Archive for the ‘Adolescence (Issue 5)’ Category
“Justin Bieber’s Guide to Lesbian Dating”
by Isa Hopkins, editor-at-large
It’s a familiar pop culture observation by now, memorialized in a Tumblr blog that will — surely — make its way into book form any day: there are dozens (hundreds?) of lesbians in America who look like Justin Bieber. Angelically featured and with the same sideswept haircut made famously cool by this teen idol, some of these young women have even had the police called on them while out at bars. In case after case of mistaken identity, they find themselves explaining that they are not, in fact, sixteen-year-old boys with androgynous coiffures and YouTube-record-holding music videos, but rather twentysomething women who are legally allowed to consume alcohol.
Perhaps in an effort not to alienate his fan base, comprised primarily of young girls whose sexuality is yet nascent, Bieber has commented little on this phenomenon. This is a wise move; the truth would assuredly send teenyboppers into a tailspin of confusion and despair, for if twentysomething lesbians look uncannily like Justin Bieber, than the inverse is also true: Justin Bieber is easily mistaken for a twentysomething lesbian. And as it turns out, he has capitalized mightily on this fact.
For every unnecessary call to the police about a Bieber-esque woman at a bar, there are dozens more incidents which remain unreported — odds that any gambler would take. Bieber is, it turns out, a canny gambler.
“I go into these dyke bars,” says the precocious singing sensation. “These girls, they tell me I look like Justin Bieber. It’s a great conversation starter. I use different names, place to place, liquor them up with the good stuff. Damn, those bitches let me do things that none of my fans would ever be cool with.”
Bieber snorts a line of cocaine off the wood-polished bar table before continuing; his bodyguard quickly cuts another.
“That’s the thing with these teenage girls,” he says. “They adore me, which is great, and they’ll, like, blow me, which is pretty good too. But they’re all concerned about their virginity and shit. I’m never getting anywhere with those chicks — I mean, sure, some titty-flashing and getting sucked off everywhere I go is nice and all, but let’s be real: the Bieb is all about the pussy.” He rubs his nose and leans back, and another bodyguard begins to rub his shoulders. “I can show you, if you want.”
Bieber is, at this moment, “on vacation,” not touring or in the studio. He has sent his mother on a week-long trip to a villa in the south of France (“I get her off my back all the time — dangle something shiny in front of her and that bitch is gone”), his father is not a part of his life, and his publicist is passed out in a corner.
“She’s easy,” he says of the publicist. “Same shit I always do. T-Bone cuts a line of Valium, tells her it’s coke, she goes for it. Every time.” He high-fives T-Bone, the bodyguard who manages Bieber’s drugs. “Dealers, payments, the cops — this dude, man, he deals with all of it. This motherfucker is a champ.” There is a pause. “Unfortunately, he can’t come into the dyke clubs with me. It’d be fun, but it’d tip ‘em off. I gotta buy him hookers instead.”
Bieber’s venue of choice for this evening is a dive bar by the name of the Bearded Clam; T-Bone provides him with a fake ID, claiming he is a twenty-three-year-old resident of McAllen, Texas, by the name of Rachel Wyatt. “Lesbians love nicknames,” he says with authority, scrutinizing the ID. “Something I’ve figured out. I think Rachel’s nickname tonight is . . . hmmm.” Another pause, and T-Bone chimes in: “Digger?”
Bieber smiles. “Fuck yeah, Digger! That shit is a straight-up panty-dropper for a lez.” He high-fives T-Bone once again and throws an arm around his massive shoulders. “This guy, right here, this guy is my right-hand man. How many whores you want tonight, T?”
As Rachel Wyatt, Bieber enters the bar without issue and promptly sets his sights on two attractive, tough-looking blondes in a corner. He saunters up to them confidently, extends a hand in greeting, and motions for the bartender.
“One shot of Patron,” he guesses, eyeing the girl on the right, who nods and smiles delightedly before he turns to her friend. “And for you — Johnny Walker black label, neat.” Another nod of approval. “Oh, and a Blue Moon for me.” (Bieber later explains his strategy: “Getting them shots seems generous, and when I stick with beer, it’s non-threatening. Women are so fucking predictable, man. And Blue Moon tastes like piss.”)
“Good guess,” one of the girls volunteers, and Bieber smiles and shrugs. He is cute and friendly; it is easy to discern why legions of teenage girls have fallen for him.
“You know, you look just like that singer — what’s his name?”
Bieber rolls his eyes; the performance is masterful. “Justin Bieber,” he says, his voice softer than it was earlier, as he snorted coke with T-Bone. “I get that all the time.” He shakes both of their hands, introducing himself. “I’m Rachel, but everybody calls me Digger.” The girls grin and are putty in his hands before they’ve even had a sip of alcohol.
Bieber is attentive to them for the better part of an hour, escaping only briefly, to use the bathroom and place bets. (“I’ve got a lot of money riding on dog-racing and midget-tossing. Plus a cockfight up against Nick Jonas — whoever picks the winner gets to take a shit on the other.”) He buys shot after shot, letting his new friends talk about themselves as they grow drunker and drunker. Soon, it’s time to leave the bar.
“You can come watch, if you want,” he says, an arm around each girl, but I cannot bring myself to accept the offer.
“Well then,” says Bieber, hailing a cab. “I’ll just tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna take these ladies to a fineass hotel, and I’m gonna suck on their titties, and I’m gonna lick their cunts. And then I’m gonna put on a strap-on” — he makes air-quotes around the word, unnoticed by his drunken lesbian conquests — “and I’m gonna fuck them until they can’t see straight. In the pussy, in the ass, in the pussy again.”
One girl is giggling; another is rubbing her crotch against Bieber’s hip. He turns away slightly, lest she notice that his “strap-on” is less artificial than biological.
“Only one rule, ladies,” he says, addressing them now, serious but still effeminately voiced. “Nobody wears the strap-on except for me. OK?”
There are giggles; one of the girls musses his hair. “I knew you were an alpha dyke, Digger,” she slurs as a cab pulls up to the curb. “Can I put it in my mouth?”
“We’ll just have to see about that,” says Bieber, grinning and muscling the girls into the cab. He takes a moment to give me the thumbs-up as the car pulls away.
Two hours later I get a picture message, pornographic enough to make Brett Favre blush. Bieber clearly snapped the photo mid-coitus, both girls bent down in front of him. There is a caption, apparently thumb-typed during the act: “Gotta get em from bind so they dont c its REAL! haha suck it teenyboppers!”
The next day Bieber’s publicist is present, apologetic for missing our meeting last night (“unexpected illness” is blamed) and controlling the responses of her young charge.
“Justin is a role model for young men everywhere,” she says, and sitting behind her Bieber raises two fingers to his mouth in a v-shape, waggling his tongue between them in a symbol of cunnilingus. “He has tremendous respect for women, for music, for his parents, for all his fans.” The conversation goes on like this for twenty minutes before she apologizes to run to the bathroom.
“T-Bone’s got some coke in there,” Bieber explains as soon as she is gone. “Or, I mean, Valium, but, same difference. She runs for the drugs. Dumb bitch.”
How did the bets turn out last night? Bieber perks up.
“I won ten grand on the midget toss. And guess who’s gonna eat Indian food for a week so he can shit all over Nick Jonas?” Bieber points at himself with both thumbs. “This guy.”
So, I say, your cock won the fight?
“Listen.” Bieber leans in. “If there’s one thing to know about the Bieb, it’s that my cock always wins.”
by Mike Berger, PhD
The glance down her nose was a
mile-long. Her face was made of
stone; she was as warm as a
penguin in an arctic gale.
She looked like she had just
stepped from the window of a
clothing shop. She stayed in
recess; frolicking was beneath
Hair was always pulled back in
a tight bun; not a strand was out
of place. You didn’t want to cross
her; she would bore holes in you
with her steely eyes.
In high school she got straight A’s
she was the valedictorian, but guys
steered clear of her. We took bets
on how long it would take to get a
girl in the back seat. With Priss
Miss no one ever tried.
I went off to school but returned
for my five year reunion. When I
saw her my jaw dropped to my
bellybutton. Her long brown hair
hung around her shoulders, and
she was dressed in a slinky black
dress; surrounded by a half dozen
She left the group and came straight
to me. She asked me to sit with her.
A deep smile filled her face as she
explained that she was looking forward
to seeing me. She told me that she didn’t
how to tell me, but she always had the
hots for me.
“A Shitty Day in the Life”
by Michael Frissore
I shit my pants today, oh boy.
Thought I had to fart, but I was wrong.
Now I don’t know what I should do.
Should I just throw them out?
Or stand above the sink for half an hour
with a rag and Shout®?
“The Fishmonger’s Price”
by Errid Farland
My dear, I have missed you, come look at my presents, I kept them to bring here for you all alone. With the moon full and hairy, but sweet like a cherry, I snatched them from there just for you, here at home.
You are full on crazy, made up, such a fraud, with a seam down your middle and a cup
for a cod. Piece.
Oh how you wound me, I honorably seek thee, yes, you my beloved, sweet honeysuckle vine. I am yours for the taking, for the molding and making, I’m yours for the using, give your fullness to me.
There’s a frog at your feet, one with big legs, there are fish in your fingers, which ones did you eat?
I have eaten the fair one, the maiden who’s pretty, she’s really no maiden, I happen to know. Once at her table, and this is no fable, just once at her table, on her feast I have dined.
Shhh, they will hear you, you cannot be trusted with your mask to conceal all the things you have known.
I’ve a taste for a tuna, one that flops, one that squirms, and I know where you hide it, oh, please let me see. Give me fish, give me fish, give me fish, I am begging, give me fish, give me fish, from your vast, juicy sea.
What is it you caught, then? What is it you juggle? More fish, more fish, is it ever enough?
I sailed the wide ocean, I sailed on a clipper, I crossed the broad waters on bridges and stones. I ate of the bounty, you cannot blame me, I ate of the bounty of salmon and roe. But none can sustain me, none satisfy, only you, my dear princess, your flavor divine.
Off with you now, you’re mad as a hatter, and speaking of that what a hat! You’re porcine.
Don’t send me away, oh my dear, oh my mistress, you hawk you wares proudly, now give some to me. I’ll gobble you up, I’ll taste your salt waters, I’ll cast out the bones, OH! the sheer ecstasy. I’ll bring you to know it, the cause of my madness, I’ll bring you to share in this pleasure so free.
You think you’re a charmer, you think you can win me then cast me aside? If wares I am selling, then you’d best be paying, and my price, I can tell you, is very, quite steep.
I’ve got, see, these presents, these grand, foreign presents, I’ve brought you these presents, now give me a peek. I’ll taste, touch, and smell you, I’ll nibble and pinch you, I’ll lick and I’ll swallow, make you weak in the knees.
A ring, did you bring me, a gold band to win me, for that is my price, pay it full or let be.
My love, you’re a mean one, a costly and keen one, you know I will pay it, I’ll meet your high fee. In exchange for this bondage, on Friday, each Friday, you’ll stuff me with fish, with your fish, and sweet tea?
We’ve struck, then, a bargain, you nutty, life dancer. You’ll dance to my tunes and we’ll make melody.
by Lee Rorman
let us assume a 2 hour
nuclear war ended
just now &
let us assume we
are cockroaches awaking
from our slumber
rubbing our tiny
eyes & leaving a
path of shit
to the coffee maker
and pouring a cup of
joe before we
carpool to work
in the Benson’s
let’s assume our
day was same old
“First Poem of My Rebellion”
by Max West
I’m in a state of rebellion.
The practiced faces of the street challenge me
With their static, statuesque eyes,
Scraping shallow sentences between stiff lips,
Leaving behind largely an indention
Of stoic memorial posturings.
They challenge me
Because they do not encourage
The difference I feel.
My rebellion extends
To unyielding lanes on the freeway,
The unflinching moods
And the courteous smiles
Of those who despise me.
I’m tired of all the buying
I was unaware of selling But I’m aware now,
And that is my rebellion.
For I have inherited a terrible crime
And passed it on to you -
For I knew not what we did
While serving myself up, a vessel
For all the blood running through-
But I die for your sins, too,
Every time I am compromised for no reason
But hate of fear or worse still dispassion,
Die for your sins every moment
Compounded by every interest in our shared possession,
Die just like you die for mine.
And thus, the ridiculousness of competition.
Because I cannot be the only one who feels
The need for such rebellion.
I can’t be the only one who feels it
Riding around inside the wind, crying out
From the oppressive air my eyes find
As they trace the confines of courthouses
With some unformed desire to redefine.
But changing the aesthetic makes little difference.
