Published in: on October 20, 2009 at 10:12 am  Leave a Comment  

Wonderful site…

Free Information!!!

Published in: on October 16, 2009 at 11:58 pm  Leave a Comment  
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the dude abides…

I guess that’s the way the whole durned human comedy keeps perpetuatin’ itself.rug

Published in: on October 8, 2009 at 5:23 pm  Comments (1)  
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The emerald green leather farted as I wriggled. The walls in the room were so damn burgundy, I could taste them. Dr. Worthington had a smile that could send an alligator into cardiac arrest. His hair could — well it was sterling with a bit of an auburn shine. Quite beautiful. His office housed a vast library of medical and psychological texts. There was still a sweet clove stench in the air from his previous patient, Mr. Todd.

John Todd was a low-level manager for Staples® with two kids and a pending divorce. Mr. Todd smokes five to ten clove cigarettes per session, according to Doc W. The Doc tells me everything, which is illegal I’m sure. He’s one of my closest friends, so I keep it on the down-low. I may be the one laying on the couch, but the roles are reversed. I become his vessel for ventilation.

I always wanted to be a psychiatrist, but never had the ambition to finish college. The bubbly red-headed secretary he called ‘Kaci’ phoned and advised him of something that intensely frustrating. ‘What’s up? Daddy kick the bucket?’ ‘No… They took the McRib off the menu again.’ ‘You get angry over something like that. You need to relax. Let it out.’ ‘It would be fine if they would just leave it off, but they keep bringing it back. Just pisses me off.’ ‘Well its past five o’clock and I have places to be. Good day to you sir.’ ‘Bug off.’ Those were always his words to me as I parted.

On the way to Pete’s, I stopped off for a quick smoke. I can’t stand walking and smoking. Drains the joy right out.

I saw a wonderfully ornate Victorian table lamp in an antique shop window, and thought of buying it for my ex, Cheryl. She’s still kind of a bitch, but it would go perfectly with the ceiling fan in her bedroom. I crushed the butt of my cigarette under my heel, and walked a couple of blocks without thought. I began to think about that ceiling fan. Its nothing too fancy. No rubies or diamonds. Still yet, it something about it. The type of design and craftsmanship that would make one want to learn about ceiling fans. Maybe get a coffee-table book with pictures of them or start a website devoted to them. After these thoughts passed, suds began to fill my head.

I wanted nothing other than six or seven pints in my belly. Only fourteen blocks to go. I’m a bit of an addict, so I stopped off and lit another fag. I didn’t choose a very good place to stop. There were no benches around, and I definitely do not feel comfortable sitting on steps, so I leaned against a mom & mom ran hemp jewelry and pipe store. ‘Hempfinity’ as it were called, was always a popular place, for reasons unbeknownst to me.

I came upon Broadus Avenue like a— something. I saw the rugged green sign with worn orange paint. It simply read: ‘Pete’s Pub.’ You can’t go wrong with alliteration, even if it sounds cheesy or cliche. Pete was my roomate for my hedonistic sophomore year at Boston College. He was the sort that wouldn’t ask a girl out, even if he knew she was into him. Terrible self-esteem. Maybe due to his father’s love of alcohol, he dreamed of owning a bar since he was a wee lad. I helped him get it started. I got it started, actually. He bailed me out of jail a couple of times and saved me from a succubus once, so I repayed him. It truly made me happy to see Pete’s gleeful eyes, nose, and mouth. He had such a rough life you couldn’t help but pull for him. Business was booming as it was every friday Pete’s. The Royals were in town for a double-header. The first game went to the Sox 6-4 on a three-run shot over ‘The Green Monster’ by some guy. Thats what I heard anyway. I don’t much care for America’s game. I prefer spelling bees and quiz bowls. I’ll watch Jeopardy! before I watch a Celtics game. I bought everyone a pint of Guiness as per usual. This got me laid more than it should have. There’s nothing more that I loathe than a broad who’ll bed a man for some change. It had to be for my money. I dropped in at about a deuce-and-a-half and dressed like a hobo, so it had to be the money. Abrupt end.

