An ongoing evolutionary collaborative free-range Atkin's friendly, wardrobe malfunction-free, literary blog. Tastes like chicken, smells like pennies, thinks like Sloths. Hand me your cash, we need an editor.
Snappy: Are you Tasty?
Chapter One:
There was a time when I thought I could never trust people who never blinked or drank coffee. I'm not sure why, but it's true. Maybe it's because when I saw the movie "8 Mile", that stupid ass punk white trash rapper Eminem seemed to never blink. Asshole. Anyhow, I have this story to tell - might not be much, but it's the glory hole of tales. My name is Johnny Butthole - well, that's what my friends call me. But, now instead of people who do not blink, its people with few pockets...they seem so free...how can they manage without pockets? Damn it, that irks me!
The story begins with a friend of mine, Jewels - she was this sassy chick with a lotta spunk. She was a closeted drag king - sporting an Elvis haircut and only wore Osh Kosh dungaree bullshit. It's amazing how closeted lesbians seem to stereotype themselves. Regardless of her demeaner, she was always a chatterbox of a freak. Spewing stupid trivia and going on and on about the problems with her stupid ass Subaru Brat. That thing was a piece of crap. I told her to sell it for enough cash to get her a real lover. I mean dildo.
Anyway, we're sitting there at a coffee shop, I'm reading a book by George Carlin and it makes me laugh out loud. I look around to see if anyone notices and there's a woman smiling at me. She's good-looking too. She's sitting at one of the tables, reading a magazine, and it's not just any magazine, not about motorcycles or computers or entertainers, it's the New Yorker. The girl's literate, for crying in the sink. Jewels decides to take it upon herself to go over and ask this woman if she likes George Carlin. Unbeknownst to me she also asked her a whole slew of questions as I find out later including if she thinks I'm cute and if she is single. I felt uneasy about this shit, afterall - Jewel is Always fucking trying to set me up with some woman. I've had my fair share of heartbreak and romance - even almost got married. But sheesh, this shit with Jewels was semi-fun, to flirt with the idea of dating. She was pimping me out.
I say, "It's really time for me to leave", and she walks me to my car, which thank heavens is decently clean, with no McDonald's Happy Meal figures on the front seat. She mentions that she's going to the poetry slam next Friday because her friend is playing mandolin for some poet and I mention that I've never been to a poetry slam and she says I should try it. So I say maybe I will and I drive away with my hands perspiring on the steering wheel with Jewels nattering at me from the backseat.
On that Thursday at Gumby Joes Cafe, it was Poetry Slam night - a sorta fucked up beatnick bohemian cliche of overeducated unemployed washed up wannabe writers who filled the quota of panopticon artfucks. It was clearly a vacuum of indie snobs - but a neato scene if you liked to be a dork for the day. Jewels relished these Slams because there was a crowd that all seemed to sit on the verge of fabricated sorrow like hearing the Smiths on a CD player...or The Cure on 8 track tape. It was morbid, mundane and moronic.
The mandolin player began his lament, as well as a mandolin can portray that emote, and the woman from the coffee shop got up and began her poem. This woman identified herself as "Joy Hate" - that was her stage name. I thought to myself, "why would she name herself that - doh, because it's ironic - and pathetic poets who starve for attention like to rely on the formulaic to push the drama. She began her poetry piece after setting a apple martini down and adjusted her bra, "Maude. An apple. Spicy Hot Dog Aroma. Piddle mark. Unfinished crepes. Nubian whispers. Gnostic aptitude. Jello quiver...." then she bowed. Everyone started clicking their fingers as if 1952 was 2004. I rolled my eyes and wished that I could obliterate the poet scene that night with something marked with spirited enjoyment as to knock the socks off their hippy sandals. I thought for a moment and it came to me...i got up, walked up to the microphone with a gulp of air I blurted out
"my name is Johnny Butthole, and this is my poem - well mantra of sorts for today..." I shifted my pose and fished out a wrinkled dog eared post it note out of my back pocket, cleared my throat and in a raspy voice barfed out a breathy "There is nothing better than cookies. Except sex. Well, something better than sex between two people is an additional person. Yes, sex with three people. Perhaps something better than sex with three people is to have sex with three people on a plate of freshly baked cookies......" the audience didn't click fingers, they laughed and roared. I crumpled up my post it note, threw it into the crowd, slurped the last half of my beer and walked off stage with the stage lights leaving me with a 2 hour retinal burn.