For we are not fighting people
It is a rebellion of the individual
Against that part of itself
Which is not truly original.
Against that part we willingly or
Unwittingly accept and encourage
Every moment we let endure.
We have been complacent for far too long.
Scream something new from the rooftops
Or at least begin whispering it
From altitudes of yourself
It’s ridiculous to obey an outdated code
Which has not altered
Despite all the changes around it
And it is not only ridiculous,
It is a crime
Not to tread the path of transformation
When we have the arms, the pain,
The heart and the COUNTRY to do so.
Rise up, America!
We were born out of not following orders
But have forgotten beneath the weight of our own-
We have forgotten to question what we obey
And in this sense are no better
Than the worst Nazi fires
Lit with the consenting weight of empires
Of endless small talk or the hush
Of the religions of literature
Which have preceded us-
It’s simple and yet
The process of lifetimes
Is only to begin it-
From here and a thousand years
In every direction.
Yes, I am in a state of rebellion.
Against that part of myself I have not chosen.
And, because of this, so are you.
Because the first premise
Of this rebellion
Is the beginning of non-resistance
Of intimacy with the fact that
Neither of us can know-
A separate truth.
“US Route 30 East”
by Tally Brennan
H P Quality Used Cars.
Blue Chip Insurance.
High Performance Detail Center. Valet Service.
Splash and Dash Car Wash.
Fantasy Travel. Honeymoons. Cruises.
New China Sushi Bar.
Tejas Grill Mexican Restaurant.
Desi Bazzar Indian Market.
Shell, Getty, Gulf, Exxon Mobile, BP.
Martini Bar & Champagne Pit.
Shady Katie’s Lounge and Patio.
Richie’s Tavern. Fri Nite Bikini.
Living Out Loud Tattoos.
Frolick on the Pike.
Left Turn Only.
Speed Limit 50.
Tree City USA.
Concentra Urgent Care.
Glorious Grins Dentistry.
Spine and Disc Chiropractic. Acupuncture.
All Turns from Right Lane.
Creative Counseling & Therapy.
New Life Church.
Total Auto Repair.
Connell Insurance. High Risk Policies. Call for a Quote.
Tire Corral. Open Sunday.
Lukoil. Valero. Atlantic. Citgo.
No Stopping or Standing.
Right Lane Ends.
Slippery When Wet.
Time Out Sports Bar & Grill.
Fantasy Fetish. Live Shows and DVDs.
Rumors Bar & Grill.
Shady Mc Gruff’s Pub.
Johnny Bananas Tavern.
Twisted Vision Tattoo.
Over the Limit. Under Arrest.
David S. Rochman. Attorney At Law. Criminal Defense. Drunk Driving. Reasonable Fees.
ANB Counseling Center.
Budget Rent A Car.
Ameri-Fuel. Speed Gas. Astro Gas.
Labor Ready. Work Today, Paid Today.
Pike Liquors. Open Everyday at 9 AM.
Check Cashing. Payday Loans.
Cash for Gold. As seen on TV.
Welcome to Atlantic City. Always turned on.
Surbanni & Ostrove. Foreclosures. Wage Garnishments. Is Bankruptcy Right for You?
For Sale By Owner.
Daybreak Motel. Vacancy.
Psychic Reading. Walk-Ins Welcome.
Last Resort Grill and Bar.
Froggie’s Discount Liquors.
Winters’ Gun Specialties. Gunsmithing. Action and Trigger Work.
Costantino Funeral Home. Elegant Yet Affordable.
Gate of Heaven Cemetery. Spaces Available.
White Valley Memorials. Full Service. Family Owned. Visit Our Large Display.
“The 2011 Plumbers Calendar”
by Vanessa Weibler Paris
“Oh, no, ma’am; it’s not a ‘plumber calendar.’ It’s the 2011 Men of PCHI. A calendar featuring many fine gentlemen of the plumbing, cooling and heating industries, including myself. I understand and appreciate that you’re busy, but if I could have just a moment of your time, perhaps two moments, I could explain the difference.
“As you’ll see, we’re more than just a dozen hairy cracks. Let me show you Mr. January, my friend Frederick. He’s a licensed plumber, but he’s also pursuing an advanced degree in art history. Frederick dropped a few pounds and skipped his back-waxing appointments for several weeks prior to the shoot to ensure the necessary effect. We find that women are counting on that glimpse of skin in the back. They’re disappointed if our shirts are tucked in; they like an inch or two of curve and crease. Three may be a bit too much! But Frederick is a fan favorite.
“Now, there are several reasons our price point is a bit higher than, say, the firefighters’ and the police officers’ calendars. For instance, we use only top-notch expert photography. Take May: There’s a total solar eclipse in May, so we allowed for a bit more crack to show. Mr. May is an African-American gentleman, Jerome, and we backlit his rear as a respectful nod to the eclipse. The firefighters don’t put nearly as much thought into casting; they usually just choose their birthday month and leave it at that.
“Our calendar also provides education and savings. Take a look here at my apprentice Ross Moore, who is Mr. July. Not only does his pose demonstrate the proper plunger handgrips, he includes his top five tips for effective plunging. And he’s also provided a perforated coupon for twenty percent off any plunging service throughout the month. Which has thirty-one days.
“Skipping ahead to September, you’ll see my colleagues Michael and Mark, working together to install a new commercial piping system. See how their movements are choreographed and precise, as though they’re performing a synchronized swimming routine?
“And – yes, I know time is getting short – here’s December. And yes, you’re correct–that is I. As you’ll see, I’m the only PCHI gentleman with his trousers completely raised and sealed around the waist. The PCHI, ma’am, is donating ten percent of the calendar proceeds to the Regional Anti-Drug Coalition, which works to keep our community healthy, safe, and drug free. As Mr. December, my platform is ‘just say no to crack,’ which is why my belt is fully fastened in the photo. We take the threat of methamphetamine labs just as seriously as burst pipes and overflowing toilets- perhaps even more so.
“I do appreciate your time, ma’am. How many copies of the 2011 Men of PCHI Calendar can I put you down for? It’s nearly Black Friday and they do make lovely gifts. Buy a dozen, and you’ll get the thirteenth free.”
“The Legend of the Mom with the Lawyer”
by Andy Simmons
When Maria’s son breaks his arm for the third time on the swings, she decides to sue the City for making objects hazardous to young children’s health. She would win and her prize would be three million dollars from the city’s treasury. This would add to Maria’s hundred-K yearly salary and on the way out, the local newspaper would quote her saying, “All I dream of is a place where our children can be safe and we can have a better America.”
On her son’s birthday, Maria takes him to one of the city’s community pools and after a couple of dives off the board, Maria’s son tries to do a backflip off to only break some of his teeth on the end of the diving board. Again, Maria would sue the city and again she would win three million dollars.
At lunchtime in school, Maria’s son decides to eat two meals instead of one. He buys a soda and two hot dogs and chokes on the second dog. One of the teachers resuscitates him giving chest compressions while he lies on his back. Maria would come later to the nurse’s office and say, “How could you let this happen to my son? I packed him lunch.” Grabbing his stomach, she continues, “Does it look like he needs anymore food. Good god, no reason my kid is fat! Do you know what’s it like to have a kid?”
“I’m a nurse. I see hurt kids every day. It happens.”
Maria yanks her son by his stomach and says, “You’ll hear from my lawyers.”
Maria would take the school to court and win ten-K from their funds. The school could not pay any more money than that.
In the coming year, there are changes in City laws that would protect children from potential harm. Second Parents Act would be the name of the new law.
After school in the next year, Maria takes her son to the same place where broke his arm three times. There are men in blue uniforms with red patches that read City Park Guards. When Maria’s son tries to go on the jungle gym, the guards put their batons in front of the steps to the jungle gym.
“Ho, young man,” says one of the guards. “You’re an inch too tall. You must be shorter than the red stick you stand beside.”
The son tries to get on the swing but the guards there tell him he’s too big. “There is a one in hundred-millionth of chance you can break the swing,” says the guard. “With that risk, we are not permitted to let you on.”
On the next day, Maria takes her son to the pool. The high-dive is gone because the deep end is only ten feet deep and the lifeguard at the front desk says, “And that’s two feet too short, but we still have the low dive.” Maria and her son go to the short dive but the girl lifeguard stops him before he can go on.
“Did you take the jumping test?” she asks.
“What?” Maria asks. “Why would he need to take a jumping test?”
“We need to make sure your son is able to jump off into the water so he doesn’t hurt himself on it.”
The son is not able to jump over the one foot minimum and the two of them leave.
In the next couple of years and after debates that would often go to midnight, the city decides to pass the Happy Family Act. “This will protect not only our family’s future but our government’s economic future,” says one city council member. “There will be no more unhealthy or injured children, nor will there be frivolous lawsuits to our city. It will be a safer America.”
On the first Friday after the government enacts the bill, Maria tries to bribe one of City Park Guards a hundred dollars to let her skip the morning run. The guard denies this and so do the other seven that Maria asks. Maria tries to escape to her car but the guards capture and carry her away.
Before they throw her into the Timeout Van, the people on the street hear her scream for a lawyer.
by Jack Bristow
Lenny Billings made the rope so taut around his neck he thought he would black out. He slackened it a little. No sense in blacking out before the job was done. He listened to the radio as he finished tightening the other end of the rope into a knot around the rafters. He thought of Reba. That bitch. Untruthful, untrustworthy bitch. As he was about to stand on the rickety stepladder an advertisement on the AM radio had caught his attention.
“Thinking of killing yourself? That the world is a nasty place? Are you lonely? Maybe you caught your best friend playing a game of ‘lick the taco’ with your lady friend. Maybe you’re trying to kill yourself now in the hopes of teaching both
a lesson. If that’s the case why do it at home? Why leave a mess for your family to clean? For the modest price of a hundred dollars we at Suicide Inc. will do it for you cheaply and mercifully. So, sonny, what are you waiting for? Feeling blue? And you just want to end it all? Pawn that Xbox and/or Playstation of yours-you won’t need it where you’re going!–and give us a visit on West ThirtyThird street, downtown Oxnard…”
Lenny undid the noose-knot from around his neck and then he went outside and got in his Nissan.
On the drive to Suicide Inc. Lenny had felt a wave of exhilaration. Here were people who, for a change, could identify with his plight. No, not only indentify with it, they understood the pain he was going through.
Inside Suicide Inc. the carpets looked spotlessly clean. There were only two people in the waiting room. A young woman probably a little older than Lenny and a morbidly obese gentleman reading, ironically, LIFE.
“Can I help you, honey?” The woman behind the desk asked, smiling.
“Uh, yes. I was interested in your program.”
“I see. Your age?”
She tapped away at the keyboard, looking determidedly into the computer screen in front of her. Then she said, “Okay.”
She handed him a chart to fill out. “Here we just want to know the rudimentary details about yourself. Age. Weight. Occupation. Reasons for wanting to utilize our services. Etc.”
Chart in hand Lenny had sat in the seat beside the morbidly obese man. Doing the paperwork Lenny couldn’t help but overhear the young woman talking to the fat man.
“…so that’s why I’m here. How about you?”
“I’m as limp as a three-day-old air balloon.” pause. Then: “Sorry. I know I oughtn’t speak that way to a lady.”
The woman giggled. “That’s okay. But isn’t killing yourself over impotency a little drastic? Have you tried Viagra?”
“I have. Numerous times. It just doesn’t work for me.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m too fat.”
“So lose some weight,” the girl giggled.
“I can’t.” The morbidly obese man explained to her that he really hadn’t much of a natural appetite. It was the anti-psychotic medication he was taking- he had to take it, he stressed many times, that had effectively destroyed his originally king-sized penis beyond repair.
Lenny got up and handed the paperwork to the secretary. Then he walked back and sat in the same spot. He nodded at the fatman beside him and the fatman nodded back.
“Mr. Greenswell.” The nurse, clipboard in hand, stood in the hallway.
“Good luck to the both of you.” The fatman got up, following the nurse.
“So, why are you here?” the woman asked Lenny.
“I caught my fiancee going out with my best friend Darren. Ever since finding out the pain has been unbearable for me.” He told her about the noose and how he heard the commercial on the radio.
BANG and the accompanying THUMP in the background.
“I guess they already treated Mr. Greenswell,” the Girl smiled pleasantly. And then the door opened and it was the nurse
again standing there but this time there were a few crimson spots on her shirt.
“Well, nice talking to you,” the woman told Lenny, getting up.
He looked at the LIFE Mr Greenswell had been reading. It still felt warm. He was half reading it, and half listening for the sound of another gunshot.
It never came.
This time again the door whooshed open and it was the nurse. “Mr. Billings?”
