I read a story about a guy who died And then people saw the work He’d toiled over his whole life. It was some kind of art And people marveled about How this quiet old man Had made such rich things And never told anybody.
It’s a story people like. We’re all clamoring for some recognition That what we do in our respective laboratories Somehow matters. Someday people will know what we made. If not in this life, The next.
The following is a birthday present for my buddy, Denver. But you can enjoy it too if you want.
A birthday cake with unlit candles is sitting on a surface in the foreground. The background is a blank wall. Denver walks in from left of screen. He’s wearing some sort of formal wear. He lights the candles on the cake and stands center on the screen. He clears his throat, addresses the camera. The whole scene is one continuous shot.
DENVER I’ve prepared a statement.
He pulls a folded up piece of paper from his right suit coat inner pocket. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads.
DENVER Now that the Communist revolution is nigh at hand, it seems prudent to look back at how we got here…
He looks at the paper curiously. Addresses the camera again.
DENVER Wrong statement. This is for another occasion.
He folds the paper back up and places it back in his right pocket. Now he reaches into his left inner suit coat pocket and pulls out a different folded up piece of paper. Clear his throat again.
DENVER According to a Facebook meme I saw once, the ceremony of the birthday cake is an old pagan ritual. The candles are the light of life, and the smoke of the snuffed light carries our prayers to the gods. This is why we make the prayer of the wish before we blow out the candles.
Denver hands the paper left offscreen and exits to the right side of the screen. A new reader enters from the left.
NOTDENVER1 We always feel the need to inoculate ourselves from cultural and historical context. History now only extends to the loudest living person’s lifetime.
This reader hands the paper left offscreen and exits to the right side of the screen. A new reader enters from the left.
NOTDENVER2 Some historians and alchemists can see the holy interplay of billions of people over millennia interacting and grinding the grist of history, bringing forward the new, and leaving the unmovable by the side of the road.
The second NotDenver hands the paper offscreen and exits as before. Entering from the left once more is Denver.
DENVER So this year, my birthday wish is to see the dialectical interplay of all of time and space. I now send this wish to the gods.
Eliot and I were convinced That there was a time vortex To the 1990s At the Target on Ohlen Rd. There was some weird energy In the freezer section That extended out to the street Where you could feel that Just on the other side of Some cosmic membrane Tupac was blasting From low riders.
We went to investigate. For some reason we went to The Arboretum To get money And then we bought booze From the Twin Liquor by the HEB. We bought wedding cake flavored vodka Because it was on sale. We needed the booze to properly Investigate the vortex.
Eliot was going on about gemmatria. He said it was the secret to everything. But it sounded to me Like a way to drive yourself mad.
We found a patch of woods To drink the vodka. It was a beautiful spot Next to a creek.
He was a very sad man. I was not as I used to be. I was living with the woman I live with now. He was battling literal demons In the forest of the green belt Where he lived.
We drank the whole bottle And never made it to The Target That day.
Soon he would accuse me Of conspiring with the spirits In his head To try to kill him. I never heard from him after that.
WARNING! DO NOT READ THIS STORY! IT’S ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING AND THE PRODUCT OF A DISEASED MIND! I’M NOT JOKING. NOBODY SHOULD READ THIS FILTH. I’M ONLY PUTTING IT ON THIS BLOG BECAUSE IT’S MY BLOG AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT WITH IT. IF YOU READ THIS ANYWAY, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY RAMIFICATIONS! YOU READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Baroness Jasmine Hovel, in more than a few ways, resembled a hot bag of mayonnaise left out in the sun. Her scent, her personality, her general demeanor, and excretions all bore a vile resemblance to the sweltering condiment.
She spent her days investing heavily in housing derivatives, according to what the tarot cards read, watching old reruns of surgery footage, and smoking about 10 packs of Benson & Hedges a day.
The Baron Anthony Hovel of Bologna resembled a skeleton stricken with rickets, with the dermis of a patchwork quilt made of discarded foreskins.
They were cousins of some remove and neither changed their names in the marriage. Both of them bore the pustules all over their body which had been the trademark of the Hovels for three generations.
He hated her smoking. And what’s worse, she insisted on smoking indoors.
“Darling,” he timidly began, “It says in the Bible that it’s a sin to smoke.” He pulled a bible from behind his back and began to read. “‘For thy lungs are my lungs. And thou artest not to inhaleth thine smoking sticks. For it createth a great mustard in my lungs which is super gross. And people have been talkingeth, sayingeth that they don’t wanteth to hangeth outeth with thou anymore. Because thy acrid smoke which billows from thine mouth is unappealing.’ Ablutions 420:69.”
