He feels good about himself!

The site of a former mountain of men, only a size 10.5 shoe remains. Rumored to belong to funny man Charlie Sheen.

RICHEE EWE MAD?

"She's super hot....I once saw a picture of her eating fish n chips. It was great."



Local business fail. Automated DVD burns.

Bankrupt store-front proprieter #3,141,584.6 : The poor schmuck that couldn't see 5 minutes into the future.

A sign on the front door used to read "Fantasies do come true with time." there was an entire section dedicated to "post-WW II Japanese horror." As if you couldn't tell they were propaganda pieces. $2-a-burn. No profit there. Ridgewood Shoppers Group (RSG) put a ban on illegal activity that might compromise the sovereignty of the country. Information is free and shouldn't be wrested away from the people into the shadow of the oligarchy. Flex muscles and demand your right to financial backbone. Put it all back into your community, but be prepared for slanderous calls of "SOCIALIST" written with acrid yellow ink on genetically-modified paper.

As soon as Danny was ostracized from the self-regulating market, his lifeline was cut, his severance a charge of copyright infringement and piracy. Later investigations brought conspiratorial charges against his store, namely money laundering operations for the support of terror cells. A laptop was found; Danny disappeared.

"I was gonna say his father was really a migrant worker that operated a potato gun from the back of his uncle's El Camino, but he needs positive reinforcement. He's got a business in California, so he's real stressed out."

BEYE moar rekkids

Radical sales pitch overheard in a St. Marks record store:

"A tired boy of 25 founded an independent record label, called it Transient GNARD Head Records. The only band to be signed was called Pink Munkeyz and they released a 7" single and a CD EP. They never toured and have been disbanded now for over 12 months. TGH Records is still in operation, but they only sell records as imports to the Japanese/Asian market. There is little doubt that if you should come across either the single or the EP, pick it up. In about 50 years, when the band is re-re-re-discovered by a college radio station no one even listens to, the combined sale of the old 45 vinyl and CD EP should fetch at least four figures. The buyer will more than likely be unemployed, or have a dead-end job working retail or at a coffee house. The money that you or the inheritor of the Pink Munkeyz releases will earn will be essentially the coinage saved by shut-in, probably.

"I am telling you this because I am the CEO of TGH Records. I predict that when I sell my shares of the company to AOL/Time Warner within the next 20 years or so, they will release the Pink Munkeyz songs as a compilation CD that will be marketed to 18-25 year olds. Sales will be modest, but over time it will develop into something hyped by third-party Internet media companies and will constantly be sought for years thereafter.

"What you don't know is that Pink Munkeyz played stoner metal mixed with dubstep production. What you also don't know is that we're being recorded by a Pasadena PR firm contracted by AOL/Time Warner.

"So a final painfully obvious word to the scarcely wise: fork over the $22 and buy the 45 and the EP."

Breaking the rhythm

Man in blue torn jersey handing out car service notes

Two girls in tight elastic jeans discussing the hook-ups of the past weekend

Two guys in dreads blasting Soulja Boy waiting in front of the last bodega on Bedford laughing at their own jokes

Emaciated girl in short red shorts rolling Drum tobacco

Crusty hippie chick begging for "discussion to keep spirits up" with two small dogs

Burrito truck making a killing on the corner while littering napkins all over the place

Muggy weather and strands of boredom flowing over the sweet-smelling lindens

The rain breaks the rhythm and it's a fine way to begin the work week.

Bizzy Bee Bondage (ii)

Flip: those are some good ones. Look at the thickness of the caps. They must have excellent gills. No one would know these weren't bought at a store.
Miles: you need to stop using negatives like that, homeslice. It ain't a good look.
Flip: Fuck semantics right now, brodango. We got a lot of fungus to collect. And there are mad flying stingers around, so I wanna operate fast. With the quick-speed, let's hurry.
Miles: C'mon now, we got all the time in the world. These shrooms ain't gonna be disappearing on us. We got a whole 'nother three hours before the wetting.
Flip: Trust me. you ain't never gotten stung by a stinger. It would suck to have to suck poison outta you. I wouldn't be the one to do it.
Miles: Unless you got turned to stone. Then the stingers wouldn't be really important. No threat there, not if you was a stoned-dew face.
Flip: Shut yo' mouth. Let's go to the violets. There's some A. vaginata over there.

Violets had the best kind of aroma. The bumbles always stole their pollen. Mr. Snookles had been there when a one shot up his nose trying to extract crusty phlegm, a non-humorous affair for only him. Not since the horrifying experience of watching Abe Lanning's dreams eaten by spaghetti man had the dew face of Snookles absorbed such abject pain. His fate would be sealed the day his existence was re-mineralized. Of course, the convergence of a resolute bee and a couple of spore-hunters would be him, the grewd-dew faced Snookles. Craven, not. Oblivious, never. A reference point for continuous progress, measured and scrutinized; unequivocal.