Published in: on October 8, 2009 at 6:49 am  Comments (1)  


It was mid-winter in ’89. I was fresh out from a eight year stint in a tiny federal prison tucked away in an even tinier corner of Oklahoma. Being that I’m from The Emerald City, and my family was long gone, or had ostracized me, I didn’t have a lot of options at the time. I lived under an underpass about four miles outside the facility for what must have been a week, but felt like a year. Life is terribly slow and boring when you sleep all day with nothing but berries and grass to eat. Not such a bad diet now, but it was miserable at the time.

I had absolutely no idea where I was, so I followed the highway north into the first settlement I stumbled upon. Eight miles and twenty two hours later, I walked into the limits of my new playground. Quill, as it was so wonderfully name, was a town of what seemed to have a populous of around two thousand. I could see a marquee. This made me very happy. Any town with a theater is satisfactory.

It didn’t take long to find a job. As I was walking into town, I looked over at a lady in a bright yellow sundress. She was coming out of a small grocery store-gas station hybrid, purse and baby in tow. Following in her wake was an older gentleman, pushing sixty. Slicked back platinum hair. It didn’t look to be any type of hair product doing the slicking, rather oil and days of skipping over it in the shower.

As he put the last of the three bags into Mrs. Yellowdress’ station wagon, he put his hands on the small of his back, arched it, and winced in pain. He seemed, from afar, to have a pretty strong build that was far from that of a brittle old man. Opportunity knocks. He would probably quit or would at least maybe want to take some time off for his ailing back.

The old man hobbled back in to the store as I finished my cigarette. I gave him a little time to tell his boss what had happened, and that a younger, more flexible young man should carry out groceries in his stead. So I lit up another smoke. This one was far more enjoyable than the first.

The store appeared to be void of employees upon entering, so I walked around for a couple of minutes, perusing the goods. I began my journey near a large green rack laden with a multitude of chips. Chips bore me to death, so I searched for the only respectable part of gas stations, or grocery stores, or whatever the hell you call grocery stores with gas pumps. Magazines. I was approaching the rack when Mr. Weakback came out of a small hole in the back, which I presumed to be the office.

“What can I do ya’ for?” He let out with a grimace.

“I…I…w-was w-wondering if you needed any help.” damned tongue doesn’t work most days.

“Are you a chiropractor.”

“I-I d-d-don’t think so.”

“I’ll probably have to drive into Tulsa next week.”

I’m glad he said that. That’s really why I walked into the store. To hear some old fart give me his memorandum for the month. He didn’t answer my initial question and that bugs me beyond belief. He began reading the newspaper on the counter which he had been taken away from by Mrs. Yellowdress. Maybe it was Ms. Yellowdress. Although she did have a baby and this is the bible belt. She looked very respectable. Probably a Mrs. Although she could be widowed making her a Ms. Regardless, I was still pissed off at this old coot.

I picked up a copy of ‘Psychology Today’, which was if my mind was correct in telling me that it was now the middle of February, would have mad the book a little more than two months old. I read it intently for the duration of a couple of paragraphs. Then my mind began to wander. I began thinking about this man’s mindset and why he didn’t answer my question. I hate people. Was I invisible? That’s always been one of my dreams, but much to my chagrin, I was still opaque.

I gave up on Mr. Oldbones and read a lengthy article on empty churches. Why no one goes even though a vast majority believes in God. I enjoy religion. My love for religion started with my hatred of Muslims I learned in prison. I let all this new information sink in while I flipped through the pages reading small snippets of a story about sports today and the psychological factors involved.

“So I guess if you’re just gonna’ stand around all day, I might as well put you to work.” He stepped out from behind the counter and placed his arm in the handshaking position very rapidly, like a prize fighter. Mind you, a prize fighter that strikes with open hands. “I’m Melvin.”