Mr. Billings had followed her into the doctor’s room. “He will be with you momentarily,” she smiled serenely.
The room was creepy. Lenny Billings had noticed, sitting there, The Remedies of Choice. Guns: Thirtyeights, magnums, Barretas. The Remedies of Choice section had also contained big vials of green and red liquid substances which billowed steam into the air scientificially. Dr. Parsons-the man whose voice from the radio had temporarily saved Lenny Billings’s
life — emerged. Sideburned, sun-tanned, mustachioed; he looked like a used car dealer from the 1970s. His voice was unusually fast.
“Hello there young gentleman! How are you doing today? Well, it would appear not too well. It would appear, in fact, that you’re really really suffering either mentally or physically or both. Here. Have a cigar.”
Dr. Parsons glanced at Lenny’s chart.
“Oh. I see. Another case of the my-best-friendjust-boinked-my-fiancee.”
“They’re that common?” Lenny asked, bewildered expression on his face.
“Oh hell yes. That pretty little number who was in here before you- Kara was her name?–she was a victim of the same thing. Girl friend playing hide-the-sausage with her almost-hubby. Sad. Anyhow. Let us get started. I noticed when I
came in you staring at The Remedies of Choice wall. Which remedy would you prefer son? We got guns. We can either shoot you in here with a silencer or we can take you outside and dress you like a deer and have a little fun. Or we got knives, machetes… Or if strangulation floats your boat, we also got piano wires…”
“What did Kara have done with her?”
“Who,” Doctor Parsons replied, too engrossed in the present to remember the past.
“The girl before me.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Kara. She just drank a mouthful of Tethomapoel-that steamy green substance you see there.”
Lenny thought a good few seconds. Then he said,finally, “I think I’ll go with being hunted.”
The doctor’s eyes beamed. “Excellent choice, young fellow. We did that to my mother-in-law. That old broad was tougher than any buck I ever encountered. Took three shots of buckshot to get her down. And do you know where the old bat is now?”
“Stuffed above our fireplace!”
An awkward silence permeated the room. Then Dr. Parsons yelled out to the nurse.
“Mattie. The hunting stuff. Chop-chop!”
Mattie had appeared within thirty seconds with the twelve-gauge shotgun and stick-on antlers.
“Here, put these on son,” Dr. Parsons handed Lenny the antlers.
They were outside now, behind Dr. Parson’s office. Parsons was chewing tobacco and wore a checkered red-and-black hunters jacket. Lenny wore antlers and a silly-looking deer costume.
“I like you, Lenny,” Dr. Parsons had told him with a mouthful of tobbaco. “That’s why I’m gonna give you a thirty-second
“The Peculiar Circumstances Surrounding the (Previously) Super-Secret Travels of Geraldo Rivera Following the Taping of The Mystery of Al Capone’s Vault”
by Thomas Mundt
Geraldo Rivera was beat.
His fatigue was attributable not to the day’s infinite hours at the Lexington Hotel- the waiting and the waiting and the waiting, the meeting with the engineers to discuss the structural integrity of the tunnel network, the rap session with the medical examiner concerning what he could reasonably expect a room full of decomposed gangsters from the 1930′s to look and smell like, the jokes with the IRS representative about where and to whom a tax refund on all the dough he was going to find will be sent, the application and re-application of make-up to his oily t-zone, the lights, the camera, the action- but to the complete and irrevocable expulsion of hope from his heart.
His nadir came when, after proffering to a TV nation of millions the incontrovertible evidence of Big Al’s bootlegging activities in the form of the broken-bottle potpourri carpeting the floor of the vault, Walt the Boom Mic Operator farted, contorting his face when the sour cloud of his flatulence climbed into his nostrils.
It was all just too much for him.
And so, exhausted and alone in his condo, in desperate need of a repose from what had most assuredly been The Longest Day of His Life to Date, Geraldo loosened his tie knot and eased into the buttery leather of his prized turquoise sectional sofa, his eyes fixed on the framed Nagel print hanging on the wall directly across from him, not more than five meters away.
And as he gazed upon the angular beauty before him, the jagged vixen he’d made love to a thousand times, at the Waldorf-Astoria, in the back seats of taxis, in the dugout of Shea Stadium, any locale the bricks and mortar of his imagination could construct- he slowly began to sink.
At first, Geraldo found nothing unusual in the sinking, savoring the cool embrace of the compliant, air-conditioned cushion beneath him. But when the sinking continued, when the Nagel was no longer at eye-level but now at a forty-five degree angle and climbing, this gave him pause. Before he knew it, both he and the sectional had drifted through the floor and were descending upon the Futtermans in the unit below, assembled in their dining room to enjoy yet another Judy Futterman culinary masterpiece.
Man, when it’s not your day, it’s really not your day, Geraldo quipped to the sectional.
Charlie Futterman, age nine, was the first of the Futtermans to herald Geraldo’s arrival. Without a trace of alarm, he abandoned his chicken marsala with snow peas, waved, and said, Hey there, Mr. Rivera! Tough break today! Everybody I know thought there’d be tons and tons of treasure in that old vault!
Geraldo could barely muster a nod of acknowledgment, his head too heavy with the permutations of the possibilities of what should have been in that vault, the myriad of trinkets and persons and contraband and more hidden passages and a hero’s welcome and a congratulatory letter from President Reagan and a down payment on an Aspen chalet and ….
As his mind typed out mile after mile of the exhaustive inventory of The Vault That Wasn’t, the sinking continued, with Geraldo and the sectional bidding farewell to the Futtermans’ unit and now greeting Prashant Patel’s, where Prashant sat at the glossy, oak desk in his study with his tweezers and magnifying glass, delicately adding a mast to the bottled Chinese junk ship before him. When he looked up from his handiwork to see Geraldo and the sectional floating there by the bookcase, the one he used to catalog his back issues of Miniatures Aficionado, he could only offer a wry smile and say, Well done, Mr. Rivera. You solved a great mystery today. You should hold your head up high.
Below Preshant’s unit, Geraldo and the sectional greeted Mrs. Kennelworth in the bathtub, a visit ending in Mrs. K, as the Condo Association called her, splashing soapy water at him and shouting, You brute! How dare you invade my privacy in this manner! My deepest sympathy regarding the vault!
And so it was that Geraldo and the sectional, relieved of their individual identities by these most peculiar of circumstances, continued their conjoined descent, absorbing the condo building’s words of condolence and praise and bewilderment as they passed through all one-hundred and twenty-five floors. When they finally found themselves in the basement, the tiny wooden legs of the sectional coming to rest on the concrete floor with the feather-touch of a lunar landing, Geraldo removed his corduroy blazer, its armpits soaked through with perspiration. He neatly folded its arms in, first the right and then the left, before laying it to rest on the unoccupied cushion beside him. Then, with a calm that only visits a man who has relinquished all attachment to rationality, to order, Geraldo crossed his arms and corrected his posture so that he sat perfectly upright, his spine flush against the back of the sectional.
Then he waited. He waited and waited and waited until he was no longer conscious of the waiting, until it became as automated as his breathing, his eyes affixed to a blank concrete wall across the room. When a sliver of white light appeared in the top left corner of the wall and began to trace its perimeter, cutting the concrete like safety scissors through construction paper, Geraldo knew It was there, just beyond his reach.
The outline complete, the chiseled-out section of the wall toppled, shattering into millions of pieces upon hitting the floor and fogging the entire basement with its chalky particulate. When the dust settled and he could again make out the scene around him- the storage lockers and their decaying ten-speeds and tennis rackets and yellowed high school yearbooks stacked in neat piles- he finally saw It, behind where the now-demolished wall once stood.
He saw gold bricks. He saw gangsters in silk, razor-creased suits playing hearts at a folding table, their hairy paws wrapped around half-filled tumblers of scotch. He saw barrel after barrel of bootleg whiskey, stacked high to the ceiling and stamped with their destination cities (“Mobile,” “Baltimore,” “Walla Walla”). He saw dancing girls pulling nylons all the way up their never-ending gams, their skirts hiked, winking. He saw Mr. Capone himself, who in his customary gentlemanly manner removed his hat upon making eye contact with Geraldo, mouthing a silent, Hiya, pal. Ya got me!
He saw What Should Have Been. What his producers had demanded but fate could not produce.
Resigned to misery, Geraldo buried his face in his hands, warm saline pooling in his eyes. He sat doubled over on the sectional for several silent minutes, crippled by the basement’s revelation, the cruelty of it all. He felt like Jerry Rivers, that despicable fiction of a man that before today existed only in the carious hearts of men, a villainous asymptote of a self that only became more invisible, more unrecognizable, the closer he approached it. Geraldo’s despondency breathed life into Jerry, however, bloated his lungs and inflamed his capillaries until he respired on his own, until Jerry was as real as he.Â Refusing to allow his grief to play midwife to this most unsavory doppelganger any longer, Geraldo conceded to anger, permitted it to bloom inside him and pollinate his adrenal glands. He clenched his fists with all his might, his rage cascading over and crashing down upon him, until his knuckles whitened and his fingernails cut into his sweaty palms, drawing faint trickles of blood.
Is it not a journalist’s duty to unearth the truth, no matter its size? He howled, snapping his reticence in two like a dead branch over his knee.
It was then that he heard a bottomless, placid voice call out to him, Geraldo, fear not. I shall show you a better way.
What? Who goes there?
Undiluted terror flooded his system, his bladder prepared to empty itself in his slacks. When his eyelids snapped and rolled up like retractible blinds, a majestic winged unicorn materialized before him, its coat the most brilliant, blinding white he had ever seen.
Geraldo, my name is Gregory. I was sent to retrieve you. Please, climb atop my back so that we may exit this dreary environs.
Why? Where will you take me? queried Geraldo, reluctant to part with the allegiant sectional.
All will be explained, and in due time. Please, Geraldo. Time is of the essence.
Without further protest, Geraldo bid adieu to the sectional, dragging the tip of his index finger along its leather epidermis as one would a lover’s forearm, as he rose to his feet. How could things get any worse? he reasoned. I have nothing to lose in complying with the demands of this beast. As he mounted Gregory he noted his plush exterior, how his downy coat enveloped his limbs as he braced himself on the equine’s broad chassis. Without a saddle for ballast, Geraldo wrapped his arms around Gregory’s long neck, could feel his sharp Adam’s apple.
Away we go, Gregory hummed.
And with a great thwap! of his wings Gregory began his ascent, leaving errant feathers behind to pirouette in the empty basement air. Geraldo’s grip grew tighter around Gregory’s neck, resting his head on its dorsal side as the two went up up up up up, retracing Geraldo’s steps as they scaled the condo building floor by floor. Mrs. K, Preshant, The Futtermans- all remained as Geraldo had found them earlier, insects in amber. They failed to acknowledge him as he and Gregory soared past them, however, too lost in their routines for courtesies. This saddened Geraldo, who believed his neighbors would take delight in witnessing him commandeer such a magnificent creature as Gregory. Charlie, in particular.
It was of no import, however, as Gregory pierced the invisible seal of the penthouse suite’s ceiling and Geraldo found himself unmoored amidst the vast, purple sea of night. He floated along the city skyline, the constellations of streetlights and turn signals blinking below, the stratospheric gusts making waves in his salt and pepper mustache. He watched as fighter jets in the distance broke formation, scrambling upon their receipt of a single stern look from Gregory. As he and the august steed continued to climb the heavens, Geraldo saw his heroes perched atop invisible clouds, silhouetted against the cavernous black of night:
Edward R. Murrow.
The Bay City Rollers.
All proffered sweet smiles and waves, in recognition of the day’s frustrations and in the sincere hope that they not destroy Geraldo, further reduce him to rubble. The gestures warmed him, his heart mummified in the soft fleece of their benevolence.
Relishing the liberation Gregory had unexpectedly afforded him, Geraldo grew curious about the trip’s duration, hoping against hope that it be infinite.
How much further do we have to go, Gregory? When will I know we’ve reached our destination?
Gregory smiled, pleased.
You have many questions, Geraldo. Many questions, indeed.
“Personal Take on the Whole Wear Sunscreen Issue, or Things for Kids to Remember When I’m Gone”
by Alexandra Magearu
Don’t ever hold a disgusting gulp of Hippophae Oleum in your mouth for more than two seconds, and above all, don’t push it to the back of your throat while you bring a better-tasting soda glass to your lips to wash it out. This moment will feel like eternity, and I mean that in a bad way.
If you arrive shamefully late (that is, 30 minutes or more) to a meeting of whatever form, do not panic! Breath in, don’t stumble over others’ chairs and feet, don’t drop your books (or bag or animal), don’t overdo the apologies and don’t hate yourself intensely for the next 2 hours because you can’t do anything right. Instead, try a scheduled 5 minutes moment of self-loathing per day, before/after prayer.
