Chicken ranch dumb

Friday, July 25, 2014

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Under the shadow of the Sky Wheel the Floss Wagon stood with its displays of corn dogs and cotton candy and boxes of red capsuled Red Hots in each of the window panes that framed three of the hitch's four sides.

"The Floss Wagon, she's a mean mistreater" said Honk, " you do not mess with the stream this vehicle is putting out, brother, man I mean, nothing beats a great pair of legs except a full house, but this Floss Wagon, brother, I mean, why would you even consider putting your Johnson it's confectionary mechanics, I mean, why brother...."

Zamoan Artic was under the Wagon itself, clawing the cracked asphalt for some of the blades of grass and weed that poked through ; his face was embedded in glass and bottle caps.

"She got me howlin at the train that crosses the Del Mar swamp" was what Zamoan Artic uttered , "I had it under superb information that this was an easy A, a gig anyone could do with their nut sack tied off like a punching bag. I mean, how much manhood could be needed to run a goddamned Floss Wagon, I mean even your dead mom looks tougher than this aluminum coated excuse for a ramshackle fuck truck..."

Honk lifted his hand and framed Zamoan Arctic's head until it looked like he could pop it like an angry zit. Arctic's face indeed looked as if hairless hamsters where wrestling in his mouth, taking crazy liberties with his gumline.

"Lonely is the heartburn that seeks an hungry stick" is what Honk said as he emptied his can of lighter fluid on the terrified Zamoan Arctic. Honk and Arctic allowed their eyes to meet under the ashtray gleam of the man in the moon, who looked as if he found his lost pool cue as he took his seat.

"What next" asked Arctic.
"Beats me" said Honk, "since I quit smoking, that was just kind of pointless gesture."
"Fuckin A" said Zamoan Arctic, "HEY, I HEAR A DOG SLURPING ON HIS RASCAL!!"
"Damn" said Honk.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

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...

Thursday, December 30, 2010

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 .

Sunday, December 12, 2010

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.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

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.