That was easy. I guess my natural charm wafted over to him while I was reading and he couldn’t stand it any longer. Or maybe it was because he felt sorry for me since I looked like such a bum. I hadn’t quite hit the point of hobotude where the clothes become ratty, smell like piss, and one wears dirty fingerless gloves. In retrospect, I would have liked to have some fingerless gloves, to compliment my look.

“I got a couple of papers for you to fill out, then I’ll need you to restock the bread and chips and take out groceries for Mrs. Meyers. She comes in at three thirty every Monday.”


Published in: on October 8, 2009 at 6:43 am  Leave a Comment  

American Justice (part 1 of 594)

American Justice: Rebirth of the Reborn Warrior: or : Patriot Fish

Bruce ducked below the poorly constructed kiosk like a man stepping out of the rain. The rain was lead and when the thunder crashed, the smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. In a flood of memory, he remembered the time when James had stayed out in the rain just a bit too long. When James got wet and his skin got irritated and red, Bruce had sworn he wouldn’t allow that to happen to himself.

He stayed well hidden like a peppermint in a pinata and wondered why criminals weren’t smart enough to start shooting through the thin plywood walls. These were, however, no ordinary criminals. They were jewel thieves. Not necessarily known for their expertise in firearms, rather their forte is dressing in black and creeping through the night. Like vampires. Vampires scared Bruce. More than anything else, ever, vampires terrified him.

He was completely immobile. A total lockdown of his nervous system. He began to think of James and the last words they ever spoke to each other. “Whats that guy’s name? The guy from ‘Short Circuit?’ ” Bruce managed to get out, while scarfing down his third helping of Cocoa Pebbles®. “Steve Guttenberg.” “No, the good actor. The skateboard guy from ‘Hackers’.” “Oh, Fisher Stevens. Why?” “No reason.” James knew it all. He was always someone Bruce could count on. Like an abacus. He couldn’t let James’ death be in vein. What kind of person would that make him? A very cowardous one. Weak. Yellow.

Bruce lept up and slid across the floor towards a small table, catching the edge of the counter with his pelvis, causing him to do an unintentional flip to safety. All three bullets fired from the jewel thieves’ 9mm pistols missed, as if by some force was watching over him. A guardian angel perhaps. Perhaps it could be chalked up to the fact that they are bad guys, and its widely known that Eddie Murphy will make a good movie before a bad guy guns down the hero. Except sometimes they hit them, usually in the shoulder, or occasionally in the stomach, just enough to show us that with guns, nobody really wins.

Gunfire rang in his ears as he lay clutching his knees to his chest. He pictured James standing over him saying, “You can’t stop now. Do it for Fisher Stevens.” And for a moment, Bruce almost did get up. But then he remembered that James was dead. It was bullets that had killed him, and Fisher Stevens hadn’t done anything noteworthy in over a decade. He couldn’t move again. Temporary paralysis is not a good thing to have if you’re a special agent. It slows you down.

The jewel thieves began to stir about. “I’ve got to take them out. I’ve got to act fast.” With a sudden burst of energy coming from deep within his loins, Bruce sprang to his feet. He began to run around randomly, with as much speed as he could muster. “He’s so fast. I won’t be able to hit him.” one of the thieves said, amazed. The leader of this group was Alexei Parashenko. He was an elite special forces agent from St. Petersburg. He was excommunicated from everything Russian when he decided he liked George Carlin more than Yakov Smirnov. Maybe thats why he decided to pull this job in the first place. “He’s acting.” Alexei said with utmost confidence. “I’ve seen it before.” Two shots fired. A sharp thud echoed through the museum like one would expect a loud noise to do. Complete silence. The three thieves were in complete awe. “You shot him… I… What’s going on?” “I’m not sure, but we should probably leave. Grab the necklace.”

