Archive for April, 2009


those little things floating around in italian dressing are actually mind-controlling robots

Dear sir:

We thank you for your unsolicited handwritten submission to our publishing house. Although, regrettably, the time is not right for us to consider your manuscript, I personally felt your submission warranted special comment, per your promise in the cover letter to “kill and eat all who fail to join (you) on the path to glory”.

Your work contains a level of brilliance so subtle as to be completely undetectable, but more time honing your craft would do your work a great service. Perhaps five to ten years writing appeals to the governor would infuse your future work with the urgency necessary to keep a reader’s attention.

In conclusion, I personally encourage you to continue the noble pursuit of your dream, although one semester at community college, distinguished though it may  have been, does not automatically qualify you to write owner’s manuals for kitchen appliances. Best of luck in your future endeavors.


do the phone key chicken

“Listen, pal, I hate to do this to you on such short notice, but I got a memo from my program director, and they all of a sudden want to do a show about animals, instead of whatever it was we were going to have you on to talk about.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Terry.”

“I still want to have you on as a guest, uh, what was your name again?”


“Jeff! That’s right. Like I said, I still want to have you on as a guest, but we’re going to have to ad-lib some stuff. For starters, I’m going to introduce you as a wildlife expert. We’ll say you’re bringing a crocodile, a white tiger cub, and uh, one of those big spider things. I understand if you’re not comfortable doing this, but we go on the air in about thirty seconds, so I need a quick decision here.”

“That’s not what I came here to do. I…”

Relax! It’s radio! We do a little pretend acting, Ronnie back there on the board can chime in with some animal sound effects, we keep the sponsors happy… everybody wins. Whaddya say?”

“Terry, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot here. I am your court-appointed attorney. We need to talk about the defense strategy-”

“Look, Jeff, if we’re not doing a radio show, then what are we doing in this studio?”

“This isn’t a studio, we’re in a room provided by the prison. That man behind the mirrored window over there isn’t your producer, he’s-”

“aaaaaaand welcome back! This portion of afternoon drive silliness is brought to you by Uncle Mel’s Extra Hot Burn-Your-Dick-Off Hot Sauce, a division of Manticorp!”


am i forgetting something?


turn off the stove?

write the great american novel?

call my parents?

move to Florida and register to vote for Gore?

put the lid back on the pickle jar?

wipe my prints off the crime scene?

return that vhs copy of “carlito’s way”?

convert to metric?

refill the hostages’ water dish? 

pick up my dry cleaning?

close that one interdimensional portal that allows demons to cross over into our world?

prank call that cable access show?

bribe the judges?

disable your passenger side airbag?

get in line to camp out for tix to the Jacksons’ Victory tour?

renew subscription to Cat Fancy magazine?

warn Nicole about OJ?

Photoshop my face out of picture with Roger Clemens?

carry the 1?


lowering a message in a bottle into an empty well

Due to my erratic posting, this isn’t the kind of blog a person checks on a regular basis (if at all), and I’m aware of that. Therefore, I’m praying to Internet Jesus on this holy Cyber-Easter for someone to Google some combination of “crash san antonio teabag tea party” or “tea party san antonio crash april 15” and be led here. Because I am sort of curious about getting a group together Wednesday to check out the weirdness, not really even act up (that much), but to go and observe, like college kids obnoxiously ironically going to a monster truck rally. 

Pretty abstract, not-that-thought-out idea, I realize. But one characteristic of my artist’s temperment is the inability to organize anything. You should see my closet! (suggestion: for further comedic effect, the preceding paragraph could be read aloud in a Snagglepuss voice)

So… if you’re interested, and feel like making a brief escape from Austin, and are not a covert Glenn Beck devotee who is going to seize this opportunity to carry out your elaborate plan to kidnap and enslave local doe-eyed hippies, make yourself known here. As an added bonus, you will have smashed through this blog’s comments-hymen.




Too far?


grapes are like nature’s bicycles, except there’s no world record for eating them

Entry 1: My name is Dr. Benjamin Stryker. It is my hope that this journal will serve as some historical account for future generations to learn from, as contemporary minds have yet to offer a reasonable explanation for my predicament. The origins of my current path are unknown, but I have established without a doubt that I have been traveling through time.

Entry 2: Waking up in a disoriented haze, I rush to the nearest newsstand at the break of day to get a newspaper so I can determine today’s date, but am thwarted when the man at the kiosk asks if I intend to pay for a paper, or just stand there drooling. Not knowing where I am in time or what the economic climate is that I’ve awoken to, I cannot divine the cost of a newspaper, or even what the currency is in this strange place. Instead, I rush into traffic, causing several cars to come screeching to a halt.  I slam my hands on the hood of one vehicle and scream at the driver, “What is today’s date?”  Unsympathetic to my plight, he gets out of the car and begins accosting me, his fists raining down persistently upon my head. I fall from consciousness unaware of my surroundings.

Entry 3:  I awaken to an intrusive light shining directly into my eye.  “Good morning, Mr. Stryker,”  I hear a strange female voice say. “Welcome back to the waking world.” How does this person know my name? Have I landed at some intergalactic hub for time traveling? Unfortunately, I drift back to sleep before I have a chance to ask for answers, or even correct her for calling me “Mr.” instead of “Dr.” Hours later, I reopen my eyes and find myself in some sort of holding area. I’ve been placed in a bedlike apparatus and my clothes have been replaced by a single-piece gown; clearly, clothing design in the future is based more on utility than aesthetics.  This place has an antiseptic, almost clinical atmosphere that I find threatening. Eyeing an overcoat left on an unattended chair, I steal it and make my escape into the night. I hail a cab to take me to an apartment building I recall having lived in at some point in the past, but upon discovering that my wallet has been taken, I jump from the moving vehicle before the destination and sprint the last few blocks to the apartment building. The cabbie, following me the entire way,  screams at me in some unintelligible language  (note: perhaps aliens are living on earth at this time?) as I climb the stairs to my once-apartment, finding it abandoned. The door has had several locks placed in it and an eviction notice is posted thereon.   

Entry 4:  This morning I broke an outside window and accessed the apartment. I found several items that appeared familiar, but as if in some alternate universe, the place was in absolute squalor. Half-empty Ramen noodles cups, some with roaches floating in them, litter the hallway leading to the bedroom. The bathroom looks as if someone has been using it as a place for injecting drugs. Horrified at my findings, I grab a medicine bottle and few crumpled dollar bills from the bedside table and venture back out before the drug-injectors return. Will I never find a pattern to my time-traveling? I silently fear that nothing in my educational background, not even my postgraduate degree in international finance, can prepare me for the discoveries ahead.

Entry 5: Relief has washed over me as I encountered a fellow time-traveler today, a woman named Wendy. As a brilliant means of avoiding attention during her travels, she has been posing as a prostitute. Wendy was able to explain that she, I, and countless selected others, have been traveling into the future at an approximate rate of 52 weeks per year. “Ah- It’s coming together!” I exclaimed. Connecting the dots, I was able to determine a pattern: on this date exactly one year ago, I was 38 years old, while on today’s date, I am 39 years old! Of course! It’s so simple! To celebrate our breakthrough, I pour out a few tablets from the medicine bottle, then we crush and snort them. Together, we will bravely face the future, whatever form it takes.


recordings of loved ones

with rare exception

do they recede-

counting backward from the last fresh moment of contact,

finally settling somewhere in the middle ground of the mind’s great topography

until doubt takes root

as to whether they in any way resembled the person i now recall

or exist in my mind merely as a construct

of  memories with fading accuracy. 

but then a long-lost familiar sound, place, or smell restores them

if only fleetingly

April 2009