Jewels came over to me and gave me a half hearted kiss on the mouth before she introduced me to the house poet judge, who determined that cookies should be served at the next poet gathering the following week,
and with a wink of his eye he walked off to the washroom to smoke a joint and solicit insider voting politics of this stupid Poetry Slam. Rope", the judge sucked in a hiccup of smoke...held it in and blew it out the side of his mouth with a worried look on his face. He said "Ya know, Jo Jo Butt Ho - yer shit is good...in fact I like you kid" He shifted and scratched his left buttcheek and snort laughed "but shit dude, your musings are not all that great anymore. You need to get laid" I was too stoned to respond, so I just cocked sideways and farted...imagining a blue smoke ring.
Chapter Two:
I recall reading in the George Carlin book something George wrote: "I come from a place of irritation and annoyance and disappointment in my fellow humans and the other members of this culture I live in." I look over my shoulder and laugh quickly grabbing another beer and sauntering over to the women who had invited me here "Tootsie, you have really nice toes. And eyes. I saw all 12 of them and my gosh" fumbling in my words in a half stoned stooper "Well, they make my heart tickle.." I couldn't believe that I said that, but it was true. Her Toes were so fucking cute. I could just imagine them curling.
Tiny nips of toenails...neatly trimmed and apple green colored nail polish, slightly chipped from the bottom of the swimming pool - wiggling like this piggy went to the market...that piggy went to...oh my gosh....her toes. And those apple green eyes. I'd melt into them like butter on hot corn on a summer day. I felt at ease and complete looking into her eyes not knowing who she is, what she's about, her deal. But I wanted to find out - and quick so I asked, "do you indulge in reflexology?" Tootsie replied, "i'm glad you asked." She sat down and began fondling her feet and playing "this little piggy went to market....". I couldn't help but feel an intense heart-felt tittery twang in my chest as watched her.
Her every movement made my heart wince, even in the way i witnessed the small spittle stretch like a cobweb from her tongue to her upper lip as she said "market" I played this in my minds video playback 4 times and it churned the sperm in my nads. She was strangely adorable. I wondered what she ate for breakfast. I wondered if she ever had her heart broken. Would she break my heart? Is she too smart for me? I then started humming an old Pavement tune "Summer Girl" she caught on and started humming on almost doing the harmonics. Hell. if I died right now, I'd be happy. In my nervousness, I finally asked her what she does for a living. She responded, "Well, First, I liked your poem. And unofficially, I am a musician wanna be/martini drinking/space cadet...but don't let that fool you...I like freaks like you, and she exposed her t-shirt beneath the cardigan sweater she was wearing which read "FREAK OUT".
I immediately asked, "You were there too?" in an over excited teenage boy with my voice breaking, "no?" She looked back at me with her apple greenies looking into my soul searching my brain like an operating system trying to find my binary files to her heart, "yes." then a pause. "I remember you, Johnney. You. Um. You...i mean we saw each other from across the stage..." "Your kidding?" I said, she did a funny pose change like she studied ballet in high school making me imagine her in a tutu and in slippers covering her toes. She asked me "so why didn't you come find me earlier?" I was confused. I asked, how would I have?" She explained, "because I am your angel" I started thinking, is it legal to have sex with an angel?...Is it sacrelege? Heck I'm agnostic, but is it like incest or something....dogmatic fucking with your hegemony? I must still be stoned. She winked at me and said, "would you like to come and see some of my etchings? I recalled the Mae West movie where she had said, "why don't you come up and see me sometime" in her sultry voice with her long blonde locks swaying as she gently moved her curvatious veloptuous body. Was this the same type of invite or an honest request to view her artwork?....I replied..."Hot Spit!...I'd sure like to".