Stingers were your friend. You were a bee. You could retract and poke, stab and sheath. Your chariot was your behind. Grunting and bickering beings of a "higher order" were your obstacle. Lack of cognition notwithstanding, you were a productive bee. Buzzing into the array of violets, there was a small, absolute instinct: pollen for the nest, or stinging puncture. You praised the sun, treated the vanished pecker as a marker in the road; the rendezvous of leisurely saunters of a sultry afternoon and a staunch Epicurean of June. You heard nothing, for you had no ears. You buzzed to a flower, muscles contracting all the while. A pluck later, peckerless peons suffered nose trauma. You returned to the nest, ready to start the rebuild, while some other forms of "higher beings" ran far back to their artificial home, away from the duty you had only just begun.

Bizzy Bee Bondage

The bizzy bee had come to terms with the fire. Her nest had burned to charcoal and ash. She had no need for tears. She had no need for ears. Bees lack such things. There is no remorse for bees, and no fear or self-doubt. Bizzy was a bee, and she knew exactly where to go. Flying high, building up electrostatic charge, the bee cut deep into the flowers as pollen clung to her body.

Miles: Is that a SMILING TURDUCKEN?
Flip: Nah, dog, that's a grewd-dew faced Mr. Snookles. His little hat is missing, so someone gave him a tape measure to wear instead. Look at his pecker! it's also missing!
Miles: You seen that grewd-dew pecker? I ain't never seen one.
Flip: 'Taint nothin special. But maybe someone broke it off and stole it! He's been stone for a while. I think he fell into a beer vat and got turned to some mineral. You can chip away at him, so his pecker probably got picked by some thug.
Miles: that sounds like a douchebag thing to do.

Flying high, building up electrostatic for pollen collection, you found the outcrop where the violets used to grow. They used to grow on the grewd-dew face. He had turned to stone some time ago, but you don't care or understand. You need to collect sustenance and rebuild. You alone, or else the nest won't reappear. You fly like a metaphor in a Tom Waits song, the bee that stings the vagabond asleep in the old barn. You will sting mushroom collectors in the sweltering forest of Dixie.

t b cont.

Invader at McCoy

I've seen the cracked up man as he tried to hide. I've been inside the house where he used to hide. For his enemy, he would abide a rancorous scent head to toe. Dead fish clamored down to the slough. His back porch stained from perch blood. Still, he knew the crows owned this side of the river. The flight of crows was met with concomitant caws and cries. An enemy has invaded. "Almost Heaven" sanctified the enemy, invasion-intentions wrought with humid showers. The invader looped, dropped, fled.

Dead times for fish mongers, reclaimed turf for heckling Corvidae

Yearly gap in dread

"Smiley children behind that fence. they want to suck your apathy and instill much obedience in its place. that's why i ain't never getting in with a preggers. Fuck the suburban living."

Pedro's thoughts

"The chives were fragrant, flowering bulbs wafts, toe-path along the river offered bumblebees and black flies for avoidance/annoyance. Tripped, disemboweled, scented irresponsibility."

Oldest vacation spot

Across the bridge, bike-rode, Clear Eyes® in tow, player-rims, fake ID stand, cops with mullets, blunts stowed inside denim holster.

lay down and tear.

Virginia is where I am, Pennsylvania is where I grew up.

In Virginia: people drive differently the pace is some sort of a cross between primal/smooth; checks seem to be used more often; the rocks are different, the hills roll differently around them, they break the surface differently, more like with the surface rather than in spite of it; there are cedar trees along the highway; there seem to be more crosses, but maybe they are Virginia Easter decorations or maybe not; the people seem more kind, they say have a nice day and seem to mean it more; there are no foreign cars; Kudzu is everywhere it looks like someone sprayed everything in gray silly string. Virginia! Its a Winner!

Cringe and bar it

Purple skies fell onto maintenance eyes. Complaints were recorded, shelved, disguarded. Look at the aftermath of a crane-death. Vacate your premises for the collapse of a sentinal edifice.

no more crack

IF YOU'LL RECALL THE FROLICKING PREMONITION I ALLUDED TO LAST IT WASN'T SO MUCH A SUPERSTITIOUS UNEASE AS A "tall, skinny Hoops McKean running to klepto-cadaver feed." THAT'S THE HOUSE HE USED TO LIVE IN.

on the other ocean

I was walking by a drycleaner at 3a.m. and there was a sign that said "Sorry, we're closed." You don't have to be sorry. It's 3a.m. and you're a drycleaner. It would be ridiculous for me to expect you to be open. I'm not gonna come by at 10 and say, hey I was here at 3a.m and you guys were closed. Someone owes me an apology.

Adventures thru a strip mall

nah, but onetime i smoked some weed behind a gas station and walked through an alley behind a wafflehouse and seen some cook dude fuckin a waitress.

true story.