carly Simon reminds me of Joni Mitchell

Joni Mitchell reminds me of Ricky Lee Jones

Ricky Lee Jones reminds me of Ricki Lake

Ricki Lake reminds me of Kevin Bacon's withered penis

Kevin Bacon's withered penis reminds me of a damp strip of turkey bacon

A strip of turkey bacon reminds me of Tom Cruise

Tom Cruise reminds me of Jim Jones

Jim Jones reminds me of my years in Uganda

My years in Uganda remind me of the gears in my Honda

The gears in my Honda remind me of Kevin Bacon's withered penis again

That's 19 levels of Kevin Bacon's Withered Turkey Strip Bacon Penis

DELIRIUM TREMENS

Three big earthquakes happened. The ground shook and came apart in places. Birds fell off their branches and, before exploding into dust, chirped the sharps and flats of a generation badly out of touch. Other bids flew around crapping on stuff. Scientists in clean white coats stirred cups of coffee with their monocles, while heavy steel machines printed zigzag lines on drums of paper.

"This is strange," Doctor Franky observed.
"What is?" asked Doctor Choo-choo-train
"The Shake-o-meter just stopped. It isn't registering any motion. None."
"Tell the Headmaster."

Waves of men with strange flying contraptions fixed to their backs were dispatched from military hangars and hurried up into the sky and disappeared like sparks from a black powder gun. Then came the sweating, nausea and vomiting. The insomnia. The paleness. Grizzly bears trembled uncontrollably. Manatees grew irritable and 80% of all bumble bees noted extended periods of abnormal heart palpitations.

Earth is different now. Some people like it. But you can't be a patriot. The continental borders are all blended together, so you can't say, "Yeah baby, hey... This is America and we don't give a muthafuck. Wanna try to CHANGE us, commie? Get outta my country." That kind of stuff is useless now. Just like before.

America is the stomach part of a new Pangea, surrounded by trembling grizzly bears and bees with bad hearts. The fourth earthquake is starting now. I know what I'm gonna do. It's weird. God finally kicked the bottle-- God finally joined AA. But he still wont let anybody see his face.

MORE LETTERS TO THE COW
A DEPRESSED SIGH OF ADVICE

Dear Buttercow,

According to a recent study, Americans are becoming the shortest and fattest (when factored together) nationality in the world. What do you think is contributing to this trend? And what are you doing to prevent it from happening to you?

Rob Terrino,
Erie, PA

Dear Rob,

You probably are familiar with the mega-hit, "I Love Rock & Roll" by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts. Originally, Joan wanted the song to be called "I Enjoy Free-form Jazz," but her record company thought it was a bad idea.

"It would've alienated most of the kids listening to radio," comments Chad Dillard, former A&R rep for Capital Records. He continues, "Kids don't listen to free-form jazz. It's too complex. Joan had to rewrite the lyrics. The verse that goes, 'I saw him standing there by the record machine' was originally, 'I saw him drinking steamy coffee beverages at an upscale jazz night club.' Nobody responded to that during production. So she changed it."

I made a few calls and found Joan Jett (real name: Joahanna Frick) living in Jackson Heights. She invited me inside her musty tool shed apartment where I asked her about the frustrating circumstances surrounding this song...

"I went into the studio and just started improvising. But every time I got to the chorus, I couldn't stop singing 'I enjoy free-form jazz.' Nothing else fit. It probably took 3 weeks before Broadie, my manager, sat me down and said, 'Joan, you're in a rock & roll band. You have one of the biggest collections of rock & roll memorabilia in the country. You love rock & roll. You know what to do.' I went back to the studio that night and laid down another vocal track. This time I sang, 'I love free-form jazz.' It still didn't work."

Joan doesn't recall when or how the final lyrics were recorded, but she insists she never sang them. Such is the creative process. And such, it would seem, is the answer to your question.

Here are some gold-standard ideas I got the other day from a brainstorming session with executives

#1 - Tigerbomb

Young girls enjoy reading silly magazines that have pictures of celebrity teen boys such as: Joey Lawrence, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, Elijah Wood. My idea would be to make a series of magazines like that, except they would target specific fetishes. For example, the first one could have pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas showing off his feet and fondling his feet and putting his feet in his mouth etc. Then we do a bondage issue with Joey Lawrence. Then another one with Jonathan Taylor Thomas called "Tool Time" where it shows his penis from different angles near power tools. I think there is a lot of picky girls who want specific things and you aren't truly maximizing your profit until you tap into this market.