Always brush your teeth before going to bed. And I’m not saying this just because your mommies bought me off. BUT, if you give up this fabulous habit of cleansing your dentals at night, you might wake up with a feeling close to a rat dead and rotting in your mouth.
Don’t become addicted to television! Oh wait, actually, don’t watch movies, don’t read books, don’t listen to music…don’t even open your eyes! It’s dangerous! Don’t take any form of artistic expression for granted! It will only ruin your life and turn you into an oversensitive, overromantic, overextremist, overidealist, overbigot, overcrazy, overillusional, oversexed, overhopeful, clueless you. Trust me, it’s better to isolate yourself completely from any human influence. It’s like plague.
Don’t misinterpret! Whatever you do, know that people have different eyes, different ears, different mouths and different hearts, no matter what they tell you in school. But you will more likely think that you see through the same eyes, hear with the same ears, breathe through the same mouth and feel with the same heart, and you will therefore allow yourself to judge people according to your own standards. Don’t judge people! Oh, nevermind, you’re just going to do it anyway.
If your mother catches you smoking, whatever you do, don’t hide the cigarette in your pocket. You will be very likely to stick it in there before you put it out, and this unfortunate accident will result in a flaming you and a desperate mother carrying you to the hospital by taxi. Plus, your mommy knows about your smoking anyway. She knows everything!
Don’t become unnaturally obsessed with or even impressed by some god or another! It will only raise false expectations and give way to illusions and impossible dreams. To believers, reply with a well-prepared and definite “Don’t know, don’t care!”
If you’re a boy, don’t imagine that girls are this great inexplicable mystery that you will never unveil. They’re as plain as you are, they just vibrate in different ways at different times.
If you’re a girl, don’t think that guys were born to make you feel miserable. I know it’s a strange thought to throw in, but guys mostly feel and act the same as you do.
If you’re a boy who likes other boys or a girl who likes other girls, admit it and rub it in people’s filthy, appalled faces.
Also, remember that we love in different ways, so don’t feel surprised when your notion about love is a nice cosy movie night with food and drink, while your partner suggests a threesome.
by Rita Buckley
He was the last cat, in the last corner, of the last cage in the animal shelter, a black and grey-striped Coon cat with grayish-green eyes and double front paws, a genetic defect I found endearing. He was big, a least 15 lbs., with an intelligent look on his face. His name was Mr. Jones.
We hit it off right away. He was stretched out along the back of the cage, by all appearances sound asleep. But when I peeked in on him, he was on his feet in a flash and beside the cage door, slapping at it with his big paws. I figured that this was a smart animal with a mind of his own, a strong and independent sort- my kind of guy.
The woman from the shelter was a rail-thin, somewhat faded, middle-aged blond. She got up from her chair behind the counter and walked over.
“I see you’ve hit it off with Mr. Jones,” she said, looking into the cage.
“Meow,” Mr. Jones said in a loud, clear voice.
“It seems that way,” I said.
“He’s a Coon cat, you know. Upcountry,” she explained.
Mr. Jones rubbed against the cage and purred.
“Rrrgh, rrrgh, rrrgh.”
The purr came from somewhere deep inside his chest. It sounded something like a soft roar.
“Rrrgh, rrrgh, rrrgh.”
“He likes you,” she said. “Usually he’s kind of stand-offish, the only cat in here who doesn’t play the “I’m adorable, adopt me” game. He’s been here a while,” she said sadly. “If no one takes him home with them today, I’m afraid we’ll have to put him to sleep. We planned to do it tomorrow morning.”
“What’s the story with him?” I asked. “You know, his past.”
“His owner died,” she replied, and the local shelter brought him here, thinking he’d get more exposure.
“How did he die?” I asked, just out of curiosity.
“Murder,” she said, “Shot- right between the eyes.”
Mr. Jones was busy batting at the cage door.
“The owner’s gun was on the floor, with the cat’s paw prints all over it. WeÂ figure the guy walked in on a robbery or something.â€
â€œOh,â€ I said.
I held my hand to the cage and Mr. Jones rubbed against it. He mightâ€Ÿve beenÂ cool to others, but as far I was concerned, he played the “I’m adorable, adopt meâ€ŸÂ game like a pro.
â€œI’ll take him,â€ I said, with some degree of ambivalence. He’d had aÂ traumatic past, and I thought that maybe he had some kind of weird cat mental healthÂ problem.
The shelter woman smiled and patted me on the back.
â€œGood choice,â€ she said. â€œHeâ€Ÿs quite a cat.â€
â€œDo you have any children?â€
â€œDo have a full-time job?â€
â€œI work at home,â€ I said. â€œIâ€Ÿm a writer.â€ I was waiting for her to ask whatÂ kinds of things I wrote, like everybody else does, but she just nodded.
â€œDo you rent or own?â€
â€œAre you married or single?â€
â€œDo you have any other pets?â€
â€œHave you ever owned a cat?â€
â€œMost of my life,â€ I replied.
â€œA cat person. Thatâ€Ÿs good,â€ she said, looking me straight in the eye. SheÂ finally broke the gaze when I cleared my throat.
â€œWhatâ€Ÿs your annual income?â€ she asked.
â€œHigh enough,â€ I replied.
â€œCongratulations,â€ she said. â€œYou passed the test.â€
I signed a bunch of papers, gave her $150 plus the cost of a cat carrier, waterÂ and food bowls, a purple litter box, a bag of kitty litter, a scratching post, and a caseÂ of tuna-flavored Purina cat chow. I also bought Mr. Jones a small dog bed; figuredÂ from the size of him, he could use a little more space.
â€œDo you have any toys?â€ I asked.
She rummaged through one of the drawers.
â€œHere,â€ she said, handing me a ball of yarn. â€œGive him this. Itâ€Ÿs free.â€
I brought Mr. Jones into the kitchen, put his carrier beside the table, and opened theÂ front. He stuck his big head out first and looked every which way. Then the rest ofÂ him followed, warily at first.
He was bigger than I thought, a good 20 lbs. of cat. â€œNo one will ever pullÂ your tail,â€ I told him.
â€œMeow,â€ he said.
Curiosity overcame suspicion, and he checked out the room. He walkedÂ around like he owned the place, peering left and right. Then he jumped on theÂ counter and sniffed around for something to eat.
â€œHere’s your food,â€ I said, pointing to the bowls of food and water.
I walked into the bathroom off the hallway. Mr. Jones followed me.
â€œHereâ€Ÿs your litter box.â€
He climbed onto the vanity and tried to find water in the sink. I was startingÂ to think heâ€Ÿd had a hard life until now.
I walked upstairs. Mr. Jones followed.
When we got to the bedroom, I pointed to the cat bed. I’d put it right besideÂ mine. I didn’t want Mr. Jones to feel lonely.
Then we went back downstairs to the living room.
â€œAnd here,â€ I said, pulling the big ball of yarn out of the bag,â€ is somethingÂ for you to play with.â€
Mr. Jones loved it. He batted it around the room for a few minutes, pouncingÂ on it each time it stopped rolling. Then he ripped it to shreds, leaving a pile of lightÂ blue yarn on the oak floor.
â€œI see you liked it,â€ I said.
Mr. Jones followed me everywhereâ€”from room to room, to the bathroom, the car,Â onto the patio. He stayed on the sofa in my office while I worked. He ate when I did,Â watched TV with me, ran errands with me, hung out under my chaise lounge when IÂ sat by the pool. He even slept when I did, stretched out beside me.Â He wasn’t the type of cat who’d sit on my lap and purr, but he liked to beÂ petted on his head, under his chin, behind the ears, and down his back. When he
wanted attention, heâ€Ÿd bat me on the arm with one of his big paws.
â€œMeow,â€ he’d demand.
We communicated well; understood each other.
â€œME-ow.â€ Rub my back.
â€œMe-Ow.â€ Let me out.
â€œMeow Meow.â€ Letâ€Ÿs play mouse.
â€œMeow-Owâ€ Turn down the TV.
â€œMeeee-ow.â€ Letâ€Ÿs go for a jog.
â€œMeow meow meow.â€ Get off the phone.
He was somewhat demanding, but in a playful kind of way.
We were coming back from a routine errand, cutting through the park at night, whenÂ three thugs came out of nowhere and surrounded me; sinister bastards who lookedÂ like they’d just stepped off chopped hogs, and were out for a fun night of rape,Â murder, and mayhem. I looked around for Mr. Jones and didn’t see him.
One of the guys ripped my bag off my shoulder and rummaged through it. HeÂ took my money and credit cards and dumped the rest of the stuff on the walkway.Â Another tore away the front of my shirt. I could see that he had a gun tucked into hisÂ pants; could smell the alcohol wafting off him.
I shoved him away and shouted: â€œMR. JONES.â€
That backed them off for a second and I ran like my life depended on it,Â which it probably did. I didnâ€Ÿt look back until I heard the gunshot. One guy was onÂ the ground, another looked like he was on fire or being choked from behind; I
couldn’t figure out which. The third was stumbling away.
The thrashing thug fell on the ground and rolled around. I saw a double pawÂ slash him across his face and eyes. He screamed. Then I heard sirens. Someone hadÂ seen what was happening and called the police. I wasnâ€Ÿt about to wait around forÂ them.
â€œMr. Jones,â€ I yelled and started running again. He was right beside me whenÂ I got inside the house and slammed the door behind me. I leaned against it trying toÂ catch my breath. I was shaking and felt kind of nauseous.
â€œMee-oow,â€ Mr. Jones said.
I picked him up and hugged him.
â€œRrrrgggh,â€ he purred, â€œrrrgggh.â€
I took him in the kitchen and washed off his bloody paws.
The cops knocked on the door two hours later. I was waiting for them, Mr. JonesÂ beside me. I knew they had my empty wallet along with the rest of the junk in myÂ bag, and would be along at some point.
They handed me the pocketbook, and asked to come in.
â€œOf course,â€ I said, and pointed toward the sofa. â€œWould you like a DietÂ Coke or some water?â€ One of them asked for water and I brought it in from theÂ kitchen. My hands were still shaking so much, I almost spilled it all over him.
The cop took the water.
â€œThank you,â€ he said.
â€œWe have a dead man, a blind man, and a .38 special covered with pawÂ prints. A witness reported three males attacking a woman. Was that you?â€
They looked at me, then the cat.
â€œCould you tell us what happened?â€
I told them the story, leaving out the part about Mr. Jones.
One of the detectives wrote down everything I said. â€œDo you know a Mr.Â Jones?â€
â€œNo,â€ I said. Â â€œI just yelled out the first name that came to mind to distractÂ them. He was an old teacher of mine.â€
â€œA witness said he saw a wild animal attack the men. They were coveredÂ with bites and scratches.â€
â€œIt mustâ€Ÿve been a rabid raccoon,â€ I said.
â€œA stroke of luck,â€ one of the cops replied.
â€œIâ€Ÿll say,â€ said the other.
Mr. Jones rolled on the floor.
â€œMeow,â€ he said.
One of the cops reached down and patted his head.
â€œWould you like to go to the hospital?â€ he asked me.
â€œNo,â€ I said, still shaking.
â€œWas the cat with you tonight?â€
â€œNo,â€ I lied. â€œHe was here alone, watching CNN.â€
â€œNothing like a well-informed cat,â€ one of them said.
The other mused about what happened in the park.
â€œThe gun mustâ€Ÿve slipped out during the struggle and gone off. Damn coonÂ got him right between the eyes,â€ he said.
I looked at Mr. Jones. He was rubbing against the copâ€Ÿs leg and purring.
â€œRrrrrgh, rrrrrgh, rrrrgh.â€
â€œNice cat,â€ he said. â€œWhatâ€Ÿs his name?â€
â€œEric,â€ I replied.
“When Jesus Came”
by Andrew Glasser
When Cathy got home from school, Jesus was just finishing up with her mom.
“Who’s that?” Cathy asked.
“That’s Jesus,” her mom replied.
“Oh.” She should have recognized Him, she thought.Â She was suddenly very nervous.Â What was He doing here?Â Would He punish her for not recognizing him?Â Could she remember any bible verses to recite?
“We’ve been talking about you,” Cathy’s mom said, “among other things.”
The “among other things” didn’t soften the blow.Â She already knew she was probably going to hellâ€”sheâ€™d been toldâ€”and now Jesus was here in her kitchen talking about her with mom.
When would she be able to defend herself?Â Tell her side?Â Certainly Jesus would know if she lied.Â But how could she tell the truth?
