Archive for June, 2011


cemetery symmetry

Well, fellas, we’re gonna have to face the shareholders in a few minutes, and let’s face it, they’re gonna be pissed. The product rollout for spring only had one new item, and it was a complete disaster. Who could have guessed that a piece of plywood painted to look like the spines of the collected works of Albert Camus and Immanuel Kant, intended to fit onto a bookshelf to obscure one’s collection of pornographic VHS tapes, wouldn’t have been more popular? I’d fire our whole research division for their ignorance of the existence of internet pornography, but the fact of the matter is that this was a failure not of execution, but of vision. And for that I, as CEO, must shoulder the blame. I admit, don’t know how to run this company. And while I’m hoping that admission will somehow absolve me of any responsibility, I don’t expect it to.

As you all know, my father, a man whose name, Old Man Johnson, is still whispered with reverence in the Italian marble corridors of this building, built this firm into one of the last 800-pound gorillas in this business, with nothing more than a dream and a handful of buttons, which was the only loan he could secure from the bank. With single-minded acquisitiveness he amassed his empire, all in hopes of achieving one goal: to groom his only son as successor. Though he spared no expense in making sure I would be ready when the time came, there was nothing in the curriculum at Exeter that could prepare me for the impossibility of living up to his legacy. Of course, if anyone had consulted me about it, they would have known that I wanted more than anything else to follow my dream of being a tax code attorney. Oh, to be continually awash in my two great loves: complex mathematical problems and volumes of Byzantine, impenetrable statutes! But it was not to be. And now here I am, in the Fat Elvis stage of a career that was never all that distinguished to begin with, surrounded by his contemporaries, whose only discernible skill is sycophancy and whose facial features grow more pelican-like each day.

All right, I suppose it’s time to face the music. The only encouraging news I have to offer these bloodthirsty wolves is that we’re working on finding innovative new revenue streams, in the wake of our failure to build a cost-effective model for our latest product, a robotic prehensile tail for today’s mom on the go. All right, let’s get this meeting over with. We’ve got to be out of the office by six tonight, so the DJ can move his equipment and the margarita machine in here. By the way, guys, it probably wouldn’t be wise to mention that I’ve been renting the boardroom out to a weekly swingers party.


maximum darkness

As I sit alone at my desk here in my reinforced bunker, it seems appropriate that it has been cleared of all but a few items: the paper on which I am penning this letter, a glass of water accompanied by a single cyanide tablet, and a sense of destiny that it would be difficult to overstate the impermeability of. Indeed, everything extraneous has been removed as I have uncluttered the space around me to symbolize my newly regained clarity of vision, which I had gradually lost in the decade since founding this cult (this should shed light on the origins of the ping pong table, Galaga/Ms Pac Man machine, and mini-fridge stocked with fun size Mr. Goodbars which mysteriously appeared in the east tabernacle last week; I would have explained earlier if I had known it was going to raise so many questions. Again, I’m sincerely sorry for any misunderstanding).

Friends, the final chapter of our Family’s story is being written, and it is with some sadness that I watch the tale unfolding on the monitors fed by our many security cameras. After a lengthy standoff, law enforcement agents in helmets and body armor have breached the west walls and will soon be swarming the compound while barking terrifying orders through a megaphone, but I feel eerily calm knowing that it will all soon be over. It is only now, unadorned at last by the tunic made of scratchy iridescent fabric that I have worn every day since walking in these doors, that I see the only option is to sacrifice myself so that you all may go free. Lest you feel abandoned by my having led you to this place, promising enlightenment and redemption, only to leave you at the moment it all fell apart, I want you all to know that our time here has not been for naught. Consider the third chair violin in a symphony orchestra. Is it disappointing that the culmination of a lifetime of dedication is to toil anonymously, to blend seamlessly into a larger body in service to the vision of another? Or is the discipline required to learn their craft its own noble and fulfilling form of self-expression? I say with certainty that each and every one of you has performed a vital function in what we built here, every bit as essential as the executives at Goldman Sachs, who covertly funded our compound as long as we kept drawing media and law enforcement attention away from their own criminal activities. Years from now, when it all seems pointless, think of the gratitude currently being expressed in the afterlife by all your dead ancestors and pets we posthumously converted to the true faith.

As you re-adjust to life in the outside world, I ask you to remember a few things that will aid in your transition. Prepare yourselves for a media feeding frenzy, as America gets an erection harder than galvanized steel when presented with the opportunity to express righteous indignation. Be careful in what you reveal to outsiders, for just as what happened here cannot possibly be understood from the outside, neither can it be explained from the inside. I guess what I’m trying to say is that no matter how clearly you explain that adhering to a rotating schedule of sexual assignations (posted every third thursday in the compound’s dining area) allowed all the believers to share all components of their being, the piece on Dateline is still probably gonna be edited in a way that makes you look like a weirdo. Well, I think that’s everything. No need to remind the last person to leave to make sure the lights are off, since that should take care of itself once the exercise bikes in our electricity generation room are unmanned.


you got a hubcap dinosaur halo

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE- As part of a bold company-wide restructuring plan, Seized Office Furniture Auction Warehouse (NYSE: SFW, NASDAQ: SOFAW) is pleased to announce that it will be accepting applications for the newly created position of national marketing director. The hiree for this position will be charged with the exciting task of crafting the public face of not only Seized Office Furniture Auction Warehouse corporate headquarters, but also of its 16 retail outlets nationwide as they adapt to the challenges of a changing global marketplace.