On that invitation, I nearly peed a little. She was cooler than cool. A menagerie of all the sexy barbie dolls I hated to play with...an honest chick. Zero pretention. A zen-like range of woman who loves life, almost androgenous in her judicious gender.
I reached into my pocket and grabbed my inhaler and took a couple of puffs. My hands were sweaty and my armpits began to drip...I followed her sensuous body as her high heels clicked on the floor. The smell of her perfume prompted another episode with my puffer but I pursued the scent as she grabbed my arm. That gesture made my heart ping and pong like an old Atari game. She whispered something into my ear which I barely understood. I want to glorb you. I thought, heck yea - I'd glorb ya. Whatevva that was.
So we began glorbing. Her glorbesque hands started groping my glorbatine things. Her glorbness smothered my glorbmember and her freckles fell off her skin as we continued to glorb. It was glorbfantastic.
I accidently bit her ear too hard and she told me to "glorb off"...now what was I to think of that? I thought about it festering from my glorbose saliva infecting the penetrated freckled ear skin, the thought horrified me to the point of emotional compression. She seemed to not take my moves too seriously. I was this shitty butterfly who wanted to breed into something beautiful. She seemed disinterested. Fickle gender that the ladies are. Takes centuries to understand what the fuck they think. It's just a mere ploy to confuse us men. Double standards aside, she was lovely. I regard myself as a feminist - but my lesbian moves made her queasy - and so I retreated like a Confederate soldier knowing that I'd die from heartbreak. Yet again, my heart will go unfufilled. And another potential mate will feel satisfied. I'm glad that she was not a Praying Mantis.
I decided to Glorbin fuck that whole scene, I felt like such a panty waist, I decided to become a monk.
Nuff said!
(created by Shirl & Gawk - to be continued)
Chapter One:
There was a time when I thought I could never trust people who never blinked or drank coffee. I'm not sure why, but it's true. Maybe it's because when I saw the movie "8 Mile", that stupid ass punk white trash rapper Eminem seemed to never blink. Asshole. Anyhow, I have this story to tell - might not be much, but it's the glory hole of tales. My name is Johnny Butthole - well, that's what my friends call me. But, now instead of people who do not blink, its people with few pockets...they seem so free...how can they manage without pockets? Damn it, that irks me!
The story begins with a friend of mine, Jewels - she was this sassy chick with a lotta spunk. She was a closeted drag king - sporting an Elvis haircut and only wore Osh Kosh dungaree bullshit. It's amazing how closeted lesbians seem to stereotype themselves. Regardless of her demeaner, she was always a chatterbox of a freak. Spewing stupid trivia and going on and on about the problems with her stupid ass Subaru Brat. That thing was a piece of crap. I told her to sell it for enough cash to get her a real lover. I mean dildo.
Anyway, we're sitting there at a coffee shop, I'm reading a book by George Carlin and it makes me laugh out loud. I look around to see if anyone notices and there's a woman smiling at me. She's good-looking too. She's sitting at one of the tables, reading a magazine, and it's not just any magazine, not about motorcycles or computers or entertainers, it's the New Yorker. The girl's literate, for crying in the sink. Jewels decides to take it upon herself to go over and ask this woman if she likes George Carlin. Unbeknownst to me she also asked her a whole slew of questions as I find out later including if she thinks I'm cute and if she is single. I felt uneasy about this shit, afterall - Jewel is Always fucking trying to set me up with some woman. I've had my fair share of heartbreak and romance - even almost got married. But sheesh, this shit with Jewels was semi-fun, to flirt with the idea of dating. She was pimping me out.