#2 - Up And To The Right

My TV doesn't come in unless I push the tuner up and to the right. Why should I have to do that? I say I shouldn't. So that's why my latest invention solves this problem by AUTOMATICALLY pushing the tuner up and to the right. What it is, is some metal which I wedge under the tuner, and gravity does the rest. Very cheap to produce, yet mildly-effective to not-effective-at-all. try it or sell the idea to business men see if i give a fuck

#3 - Opera Tuna Tea

It is a cup of tuna flavored tea that sings opera music at a medium volume. And for every cup you buy, you get an OPPORTUNITY to win tickets to the opera. It will sell because of wordplay

A singing trophy fish is stupid. This is a singing cup of tea that actually tastes like tuna and provides a chance to win tickets at a high class event

AND, OH SO MUCH MORE....

LETTERS TO THE COW
A DEPRESSED SIGH OF ADVICE

Dear Buttercow,

Lately money has been a little tight. Me and the wife and kids have adjusted our lives to save a few bucks here and there (we buy the cheap beans and we cut our own hair) but it still seems like we're barely treading water. How do you keep up with the escalating cost of living?

Doug Kloikus
Westington, VA

Dear Doug,

There comes a point in every man's life when he must choose between paying child support, and buying a new trampoline for himself and absolutely nobody else.

For instance, my old trampoline is "okay," but the vinyl tarp that covers the springs is getting faded from all the sunshine. I live on a tropical island, so there is plenty of sunshine and obviously I don't want it discoloring my tarp. Another good thing about the island? Everything. And I have a large mansion near the beach and I have eight cars.

I bought this place a couple years ago when I discovered how much money I could save by not paying child support for my three children, each from a different impoverished Hispanic mother. I also stopped paying for food and other products which I can easily take from stores instead of exchaning currency for them. Why more people don't do this, I have no idea. It works well.

If you want to save big, BIG money... invest in a race horse. That sounds crazy, but I went to a race last week and afterwards the winning jockey was celebrating and drinking champagne under a gazebo covered with flowers, and through all the flash photography and commotion, I simply took his unattended horse by the reigns and casually walked away with her. Her name was Pockets. We had a brief moment, and then I sold her for several thousand dollars. This is free money, Doug.

Anyway... A couple local kids have expressed interest in obtaining my old trampoline when the new one comes, but I'm going to have it taken apart and destroyed. I know a guy who can take the metal parts and fold them over and over and over again, and then melt them so they can't be bent back into shape. I didn't make my money by giving away trampolines.

If it's true that a butterfly's flapping wings can make a hurricane on the other side of the world, then Joanie Kleumfs has a lot of explaining to do.

I met her 10 years ago while visiting some Pollocks in Colorado Springs. She was in the garden incorrectly pollinating sapromyophilous flowers. I excused myself from the dinner table and opened a sliding glass door to where the garden was.

"My name's Harvey," I said.
"What the fuck did you just say?" she asked.

Joanie had a voice that spanned time. It parted fog and Nazi wind. It split atoms and threw dinosaur bones into big industrial fans and it's the first thing I noticed when I slid the door open. She was bitching about double shifts and how she just needed to get her robotics company off the ground and blah blah blah.

"Oh.. I just was telling you my name," I said. "It's Harvey."

"Yeah, sorry I snapped," she said, "This shift is knocking the balls off me. I haven't had a break in probably 12 hours. I'm wearing a nicotine patch on each wing to take the edge off.

"That's okay. I saw you out here and it looked like you could use some company. What's your name?"

"Joanie Kleumfs."

"Do you realize you're trying to pollinate a stapelia, Joanie? That's a sapromyophilous flower. It'd be like an acropoymious trying to pollinate a challimus agutum!!"

We both laughed.