â€œIs He staying for dinner?”
â€œYou donâ€™t have to talk as if He isnâ€™t right here,” Cathyâ€™s mom said.
Dammit, Cathy thought.Â She looked at Jesus.Â He looked right back through her.Â She had to tell the truth.
“I’m not sure I believe in you,” she began.Â “No offense, I mean, you’re here in my kitchen and all, and I don’t mean to make you mad.Â I didn’t expect you to be talking to my mom.Â But now I guess I believe, that you’re really here, â€˜cause I can see you. I’m just not sure that I believe the other stuff.Â Is it true?”
Jesus was silent.Â She looked at him, He looked at her, His eyes, His expression were non-committal.Â She looked away.
“I do the best I can.”Â She sat down.Â Her mom was no longer there. “I guess that’s no excuse.Â Let me tell my side of the story, at least.”
Jesus still didn’t say a word. And so she told Him her side of the story.Â She let all of her fears, all of her insecurities, fall out.Â She confessed everything.
Everything she had ever heard, been told, about Jesus, worried her now, and she was fishing for something.Â She talked about sin, and lying, and believing.Â She talked about being forced to believe, as if that was an excuse for not doing it.Â She didn’t know.Â “Is it?â€
“I didn’t know my mom knew you personally.Â She said she did, but I didn’t know that’s what she meant.”
Cathy went on about how she knew it was wrong to drink alcohol and to smoke pot.Â She explained why she had sex.Â She couldnâ€™t lie, she liked it.Â More honestly, she was looking for love.Â She didn’t understand why that meant she was going to hell.Â She searched the eyes of Jesus as she confessed for a sign of what she was sure He already knew, searched for some kind of confirmation that He knew, that these things were or weren’t a sin.Â She got none.
“I know my mom thinks I’m irresponsible, that I shouldn’t be going out with â€˜that boy,â€™ and that I’m going to have his baby and then go to hell.
â€œIâ€™m sure she told you about my piercings and tattoos.Â It doesn’t say those things are a sin in the bible does it?Â Oh, I guess I should know, but I don’t read the bible as much as I should.Â It’s hard.Â So does it? Does it say anything about piercings and tattoos?”
Jesus was a sponge.
“Did you talk to my dad too,” she went on.Â â€œHeâ€™s not the nicest guy.Â I think he spoiled the concept of a â€œFather” for me.Â Can I call you something else?Â Not that I want him to go to hell.Â Maybe I should just shut up.Â He believes in you.Â He believes in you a lot.Â But I guess you know that.Â I thought maybe it didn’t matter.Â But I guess it does.Â Look, I didn’t know, but now I know.”
Now she knows.Â She said it.Â But she expected a reaction so she would know.Â She thought about it and realized she wasn’t going to get one.Â She didn’t know after all.Â It was just as if Jesus had never come.Â As if Jesus had never been in her house, never sat in her kitchen.
After he was gone, she couldn’t remember if she had made any promises, or if she had to keep them.
“Jesus,” she said.
“A Breakfast Food Revolt”
by Jack Bristow
“And that is how I firmly believe we can significantly reduce the amount of teen pregnancies in the United States of America.”Â Senator Stevenson looks directly at the TV cameras.
The audience cheers a perfunctory cheerâ€”if such a thing exists.
I walk onstage and shake Stevenson’s sweaty, lifeless hand.
It is my turn to speak. And speak I do.
“Ladies and gentlemenâ€”those of you here watching me in the audience and those of you fine people watching me at homeâ€”I, Senator Walter Brigman, have made an extraordinary discovery,” I tell themÂ earnestly.Â â€œAnd do you have any idea what that discovery is?”
Stumped.Â They don’t know.Â Except: Cough, sneeze, snort, burp.
But no answers.
“Think about it,” I tell them.Â “The answer to it all is right under most of your noses in the morning. It is what will kill all of our Country’s ills finally.Â And effectively.Â Once and for all.”
Further silence.Â Still.
“Still no idea?â€Â I look upon their contrite, ignorant little faces.Â The question is no longer one of rhetoric.Â I am now truly angry.
“What has the power to quash all the cancers of society?”
They are stupid. Yet engrossed. Â Maybe there is still some hope for them.
“AIDS.Â Influenza.Â Colds.Â Cancers of all shapes and forms.Â Teen pregnancies. Terrorism.Â Global Warming.Â Pestilences.Â Smallpox.Â The measles.Â Genital warts of all stripes.Â Wars.Â Drug addiction. Extortion.Â Rape.Â Child molestation.Â Assault and battery, assault with no battery.Â C’mon people!Â For the love of God, has it not yet dawned on you?”Â I puff on my pipe, filled with medicinal marijuana.Â Panama Red.
Exasperated, I continue.
“See. Unlike my esteemed colleague, Senator Stevens, my answer doesn’t just reduce teen pregnancy, doesnâ€™t just reduce all the other problems I noted, problems that are plaguing humankindâ€”no. My answer willÂ exterminate them.Â Once and for all.Â Haven’t you imbeciles caught on yet? Don’t you moronic people see the cure-all?Â It is right in front of you!” I scream into the microphone.
They shout “What?â€Â Hostile.
I have struck a nerve. Breaking the tension, I give them the answer:
Now. Truly engrossed. They listen – attentively.
“Pancakes don’t stab. Don’t kill. Nor steal. Nor rape.”
Now. Engrossed ever more by my brilliant words.
“They will not get your teenage daughter pregnant!Â They will not give it to your wife while you’re out working.Â They do not start wars illegally.Â They are neither jealous nor puffed up with pride!”
A busty blonde newswoman leaps to the stage and shoves her tongue down my throat. It’s hard to talk as she’s doing it. But I manage. Until a security officer escorts her away. I warn him to be gentle with her.
“They do not carry venereal disease. They do not give you crabs.Â After twenty-five years or marriage, they do not run off with another pancake of the same gender, making you question your own sexuality in the process!”
The auditorium bursts out in joyful acclamation.Â Like a preacher empowered by some holy ghost, I continue.Â Empowered by the Holy Pancake.
“Pancakes are not meat!Â They do not entail bloody, vicious murder!Â And they cannot murder you!Â Can’t give you Mad Cow Disease. Or freckles. Orâ€¦orâ€¦.” I struggle to speak over their massive applause. “They don’t hire a lawyer and ask for child support!”
“Pancakes didn’t neglect capturing Osama bin Laden at Torra Borra. Nor did they squirt their maple syrup all over an intern pancake named Monica’s blue dress!”
More wild applause. And all of themâ€”the audience, you understandâ€”simultaneously turning their heads toward Senator Stevenson, who is in the corner, pissing himself a river of shame.
“Pancakes don’t piss themselves!” I exclaim, pointing my giant, god-sized pancake fist at Senator Stevenson’s. He cries.
The crowd mocks him.
“You know what else pancakes don’t do?”
“WHAT?” The crowd pleads to know.
“They don’t belittle Senator Stevenson,” I chide.Â “Or anyone else for that matter.Â They have more class than that.”Â I momentarily turn my nose up at them.
“Damn right!”Â The crowd agrees with my counsel.Â And by now the same busty blonde who kissed me has broken free of the security officer’s grip and jumps over to the side of the stage where Senator Stevenson sits sulking and whimpering.Â She gives him a lap dance.
Senator Stevenson regains faith and beams, “I love you allâ€”I love my country.”
“Pancakes neither endorse nor condone Senator Stevenson’s personal conduct,” I half-scream at the exuberant crowd.
I go on:
“Pancakes aren’t partisan!Â They have no slush funds! Â And they do not vote in favor of political expediency over what they know to be right!”
CHEERS.Â APPLAUSE.Â MORE DEAFENING, INTOXICATINGâ€¦.
CHEERS.Â INTOXICATED BY.â€¦
“Pancakes vote right on abortion, stem cell research, and gay marriage every time!”
The entire audienceâ€”men and women, boys and girls, Democrats and Republicans, young and old, gay and straight, pro-choicers and no-choicersâ€”grab hands, howling enthusiastically. Binding together as one.
As America should.â€¦
â€Therefore…therefore!â€ I try to scream over their whole singular giant wall of voices.
“Ladies and gentlemen. My beloved countrymen and women, let us come together as the nationalistic brothers and sisters we truly are. And beâ€”once and for allâ€”One Pancake Nation. Under God…with libertyÂ and justiceÂ and a vast selection of multi-flavored, multi-colored pancake syrup for all!”
“A Meaningful Discussion With My Internal Organs”
by Alyssa Greenberg
As if meeting his mother in her pearls and sanitary kitchen wasnâ€™t enough to give me heartburn, I had to worry about the kidneys too.
â€¢ The kidneys and their ungracious behavior.
â€¢ The kidneys and their unwillingness to last through one traditional meal without protesting loudly enough to induce painful breathing.
Celiac disease — also known as celiac sprue or gluten-sensitive enteropathy — is a digestive and autoimmune disorder that results in damage to the lining of the small intestine when foods with gluten are eaten.
â€œItâ€™s so nice to meet you,â€ she smiles and extends a hand. It feels nothing like my motherâ€™s, whose sloping veins and bones are committed to memory.
There are no typical signs and symptoms of celiac disease.
Yet here are mine:
1. A tightening feeling.
2. A burning feeling.
3. A bad feeling.
4. A blood-stained, tear-soaked 3-day vacation to the restroom.
â€œWhat are we having?â€ Because naturally, a boy who plays with my hair and calls me obnoxious things like â€œbeautifulâ€ and â€œcute as a buttonâ€ would remember to tell his mother about my kidneys; about not forcing the diseased substance within five feet of my being. Naturally he would have explained to her that I am 5â€™7â€, remarkably interesting and gluten-intolerant, but still a magnificent lover, worthy of obnoxious praise. Yes, naturally he would have told her all of that.
Gluten: (from the Latin gluten, “glue“) is a composite of the proteins gliadin and glutenin. These exist, conjoined with starch, in the endosperms of some grass-relatedgrains, notably wheat, rye, and barley. Gliadin and glutenin comprise about 80% of the protein contained in wheat seed.
When I tell others about my â€œcondition,â€ I have found that there are five possible responses that may follow…
1. The â€œYou are impressiveâ€ response. Intelligent, rational human beings convince me that I am a warrior; a magnificent human being worthy of parades and party favors because I abstain from bread. This is my personal favorite response.
2. The â€œI am so sorry for you lossâ€ response. This response is one of apology. Individuals who have a particularly intimate bond with doughnuts and pizza crust speak to me as if Iâ€™ve miscarried. The watery, apologetic glean that they wince as they learn of my misfortune looks similar to the appropriate sympathetic response that comes from lines like â€œI was molested as a child,â€ or â€œmy cat was just boiled and eaten by terrorists.â€ All I need to say is â€œNo thank you. It looks delicious, but Iâ€™m allergicâ€ and the compassionate glances are so luscious and filling I donâ€™t even need a bite of pound cake. â€œThanks, but Iâ€™m simply too full. I couldnâ€™t possibly have another bite of your empathy.â€
3. The â€œDamn. I guess your allergies make you too Christian to partyâ€ response. This reaction is wrought exclusively by the male species. â€œDamn,â€ they reply as if Iâ€™ve castrated their hopes and dreams of future drunken grabass for all eternity. â€œSoâ€¦you canâ€™t drink beer then?â€ I always do my best to wistfully shake my head â€œno,â€ as though I can still taste the Miller Light; the memory of every manâ€™s triple hops brewed wet dream. â€œThere isnâ€™t gluten is most hard alcohol,â€ I assure them before theyâ€™re too far gone into the dismal vision of a world where women can no longer be taken advantage of via alcohol.
4. The â€œTMIâ€ or â€œToo much informationâ€ response. After Iâ€™ve declined ravioli or some Twinkie, respectfully, the declined individual is thrilled to tell me about every member of their family that have/has had an allergic reaction of any kind. Yes, I know all about your Aunt Doreenâ€™s watery bowel movements when she eats Funyuns.
5. Finally, the â€œDisbeliefâ€ response. This response is often accompanied by a â€œno way!â€ or a â€œshut the hell up!â€ The individual cycles through every food that they can possibly think of while quizzing me as to whether an allergic response will follow. Cake? Cookies? Corn Bread? Matzo Balls? What about those noodles that are shaped like SpongeBob?
This guy kissed me for the first time while monster trucks were crushing one another on a television supported by a milk crate, like gluten crushes my digestive tract. This canâ€™t be a good sign.