I say, "It's really time for me to leave", and she walks me to my car, which thank heavens is decently clean, with no McDonald's Happy Meal figures on the front seat. She mentions that she's going to the poetry slam next Friday because her friend is playing mandolin for some poet and I mention that I've never been to a poetry slam and she says I should try it. So I say maybe I will and I drive away with my hands perspiring on the steering wheel with Jewels nattering at me from the backseat.
On that Thursday at Gumby Joes Cafe, it was Poetry Slam night - a sorta fucked up beatnick bohemian cliche of overeducated unemployed washed up wannabe writers who filled the quota of panopticon artfucks. It was clearly a vacuum of indie snobs - but a neato scene if you liked to be a dork for the day. Jewels relished these Slams because there was a crowd that all seemed to sit on the verge of fabricated sorrow like hearing the Smiths on a CD player...or The Cure on 8 track tape. It was morbid, mundane and moronic.
The mandolin player began his lament, as well as a mandolin can portray that emote, and the woman from the coffee shop got up and began her poem. This woman identified herself as "Joy Hate" - that was her stage name. I thought to myself, "why would she name herself that - doh, because it's ironic - and pathetic poets who starve for attention like to rely on the formulaic to push the drama. She began her poetry piece after setting a apple martini down and adjusted her bra, "Maude. An apple. Spicy Hot Dog Aroma. Piddle mark. Unfinished crepes. Nubian whispers. Gnostic aptitude. Jello quiver...." then she bowed. Everyone started clicking their fingers as if 1952 was 2004. I rolled my eyes and wished that I could obliterate the poet scene that night with something marked with spirited enjoyment as to knock the socks off their hippy sandals. I thought for a moment and it came to me...i got up, walked up to the microphone with a gulp of air I blurted out
"my name is Johnny Butthole, and this is my poem - well mantra of sorts for today..." I shifted my pose and fished out a wrinkled dog eared post it note out of my back pocket, cleared my throat and in a raspy voice barfed out a breathy "There is nothing better than cookies. Except sex. Well, something better than sex between two people is an additional person. Yes, sex with three people. Perhaps something better than sex with three people is to have sex with three people on a plate of freshly baked cookies......" the audience didn't click fingers, they laughed and roared. I crumpled up my post it note, threw it into the crowd, slurped the last half of my beer and walked off stage with the stage lights leaving me with a 2 hour retinal burn.
Jewels came over to me and gave me a half hearted kiss on the mouth before she introduced me to the house poet judge, who determined that cookies should be served at the next poet gathering the following week,
and with a wink of his eye he walked off to the washroom to smoke a joint and solicit insider voting politics of this stupid Poetry Slam. Rope", the judge sucked in a hiccup of smoke...held it in and blew it out the side of his mouth with a worried look on his face. He said "Ya know, Jo Jo Butt Ho - yer shit is good...in fact I like you kid" He shifted and scratched his left buttcheek and snort laughed "but shit dude, your musings are not all that great anymore. You need to get laid" I was too stoned to respond, so I just cocked sideways and farted...imagining a blue smoke ring.
Chapter Two:
I recall reading in the George Carlin book something George wrote: "I come from a place of irritation and annoyance and disappointment in my fellow humans and the other members of this culture I live in." I look over my shoulder and laugh quickly grabbing another beer and sauntering over to the women who had invited me here "Tootsie, you have really nice toes. And eyes. I saw all 12 of them and my gosh" fumbling in my words in a half stoned stooper "Well, they make my heart tickle.." I couldn't believe that I said that, but it was true. Her Toes were so fucking cute. I could just imagine them curling.
Tiny nips of toenails...neatly trimmed and apple green colored nail polish, slightly chipped from the bottom of the swimming pool - wiggling like this piggy went to the market...that piggy went to...oh my gosh....her toes. And those apple green eyes. I'd melt into them like butter on hot corn on a summer day. I felt at ease and complete looking into her eyes not knowing who she is, what she's about, her deal. But I wanted to find out - and quick so I asked, "do you indulge in reflexology?" Tootsie replied, "i'm glad you asked." She sat down and began fondling her feet and playing "this little piggy went to market....". I couldn't help but feel an intense heart-felt tittery twang in my chest as watched her.