Me and Joanie kept in touch a while, but our busy lives spread us too thin and too far apart to pay attention any more. Business whisked me away to a new seaport home in Belgium, and it was several years before the storm hit. Much of Ostend extending west throughout various English seaside towns was ruined. Tracks were torn up and set down again and green hills were turned into cliffs and the cliffs were crumbling. Churches fell, bodies broke in half and tubs of butter melted and evaporated. Joanie Kleumfs had wings like sheets of concrete clapping together, with a nicotine patch to take the edge off.

Heart Hypnotizer

I feel like a turd, girl
I feel basically like a Arby's roast beef
You got my heart, mamma
You could be my eternal flame, babe

America

Oh say, can you see
My American fist
Blasting your communist face?

John Mayer (the singer)

Your voice sounds like you are parched
I could watch your tour bus while you go get a drink of water
(I actually will steal his tour bus and do crimes in it)
Do you feel better now that you got somethin to drink, friend?
Okay, here is your tour bus back.
( I hooked up a bomb onto it)

Fashion

Nice hat
Nice can of PBR
Nice conductor's hat
Nice pre-stained-up jeans
Nice tattoo of a star
Nice asthma inhaler
Nice prosthetic arm
Nice cane

These 3 guys Who Were At My Job Orientating Meeting

These lab technicians who got hired where I work were full-on jags
I take that back--One of them was okay (even though we have private restrooms and he forgot to lock the door and I walked in on him going crap) but I got along with him okay. But the other two ones were idiots and they just talked about business and politics. They were fresh out of college.
And they still knew about quadratic equation and algebra etc. etc.
Everybody acted impressed when the short one said something about the stockmarket. (I acted casual. But I was impressed.)

Dear Neighbor,

Welcome to Lakefield! We're looking forward to meeting you.

My name is Darcy Hyde and I represent the Lakefield Smile Committee. We're dedicated to keeping Lakefield beautiful and happy by promoting community solidarity.

Please take a moment to fill out the following survey. These questions will help us understand your unique personality as your family integrates.

If for some reason you are unable to return this survey in the provided envelope within five business days, please see form L-7 titled "LATE SURVEY" included in part 4 of your color-coded Smile Packet.

GETTING TO KNOW YOU
A Brief Survey by the Lakefield Smile Committee

1. Where were you born?

2. How often do you intend to mow your lawn?

3. Have you ever been romantically involved with a person of color?

4. Would you be willing to undergo a physical examination by a doctor selected by the Smile Committee?

5. Do you practice witchcraft or engage in any stylized rituals other than those endorsed by the Catholic Church?

6. If my son Brandon wants to go cross-country skiing with your family, will you pay his way?

7. If my son Brandon just wants to go out to dinner with you guys, will you pay his way?

8. If I start taking things from your patio, will you make me stop?

9. If I ever get trapped inside a sealed box, will you puncture holes in it so I can breathe?

10. If a ghost offered you an endless supply of corn, would you accept?

--------------------

Once again... Welcome to Lakefield! As one of the nation's friendliest communities, we're sure your family will fit in. If not, please see form L-86 titled "FORCEFUL TERMINATION OF RESIDENCY" in your color-coded Smile Packet.

Sincerely,
Darcy Hyde

This is my boyfriend Duke and we're gettin' married. And we don't care about nuttin' so yall can suck it. Pardon my French.

Duke know how to hold a baby. And he already got a good job at the Corn Puff factory. Not like we gotta explain junk to yall. We in love. Aunt Cory said she'll knit up a baptismal gown for baby Jade soon as she's born. Even though the last time I got a baby baptized the priest was a major dillweed and told me to spit my gum out. I marched right up to him and hollered, "HEY! MY GUM AIN'T WANNA SPIT OUT!" And you shoulda seen the look on his face. But that's priests for ya.

[ DING-DONG ]

Oh hold up. They's somebody at the door.

"Hello what you want?"
"Hi there... Are you Holly Wolfram?"
"That's Mrs. Holly Wolfram-Montaine."
"I just have Wolfram."
"Wa-ever. You here to fix the television?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, come in. The television is in the social parlor. I can show you. The dial keeps turning unexpected-like."
"Wow, I haven't seen one of these babies in years! Let's fire her up and see what happens."

