Chicken parts

Cootie Bob wanted a comic book where Superman cast aside his vow not to kill anyone or anything and so pulverize the entire Marvel Universe.


I want Superman to put The Hurt on all those crackling nitwits, said Cootie Bob, fuckin' A, I want him to  grab Thor's hammer, cram it up that Asgardian's puckered anal pore and then twist around nice and tight, like he were gearing up a a wind up toy. Then, said Cootie Bob, BAMLOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGERVILLE
watch that helium grunt zig zag his tight Viking cheeks back and forth on Madison Avenue he was trying to get some action off a deranged bowling ball polisher.


This all the green apple juice you got inna fridge??? Skin Plate had just taken her face from the ice box and seemed to enjoy the nerve damage the intense cold was causing with her other wise perfect  Vogue mopiness. 


Hold, listen to that. FUCK, LOOK AT THAT. Cootie Bob was hysterical, his fingers splayed like he was modeling the grease to get the ring from the digit that gets stuck in the doorbell hole .


Outside the window a giant chicken walked passed the skyline with Superman himself pinched between the bills of the beak on its moronic beak. Superman was screaming like a silly oak with his weenie caught in a slammed car door when the chicken up ended it's head and wolfed down Superman in one great glob of blue and red , sun drenched goodness.


Cootie Bob stood there speechless, Skin Plate said one thing.


Giant Chicken? Nice...

The Floss Wagon

"I have it on superb authority that you screwed the Floss Wagon". Umberto's collar was tight and he kept tugging at the top button while he spoke down to the supine El Greco, trying to sound menacing and slick with undisclosed knowledge.

"You are red as baboon's ass in the face and shit" said El Greco, "and you're trying to sound all menacing and slick with undisclosed knowledge. You need to let the air outta your what for, bud." 

In the corner, the dog licked his balls with eager, liquid slurps .

Deliver This

Some passing thoughts on the events at work is only a grieving for the passing of notes in fifth grades when the two sisters were turned to the blackboard chalking up the High Math of The Second Coming.

It was a note Tony Graciano penned saying that after school he was going to kick my ass because I slammed his hand in the cloak room door .I looked at Tony behind me, the note under the desk,

and he was smiling the best his gumless mouth could manage, vapors of bacon and death on his breath.

“Would you like to share that with every one, Ted?” keened a voice, piercing with a hint of whistle swirling around each slippery ’s’ that slid against the tongue to the enamel of each capped tooth .Sister Marie, basketball tall and looking grim as grime in her stiff, consigned vestments, held out her hand, wrinkled and thick veined at the knuckles, demanding to see the note .I looked up at her, knowing God sees everything on a too-big TV screen as wide as the sky, and then handed the note up to her.

Her. long fingers wrapped around the paper like a satchel of loving snakes.

I remember from the fourth grade that Tony had said he wanted to be a writer when asked

by a lait teacher what he wanted to be when he grew up. Why, asked the teacher, and Tony enthused over the adventure stories he liked too read, and that he wanted to write his own someday that’d be even more terrific.

Terrific, said the Teacher, Then you ought to take pride to signing your name one everything to write from now on. Tony beamed that same gumless grin and nodded his head rapidly as though he’d just snapped a spring.

Sister Marie held Tony’s note in front of her face, an inch from her thick-lenses glasses that made her eyes seem to bulge frog like, and read the words quietly, a silent mutter moving her lips. Her face, already creased and lined with years of pure Catholic rapture, hardened even more as she lowered the paper and stared over and past me down the aisles of neatly lined school desks, her eyes finally stopping where Tony sat.

A vein popped out on her forehead. I looked back and saw Tony looking back at the sister with an innocent expression only guilty could provide. Sister Marie didn’t let him say a word.

“Mr. Graciano, into the hail, pleases, and bring your books with you” “

She walked up the aisle briskly, as Tony stood after closing his books, and turning around for a good view, all I could see was the broad sweep of her water blue cloak spread like Superman’s’ cape that seemed to absorb Tony in whole. Next I remembered the classroom door slamming, and then there was silence, one nun and a class of scared kids observing    

a ceremonial gravity.

It was as though Tony had not been in the class at all, not even on the planet.

Sister John Mark, whose name I never understood, picked up a rubber tipped pointer and said “We must be well behaved when we’re learning of the good news of Christ.”

EAT MORE CHOWDER

I am too busy to remember the things that haven't happened to me.

Justice League Audition

The bullet pushed through the Geek's skull and came out back of his head, coated in blood, brain and specks of yellow gruesome and sped along it's tragic trajectory to Grimshot, the arch villain, who was about to pull the lever to the Complete Annihilation Device, which would have made the Earth a gooy, chewy morass of snarling scarred whippet moans, when the afore mentioned bullet caught him straight in the forehead, likewise making Grimshot as Deceased as the formerly bothersome Geek. The bullet in turned embedded itself in the baseball, a slimy brick assemblage.

"So that's why they call you Gunner" said Batman, " you just fucking shoot the bad guys instead of bringing them to justice."

The Gunner put is snub nosed Finisher back in his leotard  holster. "That's right, Batman. Cut to the quick. Gun 'em down and then eat a hearty snack of Chillie Curly Fries and Groan Soda (c)."

Superman was not pleased. "Worst Justice League audition I have ever seen. No style."

The Gunner wacked Superman in the funny parts with a Kryptonite claw hammer.

"I also have a blog where I write about stand up comedians who haven't yet been given enough credit for the movies they have made.Like the Bob Hope masterpiece Boy Did I Get a Wrong Number?"