His house doesnâ€™t smell like mine and his father has no beard and every father that should indeed be recognized as a father should have a beard or at least some degree of rough stubble that feels like sandpaper and this whole situation is making me haveÂ that feeling already.
http://celiac-disease.com/celebrities-with-celiac-disease/ provides a list of celebrities who have Celiac Disease. This list includes:
Keith Olbermann (Countdown with Keith Olbermann)
Thom Hartmann (Air America Radio)
Rich Gannonâ€™s (NFL Quarterback) daughter, Danielle
Joe C (Kid Rockâ€™s Friend and Rapper) â€“Â Now Deceased
I donâ€™t quite find comfort in this array of B-list celebrities. Is being gluten intolerant synonymous with being average?
Just take a look at some of the other allergies/diseases/disorders and the star-studded listsÂ theyâ€™re boasting.
Peanut Allergies: Serena Williams, Ray Ramano, Clay Aiken, Joshua Jackson
Heart Disease: Larry King, Regis Philbin, David Bowie, Bill Clinton
Bipolar Disorder: Robert Downey Jr., Ben Stiller, Robin Williams, Jimi Hendrix
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: Charles Darwin, Billy Bob Thornton, Donald Trump, Leonardo DiCaprio
EvenÂ Herpes is more exciting than gluten intolerance!
Herpes: Liza Minelli, Robin Williams, Billy Idol, Paris Hilton (maybe)
Nearly one out of every 150 Americans suffer from celiac disease, according to a new study by the University of Maryland Center for Celiac Research in Baltimore.Â The research indicates that celiac is twice as common as Crohn’s disease, ulcerative colitis and cystic fibrosis combined.
I fail to understand why we canâ€™t at least have Robin Williams on our team.
â€œSo youâ€™re anÂ English major, dear?â€ his parents look back and forth at one another as if I reek of diarrhea and old cats.
Yes, this guy whose parents think Iâ€™m defective for studying â€œthe language I already understandâ€ is a Construction Management major. Iâ€™ve been kissing somebody who takes classes about mixing concrete and more than the
â€¢ GarlicÂ Bread
â€¢ Salad (withÂ Croutons)
â€¢ Flaky, smoldering apple pie for desert
that was on the menu that night it was him who made my kidneys hurt most. It was him who called me nauseating names and liked 4-wheel drive and John Deere and Monster energy drinks. It was him who didnâ€™t read books or love sentences, whom I lowered my standards for because it was time to â€œget back out there.â€
Untreated Celiac Disease can be life threatening.
NO. I did not stay for dinner because his mother wore pearls that were tired with clichÃ©s and his father had no beard and he, he with his humdrum kisses had no passion for me, or any good literature.
â€¦Now my kidneys feel perfectly fine.
“How to Raise Children to be Selfish Little Assholes”
by Scott Erickson
As a parent, it is your primary responsibility to equip your children with the skills they will need in life.Â Do you want your children to grow up to be sensitive, honest, responsible adults?Â Â Or would you rather have them grow up to beÂ successful?
You are a caring parent who loves your children and wants them to have a full and satisfying life. And by following only a few simple guidelines, you can show your love by raising them to be the kind of selfish little assholes that are capable of having a full and satisfying life in todayâ€™s highly competitive world.
Examine Your Own Beliefs and Values
Children learn comparatively little from what youÂ say compared to what youÂ do. They carefully watch all your actions and absorb. Think of children as little sponges, with slightly more intelligence. Therefore, the first and most important step in raising asshole children is to be an asshole yourself.
You have to be serious about this, because little children have excellent bullshit detectors and if they perceive weakness the little freaks will eat you alive.Â For this reason, itâ€™s important to conduct a brutally honest examination of your own motivations for being an asshole.Itâ€™s important for you to trulyÂ enjoy being an asshole, and not just do it for appearances.
Faced with the duality of personal happiness versus compassion for others, most people seek to find some sort of balance. Screw balance. Remember: Youâ€™re not doing this for yourself; youâ€™re doing it for your children.
Be an Effective Role Model
Self-described â€œcaringâ€ parents (idiots) put parenting first, which only serves to demonstrate to their children that the parents have no life of their own. Itâ€™s important for you to serve as an example of a fulfilled person who makes things happen. And you canâ€™t be a fulfilled person making things happen if you spend all your time catering to the whims of some little ankle biters.
Resist demonstrations of selfless behavior, which your children might emulate. If one of your children asks you a favor, such as making them dinner or applying a bandage to a severed artery, ask the child: â€œWhatâ€™s in it for me?â€
Your children need to understand that concepts such as â€œconflict resolutionâ€ and â€œwin-win scenariosâ€ are for losers. Show your children that if they yell the loudest and hit the hardest theyâ€™ll never have to settle for second place.Â Other parents teach their children the importance of values such as courtesy, consideration, and sharing. This is extremely important, because such children are necessary to serve as cannon fodder forÂ your children.
Rewards and Punishment
After youâ€™ve knocked down the waitress who mixed up your order, invite your children to give her a few kicks to know how good it feels. Reinforce the feeling with a reward of candy or a cracker. After your children have learned to associate asshole behavior with a treat, eventually they will perform asshole actions and then salivate in anticipation. Pavlov knew what he was doing.
Itâ€™s important to train your children in motivation via rewards and punishments, in order to break them out of the bad childhood habit of doing things purely for personal enjoyment and to satisfy their growing curiosity. Therefore, your children need to understand that success and satisfaction are measured materially. Otherwise your children may grow up to be artists or social workers or something equally worthless.
Good parents know that itâ€™s important to set clear limitations to raise good children. Donâ€™t make that mistake. Limitations are for losers. You are raising children to be winners. Good parents know that failing to set limitations produces self-indulgent, out-of-control children.In other words,Â your children.
Responsibility helps children to understand that they are not the center of the universe. Therefore, avoid giving your children responsibility. Household chores are to be avoided. If possible, hire maids and gardeners to give your children early experience in exercising power over others. Encourage them to fire a few servants if their service is less than satisfactory, or for no reason at all.
Emulate appropriate heros and role models. Make sure that portraits of people like Bill Gates and the Olsen Twins are prominently displayed. Use photos of Gandhi and Jimmy Carter to line the cat litter box. Your children will get the message.
Utilize the grand spectacle of nature as a teacher. When watching nature documentaries, ridicule animals like deer that just wait around to get devoured by wolves. Tell your children, â€œThe deer are peaceful, gentle, and cooperative creaturesâ€¦see what happens?â€ Call the deer â€œmorons.â€
Encourage your children to form friendships with children that are small, stupid, emotionally vulnerable, easily intimidated, and rich. Set the pattern for adult friendships that will help your grown children to get ahead.
Money and Finances
Absolutely doÂ not teach your children how to manage money responsibly. This may seem counter-intuitive in todayâ€™s money-conscious world, but you have to think about your childâ€™s long-term success. If your children donâ€™t learn how to spend it until itâ€™s gone, then your children will never learn the valuable skills of how to con, manipulate, and cheat others who have learned how to manage money responsibly.
Encourage entrepreneurship. If neighbor children earn a few dollars with a lemonade stand, encourage your children to go to the police and tell them that the childrenâ€™s daddy touched them inappropriately. The childrenâ€™s daddy will likely settle out of court for many thousand of dollars.
Itâ€™s important to engender self-loathing in your children, which will make it much easier to loathe others. Thereâ€™s that expression about the need to love yourself in order to love others. It also applies to hate.
The best way to do this is to deprive your children of pleasure and satisfaction. The resulting self-hatred has a variety of positive benefits, such as the inability to relate to other children, the continual search for scapegoats to punish for their own inner emptiness, and the drive to succeed financially to compensate for lack of self-worth.
Since all these behaviors consist of vicious cycles that reinforce and amplify themselves over time, a little effort spent in this area early in life guarantees asshole behavior for your children that will serve them for their entire lives. Giving your children self-loathing is truly giving them â€œthe gift that keeps on giving.â€
To paraphrase the old saying, â€œGive a child a fish and that child will be fed for a day. Teach that child to fish and that child will be fed for a lifetime. But teach that child to be an asshole and that child will grow up to be the kind of person who has the power to buy and sell the kind of people who go fishing.â€
“Shoplifting: the Anti-Drug”
by Tim Cushing
Being a teen or tween in todayâ€™s society can be tough. Between the pressure of school and the demands of family and social life, todayâ€™s youngsters often find themselves turning to the incredibly comfortable embrace of drugs.
Good for them, I say! You donâ€™t want to spend the rest of the â€œbest years of your lifeâ€ stressed out and closed-legged. Youâ€™re only young once! Live now, while you still have your whole future to destroy!
But remember, each teen or tween is very different in very similar ways. Some of them are natural-born leaders, willing to lead the pack down the various dark alleys and cul-de-sacs that make up life.
Others are the pace-setters who establish the speed the pack will run, neither leading or following, but rather middle-managing.
Still others will cull the herd, picking off those without proper clothing, musical taste or an older brother who can buy them beer.
The rest will run with the pack, nose-to-anus, following blindly. They are still an essential part of the whole, like pawns in a chess match or civilians in a war-torn but heavily televised country.
With all these essential pieces forming an inseparable and indistinguishable whole, itâ€™s easy to forget those who take the â€œroad less traveled.â€ In fact, itâ€™s incredibly easy to forget them, as you most likely will never see them again until youâ€™re delivering Pepsi to their multi-store retail chains or detailing their Jag while they get a blowjob from your girlfriend at the nearest Holiday Inn Express.
There are some people from all walks of life (Note: â€œall walksâ€ = ages 13-19) for whom drugs are not the answer. Surprising, I know, what with all the enhancements, side effects and crippling withdrawal that drugs have to offer.
For some, the thrill comes from skirting the law. It may start with random jaywalking or curfew violations. From there they may move on to cheating on their finals or entering false information on their Census forms, always seeking a new â€œhighâ€ or â€œrushâ€ or â€œother co-opted drug metaphor.â€
Before they know it (which is most likely before you know it, especially if youâ€™re the victim), theyâ€™ve fallen into a life of petty crime, filled with illegal football pools and un-itemized deductions. Itâ€™s as if they canâ€™t stop themselves. Soon their auto insurance has lapsed and theyâ€™re carelessly smoking well within the confines of the 200-foot â€œNo Smokingâ€ zone.
If this goes unchecked long enough, these low-level thugs will have clawed their way to the top of the criminal heap using that most heinous of misdemeanors: shoplifting.
Itâ€™s now a very dim future for these malcontents as they travel down a lonely, yet heavily populated, road to ruin.
Watch for these warning signs:
â€¢ Heavy clothing during warm months.
â€¢ Heavy clothing during cold months.
â€¢ Heavy clothing during promiscuous, meaningless sex.
â€¢ A sudden increase of small items and knickknacks with no verifiable income increase.
â€¢ A sudden detainment for shoplifting.
â€¢ Incessant humming of Janeâ€™s Addictionâ€™s hit, “Been Caught Stealing.”
â€¢ Your Fatherâ€™s Day gifts include a caseless DVD, 16 Bic lighters, a laser penlight, 12 assorted packs of unpopular Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â gum and a deck of cards.
Itâ€™s not too late! Grab your teen or tween (gently and appropriately, of course) and set them back on the drug path, with its relative safety in numbers and proven track record of lazy ineptness and occasional home invasions. Remind Grandma to put the Oxy-Contin in the gun safe.
Remember: You canâ€™t prevent drugs from being the problem. You can only prevent them from being the solution.
“Chicken and Waffles”
by Dewan Gibson
She cooked fried chicken for ME, filled and refilled MY wine glass and thanked ME for coming over. I couldnâ€™t believe it. She was different. I thought to myself, â€œThank me? Shit! All I did was come over and eat and drink and crack a corny joke or two.â€
Well, I also did something else. But even that, though full of effort, was just short and intenseâ€”like a preview for a suspense film starring Leonardo DiCaprioâ€”and probably not worthy of thanks.
â€œSo no!â€Â I thought. â€œThank you!â€
Fast-forward months later: past the laughs, drinks, long talks, tears, movies, lunches, dinners and everything else you do with your better half.
Again she stood in the kitchen, having just made fried chicken. We sat on the bar stools and began to eat. I splashed hot sauce on the chicken. She hated when I did that without first tasting the food. But I couldnâ€™t help it. Hot sauce is a part of my culture, black American culture. We sneak that shit into the movies and put it on popcorn. Shit, I have an uncle that sprinkles it on pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving.Â Man, put it like this:Â I even know a divorced black couple who litigated over who gets to keep the big bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce from Costco.
Wife got it, husband is appealing to the Supreme Court.Â Justice Clarence Thomas has recused himself from the case.