[ CLICK ]

"HEY GUYS! This is Bryce Talon with another ON THIS ROCKIN' DAY segment, where your favorite bands sing about cool historical facts. Enough with the small-talk.... Ladies and gentleman, THE BLACK EYED PEAS!!!!!!!

"On this rockin' day in 1998
Yeah baby, baby

Game show host Ray Combs
OOooooo, La la la la la

was found dead in his one-bedroom apartment
Shooby doo

with 12 self-inflicted gunshot wounds to his face."

[ Bzzzzzzz;;; JJJJJckkkk;;;;butttttter...... ]

"Turning now to local news, a Freeport man is said to have been heartbroken by a recent break-up. Poems recovered from his diary suggest that his heart was crucified, covered up and hurt inside by the words Ashley Peneski said to him. When reached for comment, the man hastily quoted Professor emeritus Si---"

[ Bzzzzzzz;;;;;; Krchhhhttt;; ......Gcccccccccccchh ]

"Welcome back to 'America's Next Topless Toddler'. Okay, next up is Damien Burbanks. He's only 2, but he's a natural on the runway. You can tell. He's putting almost his entire hand into his mouth now and it looks like--"

[ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ;;;; GRRRRRRRR;; KRUNCHHHHHHHH;;;; ]

[ CLICK ]

"Well Miss Wolfram, this is going to take a lot of time and money, but I'm pretty sure I can fix your TV."
"That's Mrs. Wolfram-Montaine. Go ahead and get started."

Where was I? Oh yeah, the weddin'.... I know it seems like we ain't ready, but aunt Cory told me somethin' that keeps running through my nut. She said I'll definitely know I'm ready when my heart-song tells me so. I think that's beautiful, and you know what? I hear my heart-song singin' now. It's telling me to invite EVERYBODY to the weddin'. Unless you a nigger. Pardon my French.

PATIENT CASE STUDY #5B1221

November 17, 1954
Patient examined by Dr. Spode
Minutes transcribed by Dr. McCarrol

Patient exhibits signs of moderate-to-severe swelling of parietal lobe. Condition worsening

Patient now refers to hands as "pick-em-ups" and refuses medication.

Patient hasn't the wherewithal to dress in ward-issued garb and is repeatedly found nude, clutching own genitals with pick-em-ups and humming through oscillating fans.

Upon examination, Dr. Spode ordered that Patient's xylophone be removed from Patient's possession and carefully transported to Dr. Spode's office for research.

Dr. Spode has been heard amatuerishly tinkering away on said xylophone for hours now. He just needs to figure out the melody. We all need to. Like the cosmic fife blown hotly on walls of uncaring ivy. Love, don't spurn this unprofessional transgression. I have pined to make poetry from shitty, thin medical notes for so long. There must be melodies stuck between the crackpots, I always insist. Alas, poetry is not in the prose, but in the Prozac.

I haven't the wherewithal to dress in ward-issued garb anymore... Hummmmmm...

There was a car wreck up the street. The ambulances took 10 million years to get there. I heard messed up screeching car parts. Dirty, gross, burnt, tight skin stuck to bent metal smells slipped into my Hebrew lungs. I checked it out. I saw this guy with his head cut. I saw this other guy mangled and perched heroic on the hood of a Chrysler 300. His name was Clarence Tapwater. He took my finger and told me quickly before he died...

"Create a myth around you. And if you keep your mouth shut, they'll beat a path to your door. Stop when things get heavy."

I have, Clarence. I think you were right. Not another brush stroke. Not another swing to the chisel.

In the immortal words of Professor emeritus Sir Bankwell Brokely esquire the third....

"People don't love my work because it's in a form that is most peculiar: Heavy. But if they discard their notions, mother earth shall sluttily bear her averrhoa carambola, sprung eternal from the branches of twisting woods. My words are hearts plucked from their cages and sold like common star fruit. Or finches. But thieves don't love my words because they're heavy. And no fat chicks."

R.I.P. 1894-2007

Cam Rodger's kid won the regional spelling bee. She's a brat.

After the bee, Cam took her out for ice cream and invited us to come celebrate. Ha ha ha... yeah right... See you there, friend! The only reason my Nicole was disqualified is because a momentary lapse of self-control had me spitting out letters and doing gestures and weird faces and stuff. A couple moms got wise and had us brought before the Spelling Commission and if you've ever dealt with those people, THEN YOU KNOW.