Just like that, it was over. Two small pieces of lead had stopped him. As Bruce laid there on the cold, exquisitely crafted Italian marble, he tried to tell himself that he wasn’t weak. He couldn’t let something as small as this hinder him from catching the crooks. Then he remembered that it only took one well-placed bullet to kill James. He began to cry over his dead brother, as he lay on the floor motionless. Except for his clutching his shoulder and stomach and writhing and wriggling in pain, motionless. He began to pee a little, not thinking of the consequences of having to change his pants and explaining himself to anyone who happened to see him before he could do so.

It only took several hours for his backup to arrive. Bruce had managed to stop the bleeding in his stomach by applying pressure. He used the banana peel, which he had deployed earlier to trip one of the thieves, as a tourniquet. His arm was growing numb. He finally took it off, realizing that the wound was in his shoulder and he was just constricting blood going to his hand. Bruce is not a doctor. He’s a cop. A damn fine cop. ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————– Bruce awoke to a familiar sounding voice. It was so comforting. Like an angel’s harp. The voice was that of the late great Robert Stack. He was in St. Anthony’s Hospital. Room 248. Someone had left the tv on. He was happy. If anything could take his mind off of the pain it was ‘Unsolved Mysteries’. And enough morphine to kill a grasshopper. He expected his family to enter the room any minute, but they didn’t because they were gone. His mother and father were trampled to death during a bar fight in Chicago. His sister Claire was involved in a nasty 14 car pile up on I-40, when a plane carrying explosives had to make an emergency landing. She died of cancer three weeks later.

There was no one for poor Bruce. A man. Alone. He had a career, which wasn’t looking too bright at the moment and a shoddy apartment decorated in the latest that Wal-Mart had to offer. The only thing he had to look forward to now was women and booze. He figured he could live the rest of his life drinking heavily all day. Chasing sleazy, trashy women at night. Maybe become one of those grizzled old veteran cops who smokes three packs a day and doesn’t get along with his new rookie partner until the movie is almost over. Or he could just die right there. That isn’t such a bad idea, he thought to himself while saying it out loud as well. “Excuse me?” A beautiful, tall dark-haired nurse entered the room. Maybe a CNA, he thought. Bruce isn’t a doctor. He’s a cop. A damn fine cop.

“Hello, I’m Tara. I’ll be taking care of you today.” “Great… That’s just what I need. Another Tara in my life.” “Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?” “Sometimes. Am I going to have eat jell-o today? I don’t really want to eat jell-o.” “You don’t get to eat anything. We are going to have to put the food in you through tubes. You’re intestines were damaged.” “Did the bullet get stuck in there?” “No, when we were looking for the bullet, one of the doctors dropped his fajitas in your stomach.” “Fajitas are hot.” I know. Thats why you have a boo-boo in your tummy. The bullet went clear through and touched nothing. It was a miracle.” “The bullet that went through your shoulder, well… You may never be able to walk again.” “But its in my shoulder!” “Exactly. Listen, I have to go talk to my girlfriend for minute, she’s going through this huge breakup with her boyfriend. You know what that bastard did!!? He slept with his mom and her mom at the same time. Some nerve. Well, hang in there, sport.” Tara said, slugging him in the arm as a father would after he just done something good. Or maybe even when you hide the remote. Or break a plate or glass. Or sometimes nothing at all, he’s just so drunk, he thinks you’re his wife and he just found a naked man in the closet. Not the normal naked man. A sexy naked man. This can’t get any worse. He loved to narrate his own life. “This can’t get any worse.” He said in a Morgan Freeman-esque tone, and then repeated it in Vince LaFontaine style. He liked this better.

Published in: on October 8, 2009 at 6:38 am  Leave a Comment  
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I’m going to post all of the stuff…

that i have written and still have on the hard drive.

Published in: on October 8, 2009 at 6:35 am  Leave a Comment  

it’s time

I decided it was time to get some sort of personal blog/site. I’m getting back into writing, so this will be better to post on than facebook and such. I love you.

Published in: on October 8, 2009 at 6:34 am  Leave a Comment