Anyway, before going to town on the chicken I asked her, â€œHow was your day?â€
Without hesitation or reflection she answered, â€œIt was crazy! Iâ€™m pregnant.â€
I did what I always do when Iâ€™m speechless.Â I laughed. I thought, â€œWell, I donâ€™t think she got pregnant at work today soâ€¦oh I get it!â€ I laughed some more and then I said, â€œCoolâ€¦thatâ€™s crazy. Wow.â€
She stared, worried, attempting to read my nonverbals. I said, â€œWowâ€¦no itâ€™s fine. Cool.â€ She looked relieved that I wasnâ€™t going to leave her and run back to Cleveland, pay no child support and have the audacity to make rap songs about how the mother of my child is tripping. Songs with titles like, â€œIn Maury We Trustâ€ and â€œHalf on a Babyâ€”But You Pay for His Lilâ€™ Ass.â€
Iâ€™m sure there was more conversation, but itâ€™s now a blur. This is crazy because the only other time I recall blanking out is when Mama forced me to cut off my rat tail. Or maybe that time in elementary school when I won the Monopoly tournament. I also drew a blank when the sixth grade bully, who happened to be a girl, beat me up. But I donâ€™t like to speak on that. What Iâ€™m saying is that this was some hellafied life-changing news!
I gathered my thoughts and went right back to throwing down on that fried chicken. The tension was gone and I felt excited about having such an adorable little tax credit. So much so that I spread my legs and imitated a woman in labor, just so she knew that I understood what she would be going through. I guess.
Then I called my parents and gave them the news theyâ€™ve been waiting for since I hit puberty.
Mom was in disbelief about the pregnancy, but said she didnâ€™t want to get her hopes up until we got closer to the due date. I assured her that neither Planned Parenthood nor $300 would be involved in any of this. Not even if they end up starting that special â€œNo Interest, No Babyâ€ nine-month financing plan I heard they were planning to implement in minority neighborhoods.
I told Dad and he was pumped, too. He even gave great advice, specifically, â€œDonâ€™t give that baby no black name like we gave yâ€™all. Dewan, LaShaunta, Durrellâ€¦just making up shit and we donâ€™t even know what it means.â€
The next few hours and days were spent telling friends. Responses ranged from surprise and congratulations to â€œMan, we have to kick it hard before the baby comes.â€ One really smart friend asked, â€œHowâ€™d you get her pregnant?â€ He has a couple kids himself.
I also asked a friend, who has four kids, for parenting tips. He responded by bringing his hands together to form a large circle and saying, â€œYou gotta wait at least six months for that muthafucka to ratchet back down. You gonna wanna hit it right away, but that muthafucka gotta ratchet back.â€
I tried to clarify that I was asking about parenting tips, not vaginal elasticity. Then he said, â€œI know, nigga. But the relationship wit the mama is the key. Once that muthafucka ratchet back down, you gone be cool.â€
The circle was now made with his index finger and thumb. It was tiny, like a snakeâ€™s pussy.
â€œOKâ€¦thanksâ€¦so it gotta ratchet back down, huh?â€
Then the advice started pouring in from everyone. â€œJust ask for Pampers at the baby showerâ€¦Read to the baby so he can talk when heâ€™s real little, like Baby Jesus didâ€¦Teach him not to call anyone if theyâ€™re already having a good text message conversation.â€
It all started to feel a bit overwhelming, and I hadnâ€™t even had the chance to (watch the mother) change a diaper. Damn!
But then I calmed down. Where can we possibly go wrong? The baby will have a sane and loving mother of high moral quality and a peculiar father who has trouble expressing emotion verbally, but will be sure to show the illiterate baby lots of love through his writing. Damn.
I guess weâ€™ll figure it all out in due time. Probably over a plate of fried chicken. With hot sauce.
by Libby Cudmore
I waited until I saw my wifeâ€™s car round the corner before I called Connie. Â SheÂ was at my door ten minutes later, and five minutes after that I had my face buried in herÂ snatch, searching with my tongue for the little baggie of coke she kept hidden there forÂ such occasions when my wife went to work.
Mittens yowled from his empty bowl and I ignored him. I rolled a dollar bill whileÂ Connie divvied up the coke, and we both took our hits before we were back on the couch,Â this time with her mouth wrapped tight around my cock. Â I came hard and she swallowedÂ like a good girl, we did some more coke and I ate Connieâ€™s pussy with a finger in her ass.
Mittens hissed and swatted at Connieâ€™s bare feet. Â Stupid fucking cat.
We did the last of the coke and got to the fucking. Â When we were lying on theÂ floor, brain-damaged from the sheer ecstasy of it, she lit a joint and passed it to me. Â TheÂ last time I felt that good was last week, the last time she came to visit. Â Mittens crawledÂ across her chest and she pushed him off. Â We finished the joint and drank a couple beers,Â too stoned in post-fuck black hole to even speak. Â She left around three in order to give me until five to clean and sober up. Â I nuked her cheap perfume off the couch, took a coldÂ shower and smiled from the desk when my wife walked in the door.
And that was the day the cat learned to talk.
“Sarcasm Does Not Translate Through Texts”
by Levi Gribbon
My pocket vibrates. I take out my phone and look at it. The text message reads, â€œTheodoreÂ wants to hang out with you Â tommorrow but he shoved his phone up his ass and it stoppedÂ working so i have to ask for him.â€ I am not sure if this is a joke or not. Theodore is that kind ofÂ guy.
by Barb Chandler
â€œNobodyâ€™s here, and itâ€™s almost 10:00,â€ Dana looked around the empty lobby. â€œAre you Â sure the meetingâ€™s at 10:00?â€
â€œThatâ€™s what the notice said. Maybe everyone is in the auditorium,â€ Sam said. â€œLetâ€™s goÂ in.â€
â€œYouâ€™re sure the flyer said Friday?â€ Dana looked around the empty room.
â€œItâ€™s after 10:00 and I still donâ€™tâ€¦â€ Dana stopped mid-sentence when a man walked ontoÂ the stage.
â€œWelcome to the meeting of Children from Functional Families,â€ said the moderator.
by Dane Zeller
Sunday morning, July 14th, 3:17 am. Six foot five inches tall, by the measure at the front Â door. Two hundred forty pounds, in my estimation. Blue jeans, a red Cardinals baseball cap, no Â facial hair, but needed a shave.
Three hours of training to be assistant night manager at 7-11 paid off. No clue, though, toÂ the brand of big gun he pointed at me.
“Hand me the till, asshole.”
I hit the zero sale key. Nothing happened.
“What’s taking so long?”
“Uh, it’s not letting me get into the drawer.”
“C’mon, get it out! Now!”
“I’m trying, I’m trying.”
“No, believe me, it’s not my money. Â I’m happy to hand it over. I just can’t open theÂ drawer.”
“You got a hammer? I’ll bust that sucker open.”
The holdup man shook his head.
He looked more closely at the till.
“What’s that label on the side there?”
“That’s the number for the help desk.”
“Well, shit. Dial ‘em up.”
I dialed the 800 number, hoping no one else would enter the store.
“Here, let me talk to them,” the gunman ordered.
I gave him the phone.
“Hello,” he repeated, louder.
“The what?” he asked. “I can’t understand you. Serve Pests?”
“Service desk ,” I offered.
“Oh, service desk.” He calmed down a little.
“You want me to tell you what?” he asked.
“He wants the store number. It’s 8567,” I said.
“Store 8567. Where you at? Philippines? Are you shittin’ me?”
“We can’t get the cash register door open.”
The holdup man rolled his eyes.
“We…can’t…open…the fuckin’ …door of the cash register,” he shouted.
“Press the what?” he asked, looking over at me.
“Press the lum drop button? What the hell is the lum drop button?”
“Num drop…num drock…oh, you mean the num lock key. Geez, who taught you English?
This is going to take all night, isn’t it,” said the hold up man. “All night, comprehenday? Listen toÂ this, bud. You need to get yourself an English Rosetta Stone. They’ve gotta be selling it overÂ there.”
The big man with the gun hung up the phone.
“Well, shit. What if all I wanted was a pecan roll. We’d still have this problem.”
I agreed with the man with the gun.
“Thanks, bud. I’m outta here. Get a different job.”
“How tall was the holdup man?” asked the officer.
“He was about Â 5′ 9, ” I said.
“Nothing I recognized from training.”
“The Russell Senior Home School Curriculum with Class Descriptions: GradeÂ 11-ish”
by Scott Oglesby
Morning Repentance Prayers and Devotionals
6:00 to 6:25
Location- Your bedroom.
Upon waking you will be trusted to dive right into this hectic new Â schedule. You will be expected to worship and praise God and give yourÂ life to Jesus with every cell and piece of DNA in your sinful, adolescentÂ body and beg forgiveness for yourself and for your country.
6:30 to 7:00
Locationâ€“ Family Room.
Homeroom will be the daily how-do-you-do with mom which will allow us toÂ get ourselves re-enthused and allow us the opportunity to pinpoint anyÂ problem areas in the learning process. The class will be served breakfastÂ daily during this period provided they show some appreciation for theirÂ motherâ€™s/teacherâ€™s hard work.
7:00 to 8:00
Locationâ€“ Bathroom and Bedroom.
You will have this hour to get yourselves ready for the school day ahead. Â You will be expected to shower (with soap), brush your teeth (withÂ toothpaste), clean up your room, let old Moses out, do the breakfastÂ dishes, take the garbage out and clean up Mosesâ€™ messes in the backyard. Â While you get ready every morning you will be expected to ask yourself if
you are really ready, really rapture ready?
Bible Study; Old Testament
8:00 to 9:00
Location- Kitchen Table.
The class will be expected to use their Discernment to learn which partsÂ of The Law are to be honored and upheld, such as most of the tenÂ commandments, especially the one about honoring your parents, and all theÂ parts that mention homosexuals, and which parts can be now be safelyÂ ignored without risk of eternal damnation and hellfire, such as that
stuff about shellfish. God has no problem with Red Lobster or your cousinÂ Marty wouldnâ€™t be assistant night manager there. Heâ€™s devout.
9:05 to 10:00
Locationâ€“ Kitchen Table.
You guys will work your way through that math textbook that I found atÂ that garage sale, learning about all the educative stuff in there. Iâ€™llÂ be keeping your nose pressed firmly to the grindstone. Donâ€™t think that just because your mamma couldnâ€™t solve for X even if Jesus himself askedÂ her to, that youâ€™ll be getting a free pass. Although if you do perform well you might just get a partial scholarship to Bob Jones University.
10:05 to 11:00 Locationâ€“ Mostly Finished Game Room.
This period will be spent keeping up to date with current events andÂ social studies via Conservapedia. While Satan and his earthly minions mayÂ control the lamestream media, God has blessed us with many resources toÂ continue our walk with Him. You are going to learn to use yourÂ discernment to figure out that which is Godly and that what is demonic
and evil. (Are demon-crats? How about Lie-berals? Evilutionists?) Godâ€™llÂ tell ya how to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Driverâ€™s Ed, Economics, Behavioral Studies, Marketing, Consumerism,
Public Safety, and Social Interaction
11:00 to 1:00-ish
Locationâ€“ Momâ€™s 97 Saturn, Wal-Mart and occasionally if yaâ€™ll are lucky, IHOP or McDonaldâ€™s.
This class perfectly exemplifies the freedom and creative opportunitiesÂ for education in the Home Schooling environment. During this daily periodÂ you kiddos will come with me while I do the running around and shopping.Â Thisâ€™ll give yaâ€™ll the chance to intermingle with other people (justÂ donâ€™t keep messin with the Wal-Mart greeter like last year) learn priceÂ comparison, devilish marketing strategies like putting impulse purchaseÂ goods at the registers, plus youâ€™ll be able to watch how some of theÂ ungodly heathens behave while surrounded by demonic forces, like BritneyÂ Spears music and halter-top-clad minorities.
1:05 to 2:00
Location – Outdoors.
You will take Moses for a walk and take your brother to the playgroundÂ while I attend to my womanly duties and motherly business. In the eventÂ of inclement weather you will go play in the game room. Do push ups orÂ jumping jacks or something to get that teenage angst out. No video gamingÂ though. I mean it.
2:05 to 3:00
Locationâ€“ Kitchen Table.
This hour will be spent learning to appreciate the fine art of tongues. Â You kiddos will also get your first practice sessions as well by learningÂ to turn off your brain and loosen your jaw muscle and tongue. You willÂ learn the subtle nuances of how to differentiate between someone who isÂ having a Grand mal seizure and attempting to ask for help, and someoneÂ who is expertly speaking the language of the Holy Spirit. How do theÂ masters, like that enthusiastic, red faced woman in first row at churchÂ last Sunday, do it? Youâ€™ll begin to uncover these mysteries thisÂ semester.