Her every movement made my heart wince, even in the way i witnessed the small spittle stretch like a cobweb from her tongue to her upper lip as she said "market" I played this in my minds video playback 4 times and it churned the sperm in my nads. She was strangely adorable. I wondered what she ate for breakfast. I wondered if she ever had her heart broken. Would she break my heart? Is she too smart for me? I then started humming an old Pavement tune "Summer Girl" she caught on and started humming on almost doing the harmonics. Hell. if I died right now, I'd be happy. In my nervousness, I finally asked her what she does for a living. She responded, "Well, First, I liked your poem. And unofficially, I am a musician wanna be/martini drinking/space cadet...but don't let that fool you...I like freaks like you, and she exposed her t-shirt beneath the cardigan sweater she was wearing which read "FREAK OUT".
I immediately asked, "You were there too?" in an over excited teenage boy with my voice breaking, "no?" She looked back at me with her apple greenies looking into my soul searching my brain like an operating system trying to find my binary files to her heart, "yes." then a pause. "I remember you, Johnney. You. Um. You...i mean we saw each other from across the stage..." "Your kidding?" I said, she did a funny pose change like she studied ballet in high school making me imagine her in a tutu and in slippers covering her toes. She asked me "so why didn't you come find me earlier?" I was confused. I asked, how would I have?" She explained, "because I am your angel" I started thinking, is it legal to have sex with an angel?...Is it sacrelege? Heck I'm agnostic, but is it like incest or something....dogmatic fucking with your hegemony? I must still be stoned. She winked at me and said, "would you like to come and see some of my etchings? I recalled the Mae West movie where she had said, "why don't you come up and see me sometime" in her sultry voice with her long blonde locks swaying as she gently moved her curvatious veloptuous body. Was this the same type of invite or an honest request to view her artwork?....I replied..."Hot Spit!...I'd sure like to".
On that invitation, I nearly peed a little. She was cooler than cool. A menagerie of all the sexy barbie dolls I hated to play with...an honest chick. Zero pretention. A zen-like range of woman who loves life, almost androgenous in her judicious gender.
I reached into my pocket and grabbed my inhaler and took a couple of puffs. My hands were sweaty and my armpits began to drip...I followed her sensuous body as her high heels clicked on the floor. The smell of her perfume prompted another episode with my puffer but I pursued the scent as she grabbed my arm. That gesture made my heart ping and pong like an old Atari game. She whispered something into my ear which I barely understood. I want to glorb you. I thought, heck yea - I'd glorb ya. Whatevva that was.
So we began glorbing. Her glorbesque hands started groping my glorbatine things. Her glorbness smothered my glorbmember and her freckles fell off her skin as we continued to glorb. It was glorbfantastic.
I accidently bit her ear too hard and she told me to "glorb off"...now what was I to think of that? I thought about it festering from my glorbose saliva infecting the penetrated freckled ear skin, the thought horrified me to the point of emotional compression. She seemed to not take my moves too seriously. I was this shitty butterfly who wanted to breed into something beautiful. She seemed disinterested. Fickle gender that the ladies are. Takes centuries to understand what the fuck they think. It's just a mere ploy to confuse us men. Double standards aside, she was lovely. I regard myself as a feminist - but my lesbian moves made her queasy - and so I retreated like a Confederate soldier knowing that I'd die from heartbreak. Yet again, my heart will go unfufilled. And another potential mate will feel satisfied. I'm glad that she was not a Praying Mantis.
I decided to Glorbin fuck that whole scene, I felt like such a panty waist, I decided to become a monk.
Nuff said!
(created by Shirl & Gawk - to be continued)
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