The baroness didn’t look up from the television, which was displaying a surgeon hacking away at a gallbladder. “When did we become religious?” She exhaled smoke and hot mayonnaise scent into the atmosphere.
The baron, defeated, quietly stomped off. In his spoiled, anemic, inbred heart he was stomping. But he didn’t want to disturb anyone. So he was quiet about it.
The greasy egg yolk of the sun slipped down the skypan, giving way to a bacon splatter of stars.
The great dining hall was illuminated by fireplaces on either end of the hall, and several candelabra. The portraits of inbred relatives lined the walls, with eyes that flitted around the room according to the whims of the flames. The heads of two-headed bucks and super-rhinoceroses loomed.
On either side of an absurdly long dinner table, the baron and baroness were dressed in their dinner attire. The servants dart about without names or faces, trying their best to be non-entities.
“I was examining,” began the baron, “the skulls of Greek Orthodox cretins today, and found a new devious ridge with my calipers.” He had a sip of orphans’ tears, which was his usual before-dinner beverage. “I will present my findings to the Gentlemen’s League of Phrenological Discovery next month.”
The baroness had filled halfway the dinner ashtray. She picked at some fresh pustules on her arm. The ooze of the pustules looked like cold mayonnaise. “That’s lovely dear,” she mumbled, eyes downcast.
“When do you,” queried the baron, “think we may have sexual coitus again? We did it that one time, before the war, and I thought it was really great.”
The question lingered in the air just long enough for social discomfort to set in. Then the main course arrived to the dining hall. A 5 foot long roast centipede was for dinner again. The baron’s favorite.
“Centipede again,” said the baroness. “How original.”
A nameless, faceless servant cut into the great beast, revealing the gooey, gelatinous inner parts. The baron always claimed the head for its delicious brain meat.
The baroness lit another cigarette while the last one still burned in the tray.
“Must you smoke at dinner, my love?”
“I’m clear across the room. I doubt you can tell the difference.” She popped another pustule and smeared the mayonnaise on her newly-arrived bug meat.
“I can barely see you; there’s so much smoke.”
The baroness’s eyes narrowed, and said through gritted teeth, “I will have sex with you right now on this table if you will never mention my smoking again.”
The baron was torn. He hated the smoking, but his balls were so backed up from 25 years without sexual congress. He agreed to the arrangement.
The baroness was so out of breath from hoisting herself onto the table she popped a lung pustule and coughed up some mayo. “Alright, let’s get this done.”
When the servants registered what was happening they all ran to their quarters. Nobody wants to see that.
The baron eventually reached the other side of the table. He was going to kiss her, but she lit another cigarette and thought better of it. He lifted her skirts and pulled down her bloomers to reveal her pustuled underparts. Then he pulled down his own pants.
The baron had two penises. One was 3 feet long. The other was 3 inches long. Both were covered in pustules. The longer one was more for show. It had never had an erection. The shorter one was the business end.
He tried to put his little pecker in her hole, but it wouldn’t go. The baroness rolled her eyes. “You have to lube it up, dummy.” She stuck her fist into the centipede steak and pulled out a fist of goo. She rubbed her cunt fiercely with the goo.
Still he couldn’t get his pecker in. He tried t vigorously that he popped a pustule. This allowed him to get the head inside. Then a realization came to him. He slowly ran his hand down his bigger cock, popping every pustule along the way. He applied a fist of mayo to her vagina, which allowed smooth entry.
He pumped three times and that was enough for him. As he came, the baroness blew smoke in his face. His little cock did a little spurt and he thought that was the end of it. But then he felt a great rumbling in the big cock.
Suddenly a great spray came from the monster cock, which splattered everything in the vicinity. Then an even greater spray came with such force that it rocketed the baron’s frail frame around the dining hall. He broke bones and damaged organs as he hit the ceiling, then the wall, then the floor. Then he was projected to the far end of the hall, where he was impaled from the back by the horn of a super-rhinoceros.
The baron slowly died in agony; his giant floppy cock still spraying cum all over, like a firehose without a fireman.
The baroness wiped herself off with the table cloth. She pulled up her bloomers and had a seat. Thankfully, the cum hadn’t ruined he cigarettes. She pulled out a new Benson & Hedges and lit it. She took a long, luxuriant drag.
The problem with epiphanies Is they wear off. By definition Their magic Must dissipate. The overwhelming delight Of understanding Eventually gives way To the dull thrum of living. And you wonder Is it better to know The epiphany’s fleeting ecstasy Knowing the hollowness Once it’s gone? Or is it better To live in ignorance Of that which Now evades you?