"THAT HAD ME IN TEARS " said Superman, otherwise moaning and foaming at the mouth. The doorbell rang.

"Who ordered a Knuckle Sandwich?" yelled Batman. Great green cootie slugs had crawled  under his cowl, sliming a trail to the eyeballs.

Make Big Bucks Talking to Corporate Groups in San Diego!

Jack Gland never liked flying in airplanes and he never liked going to San Diego. Today he was screwed four ways like the last part of an engine you can't make fit anywhere. He was on a jet going to  California, to San Diego, where he was to give a speech to The Heat. He was a big shot and he had  stuffed a shaving kit down his pants. It was there next to him, so he grabbed it, sniffed it, licked the zipper, and then crammed it down his reeking boxers.

"Where did my shaving kit go" asked the woman sitting next to him, "it was here a second ago."

She gave Jack Gland the once over and stuck out her hand to be shook.

"My name is Skin Plate" she barked, "and I'm a bitch until I get my shave-on". She slammed her fist on Jack Gland's groin. Things went white. He never thought a shaving kit could cause so much pain when the whacked you where it counts to most.

"Welcome to San Diego" said the cab driver. Jack Gland was in the back seat at San Diego International Airport, rubbing his nuts. The driver looked in the rear view and then continued speaking. 

"Nice day to get hammered in the jewel vault he said." Jack Gland noticed that the driver held a clawhammer as he maneuvered the stirring wheel.

It was going to be a long day.

The Conversation

The Geezer who'd carried all the vinyl luggage onto the bus yelled at the bus driver when she pulled in at a scheduled rest stop that he'd lost his cell phone. I watched him zip and unzip the many compartments of the luggage, rifling through congealed clusters of dog eared and wrinkled unsorted papers and return envelopes, medicine bottles and toe nail clippers searching for the portable device.

The driver looked in her rear view mirror at the Geezer. "What would you like me to do for you sir?" she asked. In the mirror I could see that her eyes were lit with a glee that spoke volumes about what not to have for breakfast.

"I lost my cellphone" the Geezer repeated. His voice warbled like a thin wire stretched between two roof tops.

"I would call your server and get your ass another phone" said the driver, drumming her fingertips on the banquet-sized steering wheel" otherwise some mofug gonna run up yer bill and you'd then be in a world of  hurt chicken parts."

The Geezer sat down again and seemed to allow gravity make him slide into his own ruined flesh. There were several bags of things he had with him, and no way to call for a ride or pizza after a good stroke.

"Hey, Geezer, what's your phone number." This was a Fat Samaritan, sitting across the aisle, offering a hand to the Geezer's depressed situation. The Geezer looked up at him, mentally twisting this corpulent facsimile of useful body parts into a hungry question mark.

"Wha..." he demanded.
"Gimmee your number, I will call you, your phone will ring, and then you can find it, and presto, you got your phone and your cootie catcher back again."

The Geezer neither nodded nor said yes, but rather gave the Fat Samaritan the number. As if in the movies , the Geezer's phone chirped a catchy portion of a familiar theme, and the Geezer reached deep into an exterior pocket of one of the pieces of luggage, pulling out a small, cheap cell phone, chiming happily away like an idiot new born. Everyone paying attention smiled, said their thank yours and you're welcomes. The bus driver looked again into the rear view, her eyes suggesting a hand holding a hot piston.

Two miles later, I heard a conversation in the seats behind me.

"Hello"/
"Hi, who is this?"
"Uh, wait, who are you? You called me..."
"No, no, you called me. I looked at my missed calls and this phone number is there with no name and I don't rememEvery corner was a ghost town, all the bistro seats upside down on the tables, a good many neon signs still promising "open." Traffic lights continued their three-bulb cycle, stop, stop, go, wait, commanding even spirits to wait their turn. The main street was slick with recent rain, and the lack of cars made it possible to hear the sticky hiss of tires three blocks away, rolling through the downtown area. This is a boulevard of locked doors. There was no one crossing against the lights, looking in store windows , cracking their knuckles, and rubbing their necks. The lack of cars racing from one stoplight to the next made the lowest tone and timbre louder, brighter, more definitive in how the sound seems to explode with expressiveness. The breeze sang shrilly over the rooftops, the power lines snap like whips in the draft. A car alarm screams bloody murder in a strip mall parking space. It all becomes orchestral, arranged, discordant sound insertions over the asphalt, cement, and short-circuiting neon signs.  Each building was for sale, and there was no cure.ber this number at all and I pushed redial to see who it is and so who are you?"
"Back it up, Jack, I never called you, now who are you and why are you so demanding with people you don't know?"
"I have a right to know who it is I don't know who are calling my private phone number on my phone and what it is they have to tell me, and it might be important, like someone died in my family, you could be the police or the coroners office or someone from a sweepstakes I entered, so who are you and what do you have to tell me?"
"I don't have to tell you fuck, you decaying stain monger."
"Don't you swear at me, goddamn it all, don't you swear at me and ignore my demand. Who the hell are you?
tell me or I will report you."
"You called me, you brick-layered fuck face, making all this shit up. I was minding my own business when you called me and started this shit..."
"Answer my question..."
"Fuck off and go watch professional wrestling, Geezer..."
"Show some respect, punk..."
"Respect my testicles, Iron-sides."

I pulled the cord and got off the bus at the next stop, walking past the driver, who again was looking  in the rear view. Her mouth was twisted in contradicting responses.

Under her breath, "White folks, damn...."