Anyway, Cam Rodger's kid won a bunch of merchandise. A scooter, a tent, a beach radio and a bunch of short works of fiction. A trip to NASA camp, a NES system, a Swatch, a station wagon and multiple swords. My Nicole asked Cam Rodger's kid if they could please camp together in the cool new tent, and do you know what Cam Rodger's kid said? She said MAYBE.

That's fine. We have a plan.

Tomorrow night, when the subdivision gets dark and Cam Rodger's kid is sleeping soundly with 12-letter words frolicking through her pointy, odd head, we're going to break into her bedroom and sink a dagger of steel deep through her soft pale belly skin. She'll sputter and cough and little red rivers will roll down the folds of her seven-billion-thread-count sheets. We've been robbed of something precious. Now Cam Rodger's kid will feel what hurts. Roger that?

R-O-B-B-E-D.

Robbed.

Baby darling??

I fear that I'm in love with your overweight sister. It struck me last night when she came over for dinner. The way she combs her poo-poo greasy fingers through curls of fine cherub hair gets me hot and bothered like I can't explain. I wonder if you know what I mean? Probably not. I should say this is very knew to me too. I mean... I like YOU, but I have a lot more in common with your comically fat sister. She carves grooves in the dirt and watches the rain make rivers. She stares at walls and hallucinates images in the stucco. AND SHE SPELUNKS. She somehow spelunks through really tight cave passages. I don't fully get that. She's perfect.

LOOK.... we have been together for a long time and it's been fun. But your chunky sister is the total package. I will feed her gentle sticks of butter. I will straighten up her hair and love her and kiss her hands. Please collect your things and leave.

A district attorney hit Marsha with a barbed wire fence. Her thoughts went back to Ku Klux Park where she gave head for the first time. She closed her eyes and saw the kids of God and trick candles on birthday cakes. Marsha took her sister's terrier by the neck. She squeezed the life out. She closed her eyes and remembered jumping fences and snapping fresh trees in Ku Klux Park.

Someday Marsha will embark upon a journey to a particular park, remembering a particular thing, entering through a particular vein in a particular person's leg. (Yours probably.) An amazing machine will push her closer to your heart. The blood will pump her steady to your brain. She will leave a trail of Marsha Sauce and she will put a flagpole in your cerebellum and she will name it Very New England. She'll speak German and not because she likes the food. Things will be so much better. Just don't take her money.

eat the hook

got some letters

Professor emeritus Sir Bankwell Brokely Esquire The Third once said,

"When my work is critiqued by intellectuals, it's beaten of everything natural and turned into a courtroom exhibit, encased in plastic, labeled with oversized index cards. How can a bold, brilliant artist function when he's obsessed with peer evaluation? Or any other kind? I do what I like and let the people find it. Nobody's opinion matters. And no fat chicks."

R.I.P. 1894-2007

One stormy night in november, the decapitated head of republican senator Henry Ham was discovered sewn to the right shoulder of democratic senator Shirly Shitbrains. "This model of bipartisanship," commented the two-headed senator in unison, "is very promising and effectively doubles the available seats in senate."

More politicians began arriving to work with bipartisan heads until all the interests of rich, white americans were dutifully served. Also... fags were permitted to kiss in military uniform, and the rainforests were kinda protected.

The impoverished huddled masses were somehow overlooked during all of this, but sensing a decent opportunity, they began sewing their heads onto the shoulders of sleeping rich folks.

The rich folks woke up alarmed, having never felt so claustrophobic or unclean, and began sewing their heads onto the already crowded shoulders of sleeping senators, maybe to encourage some kind of intervention.

The senators woke up alarmed and approached the middle class for assistance since they were the only group of single-headed people left who might get them out of this mess.

But the middle class was hypnotized. They were too busy debating and bickering about unimportant dull gray media issues. Too busy making up clever names for their opponents and regurgitating talk-show garbage. Too busy being genuinely offended by everything. So busy that they didn't notice the monster with a million heads which proceeded to stomp the cuckoo nest.