Biblical Proof versus Scientific Guesses
3:05 to Dinner Time.
Locationâ€“ Sitting Room Couch.
Weâ€™ll study the inerrant word of God and compare it to the unintelligibleÂ gibberish of rebellious, elitist, angry, ugly Darwinian â€˜scientistsâ€™ andÂ decide whether we want to spend eternity burning in the infinite suffering of Hades or if weâ€™d rather be strolling the golden paved,Â diamond studded roads of Heavenly Paradise arm in arm with Jesus. Weâ€™ll
get to make up our own minds.
Schoolâ€™s done, time for church!
“Boys With Boobs Might Be Just That… Boobs”
by Paul Lander
A study in the â€œNew England Journal of Medicineâ€ found that certain shampoos, soaps and lotions containing lavender and tea tree oils can cause boys to develop breasts.Â Â Â In a follow up survey to shed light on the affects of Journal of Medicine study the following was reported:
75% of those boys who grew breasts had lower grades â€¦ apparently they spent less time studying and more time feeling themselves up.
37% had trouble seeing if their shoelaces were tied or untied.
2% claimed to have won a wet t-shirt contest
22% had told somebody at least once, â€œyou know I have eyes, too!â€
27% reported that after getting themselves drunk, they then went to â€œsecond baseâ€ with themselves.
Scientists warned these finding were based on too small a sample to be considered factual.
“Local Man Oddly Proud of Meaningless Award”
by James Fluty
MINNEAPOLIS– Local Assistant Manager Christopher Krauss couldn’t be more delighted today, much to the astonishment and embarrassment of those close to him.Â Krauss, 34, was the recipient of the â€œCustomer Key Awardâ€, an â€œawardâ€ invented and distributed by his employer, GetMart.Â The â€œaward,â€ a letter-sized piece of paper printed with an assortment of congratulations, was unceremoniously handed to Krauss by his senior manager.
â€œHonestly, I didn’t expect him to care,â€ stated a bewildered William Fort, the 28 year old manager responsible for â€œrewardingâ€ Krauss.Â â€œI mean, I give them out a lot and most people just get angry.Â It’s not even framed.â€
Krauss, who told this reporter that he plans on framing the certificate at his own expense, had a very different outlook on the matter.Â â€œI work a lot and I’m barely making ends meet, so it’s nice that my company found a way to show its appreciation for me.â€Â Krauss continued, chest puffed out with pride, â€œIt’s something I can show my kids one day.â€
A source close to Krauss said, â€œHe just keeps waving it in my face and every time he does it, it just breaks my heart a little more.â€
The â€œCustomer Key Awardâ€ was given to Krauss for his ability to understand the multitude of acronyms the corporate conglomerate bombards their workers with on a daily basis.Â â€œI can tell you what an â€˜RTS scanâ€™ is or what â€˜NH scoreâ€™ means.Â Yeah, I pretty much know it all.Â Sometimes it’s like my co-workers don’t even think these things are worth knowing.Â But I guess that’s why I got a piece of paper and they didn’t,â€ Krauss added with a self-satisfied smirk.
Asked to comment, GetMartâ€™s spokesman explained â€œWe used to give bonuses or cash rewards, but over time, we began to faze those out for something a little more…personal.â€
â€œThey could have given me a check or a Starbucks card, but those things come and go.â€ Krauss choked back tears as he spoke. â€œBut this certificate… well, I can put this on my wall and remember it always,â€Â Krauss declared before adding in amazement, â€œThough, I guess I could always frame a Starbucks card too… shit.â€
by Steven Shabo
No one is singing these days. The Karaoke clubs are near empty. The Â club where the incident occurred, Checkered Past, shut its doors a Â week after the murder. The police report said the victim was found Â bludgeoned to death a block away from the club with a pair of Â underwear in his mouth. The report didnâ€™t specify if it was theÂ victimâ€™s own underwear or not. Patrons at the club stated that the Â man was attending a birthday party and was quite drunk when heÂ finally got up on stage at around one â€˜o clock in the morning. The bartender remembered that he chose the 80â€™s hit â€œSafety Danceâ€ byÂ Men Without Hats, â€œI donâ€™t understand why someone would killÂ another person just because they canâ€™t sing. Karaoke is supposed to be about having fun; itâ€™s not like this is American Idol or something.â€Â The partyâ€™s waitress reaffirmed that the man was highly intoxicated and reluctantly admitted that he didnâ€™t give a very memorableÂ performance, â€œHe was so drunk he almost fell off the stage a coupleÂ of times. I remember him laughing through most of the song. HeÂ was pretty bad.â€
The dead body was found the next morning by a woman walkingÂ her Saint Bernard. A note was thumb tacked to the victimâ€™sÂ forehead that read,Â You cannot sing, therefore, you must die.
by Kelly Anneken, managing editor
Well, here we are again.Â And by â€œwe,â€ I mean â€œme.â€Â I have to write some bullcrap about adolescence so Isa will give me back my lucky thong.Â Itâ€™s the source of all my power!Â I just hope I get it back before my webcam date with Charlie Sheen, because my lucky thong is the only way heâ€™ll recognize me!
All right, pinheads.Â According to the World Health Organization, adolescents are â€œyoung people between the ages of ten to nineteen.Â During this adolescent period, there are numerous developments taking place that include: sexual, emotional, physical, intellectual, and social.â€Â Good for them!Â My sexual, emotional, physical, intellectual and social development made me the spectacular human being and excellent judge of character I am today.Â I just hope todayâ€™s adolescents are self-medicating to deal with their rapidly changing bodies, otherwise puberty will be an unremittingly bleak journey through hell.Â But Iâ€™ve seen thatÂ Teen Mom on MTV, so I assume most of Americaâ€™s youngsters are just as on the ball as those young procreators and their immediate family.
I am concerned, though.Â In the course of my thongless research, I came across several â€œChristianâ€ websites.Â According to these â€œChristianâ€ fellows, American youths are now experiencing a â€œprolonged adolescence,â€ meaning that they can postpone adult responsibilities like having a job, having a house or having an HIV test until well into their 20s!Â Those lucky little bastards!Â I had to start working and getting court-ordered HIV tests at the age of fifteen, but did I hear a single word about â€œtruncated adolescenceâ€ in the so-called â€œnews media?â€Â No, I did not, and not simply because I temporarily lost my hearing to a rare ear fungus in 1999!
It seems to me that todayâ€™s young citizens have far too much free time on their hands.Â These â€œChristiansâ€ and their mutual friend â€œGodâ€ all appear to agree with me.Â However, they seem to think that the solution here is â€œprayerâ€ and â€œguiding our young people to salvation.â€Â I call shenanigans!
â€œChristians,â€ all we need to do to put a stop to this extended teenagerdom is reinstate child labor.Â I realize that people are complaining that there arenâ€™t enough jobs as it is, but I think thatâ€™s just political spin.Â If there arenâ€™t enough jobs for the adults and the kids, weâ€™ll just have to create some!Â Thereâ€™s a defunct cloth mill just up the road from my apartmentâ€”why not reopen and staff it entirely with minors?Â I hear that these tweensâ€™ tiny hands fit perfectly in those hard-to-reach places in the gears and whirligigs.Â Older teens can learn all about management and corporate malfeasance, the better to replace Boomer corporation heads as their generation begins its grim, catheter festooned march to the grave.
On a smaller scale, instead of hiring illegal immigrants to clean our houses, letâ€™s hire illegal immigrantsâ€™ children!Â Itâ€™s perfect, especially if they were born on American soil.Â No more worrying that Uncle Sam is going to ship little Pedro back to Mexico, heâ€™s a legal citizen!
Now, I know what youâ€™re thinking.Â â€œBut Kelly, kids are adorable, we need to preserve their innocence!Â Kelly, how could you want to take advantage of Americaâ€™s future like that?Â Kelly, you were a better writer when you had your lucky thong!â€Â Look, nobodyâ€™s arguing with that last point, letâ€™s just get through this, okay?Â Oh, and your previous two points?Â Totally wrong.Â Thereâ€™s plenty of ugly, jaded kids just lying around going to waste.Â And if we donâ€™t take advantage of Americaâ€™s future now, how else will we be able to convince them to let us just sit on our asses in our old age?Â This generation needs to be taken in hand and broken, broken like a Vegas whoreâ€™s nose!
Speaking of which, I gotta get my lucky thong back, punch Isa in the babymaker, and then see a man about questionable, high-risk sex via the internet.Â In the afterglow, Iâ€™m going to convince him that his daughters should clean out my garage.
To the editor:
After a scrupulous look atÂ last issueâ€™s â€œNo Commentâ€ by Kelly Annekenâ€”a compelling example of what somebody on Adderall is capable of writingâ€”I decided to try it out.Â I asked my son for one.Â Heâ€™s 14.Â He has a prescription,Â so we keep him fueled up at all times.Â I popped it, slugged it down with Red Bull, and then sometime around 10 AM, I began writing. It is now 12:42 AM.Â My attention to detail has definitely improved, but my focusÂ is still off track, onÂ the wrong things.Â Iâ€™ve smoked a pack and a half of cigarettes. Iâ€™ve bitten down and ruined the nails on both of my pinkies.Â I’veÂ done a bunch of pushups and Iâ€™m pretty sure I found the Loch Ness Monster on Google Earth. Goodbye.
Our managing editor couldnâ€™t be more thrilled that youâ€™ve followed her example!Â Before you know it, youâ€™ll be off on a Thelma & Louise-esque adventure with Elizabeth Wurtzel, Andy Dick and Tweak from South Park!
You shouldnâ€™t get discouraged simply because you feel like you arenâ€™t focusing on the â€œrightâ€ things.Â Thatâ€™s the beauty of stimulants!Â No matter what you do while youâ€™re on them, itâ€™s bound to come in handy later.
Cigarette smoking is essential to being a writer.Â We really canâ€™t stress this enough.Â How else are your readers, editors and other patrons of your internet cafÃ© supposed to know how deep, edgy, and tortured run the neurological pathways of your unique and brilliant mind?Â Plus, cigarettes remind these same people that your time is extremely valuable because in twenty years, youâ€™ll be dead from lung cancer.
Donâ€™t worry about your pinkies.Â They are truly the least important fingers, pinky swears notwithstanding.Â Much like the baby toe, the pinkie finger is slowly evolving away. As you gnaw your pinkies down into gangrenous stumps, take pride in the fact that youâ€™re ahead of the evolutionary curve.Â Later in life, you can say, â€œI lost my pinkies before Mother Nature deemed it a biological imperative!â€
Finally, you can never have enough upper body strength, especially as a writer.Â Writers get in fistfights constantly.Â If youâ€™re not, well, youâ€™re not really much of a writer, are you?
The Hobo Pancakes Team
PSâ€”Did you really find Nessie?Â If so, send us her address.Â That bitch owes us money!
I am interested in the writing position I saw advertised onÂ craigslist.org.
I have attached my resume to this email, for more information please contact me.
Dear Pendarvis Hershaw:
We were quite excited upon receiving your resume.Â However, having reviewed it, we are very disappointed to discover that you did not matriculate at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Unfortunately, we are not hiring at this time, and even if we were, we certainly wouldnâ€™t hire your non-magical, if whimsically monikered, ass.
The Hobo Pancakes Team
how are you today i hope all is fine with you, my name is favour i saw your profile today at when i was on google searching for a good and honest man that will be my life partner my spirit told me that you are the one i am looking for and became interested on you, i will also like to knowÂ more about you, and be your friend, and i want you to send an email to my email address below so that i will tell you more about myself and send my picture for you to know whom i am,
I believe we can move from here! I am waiting for your mail to my email address above.(Remember that distance or color does not matter but love matters a lot in life) i hope to hear from you soon thanks
Dear Miss Favour,
All is fine with us today, but we think you may have the wrong email address.Â Weâ€™re not good, weâ€™re not honest, and weâ€™re none of us a man.Â Although weâ€™re pretty sure editor-at-large Isa Hopkins has been taking testosterone so she can grow a boss goatee.
Miss Favour, there are a number of online dating sites where you can upload your photo, list your likes and dislikes and write rambling, improperly capitalized sentences about what youâ€™re looking for.Â We heartily recommend you try one of those.
Unless youâ€™re actually Miss Lady in disguise.Â In that case, bring on the polyamourous triad!
The Hobo Pancakes Team
Dear Hobo Pancakes,
Do you know the way to Santa Fe?
Dear Yours Truly,
We sure do!Â Turn left and go fuck yourself.
The Hobo Pancakes Team