Requirements include five-plus years experience in marketing at a national level, with a demonstrated ability to work collaboratively with public relations and upper-level management to develop a streamlined, consistent message, and a single black nose hair curling just outside the outer rim of one nostril, making it impossible for people to concentrate on anything you’re saying- even if it’s really important- because they can’t stop staring at it, have relevant experience in social media marketing strategies, and have had two singles reach Billboard’s Top 200 R&B charts entitled “Weed I Love You But You Burnin My Trachea” and “Even When I Fuck Slow, I Fuck Hard,” from the applicant’s 1994 debut album, “Horse Sweat.” Preferred candidates will be comfortable using Powerpoint, have a proven ability to learn and integrate viral marketing campaigns with traditional formats, ritually masturbate to pictures of house fires, and walk up to girls in bars and casually ask if they can buy them a “gin and taliae,” all the while waggling their eyebrows suggestively, hoping to lure them back to the applicant’s houseboat.

Pay is negotiable, and benefits include a 5% discount at all Seized Office Furniture Auction Warehouse stores, as well as a vision plan with an annual free voucher for transition lenses.



The mom that likes to party can be commonly found in her natural environment, the indoor inflatable playground at the mall. Like everyone else, she sees the clumps of bacteria crawling, breeding, and drooling on every surface, but unlike these other fools, the mom that likes to party doesn’t give a fuck about a cold virus. She’s rocking a pair of supertight Juicy Couture sweatpants, texting  on an eight year-old flip phone in a rhinestone-encrusted case, and scaring the shit out of everyone in that joint, from the slovenly, disoriented-looking dads in mustard-stained knit polos who feel intimidated by her, to the uptight moms in B-Reps apparel that somehow lost its sexiness in the transition from the store mannequin to their own icy tundra of unsexable exurban ass, who feel threatened by her.  

Thanks to a handful of seldom-used numbers in her phone, the mom that likes to party hasn’t paid for weed in years. She’s got a tattoo of the Tasmanian Devil, and the dudes to whom those seldom-used numbers belong have all seen it a few times. The mom that likes to party has stilted, awkward exchanges with the other parents at her kid’s school sometimes, and she knows it’s because they’ve privately discussed whether she’d be amenable to a threesome. The mom that likes to party would have a much less vibrant social life if her kid weren’t such a sound sleeper.   

When she’s off work, the mom that likes to party dresses however she wants, because she spends her days toughing it out in an office with a policy mandating heels and skirts for female employees. She works a lot, saving her sick days for when her kid pukes at school, but burns occasional vacation days sitting by the pool at her apartment complex surreptitiously pouring Malibu rum into a Big Gulp while reading A Confederacy of Dunces behind a pair of dark glasses. Yeah, motherfucker, A Confederacy of fucking Dunces. There are a number of reasons she didn’t finish college, but lack of brains is not one of them. Her kid’s smart, too, you know. He’s nine now, and has already surpassed his father in terms of adult decision-making capabilities. He’s a little dude, though; gets his ass kicked at school a lot, and part of the reason the mom that likes to party has developed a policy of taking absolutely zero shit from anyone is that she hopes it will rub off on him. Despite having been let down countless times by countless people in her life, the mom that likes to party holds fast to a belief in the basic honesty and good in us all, because those qualities exist so strongly within her. Oh, I almost forgot: the mom that likes to party is wearing a nicotine patch on her upper arm in full view of everyone, so if you’re thinking of approaching her, your opening line had better consist of something more substantial than asking if you can bum a cigarette.


mister gorbachev, wipe down these counters

Young buck, you don’t know how lucky you have it. I see you out there: sippin on Cris, riding in the back of a limo while a straight dime piece booty claps the William Tell overture, but you checkin the time on that three Gs on ya wrist thinking, “gotdamb, what time the party really gonna start?” You got everything handed to you, nahmean, without recognizing those that paved the way for you. What, you think the world was ready for an emcee to tour with a chef that that prepares calamari on stage? Baby boy, I had to soften em up for you by spittin rhymes while chained to the bottom of a shark tank.

You wouldn’t be where you’re at if I hadn’t broken down the barriers to success that you didn’t even know were standing in your path. It took courage to set trends like I did, but I knew one day there would be another generation to continue my vision and take it to a new level. I was the first one to wear just a bathrobe to the club with the belt undone, lettin mah stuff swing like a grandfather clock or some shit. Man, wasn’t nobody else completin sudoku puzzles on stage until I did it. Talkin about the Friday paper too- five stars, son! That’s the highest degree of difficulty! You think I did that for me? Hell naw, I was pioneering some new frontiers so you could enjoy that golden chalice custom designed by Jacob, full of refreshing Ecto Cooler, or alternately, Sharkleberry Fin. Yeah, I took a few lumps, but I got through it because I had a strong belief in myself, plus I had the foresight to know what was gonna be poppin, so I stayed ahead of the curve (oh, by the way, voluntary gratuitous amputations are gonna be huge in 2012, so find a good black market surgeon and get him on lock).

And now, at the age of twenty-five, I’m washed up. Sad to say, but my dream of weaving the poetry of the streets is at an end, even though I still had a lot more stories to tell. I won’t lie; it was hard to give it up. I had to look in the mirror and ask myself some tough questions before I took this new gig, doing a rap teaching kids the importance of flossing they teeth daily. This track’s gonna be hot, but it ain’t even getting released under my name, and the video’s just gonna be a cartoon muskrat wearing Cross Colours and a backwards ball cap. But for an artist as inventive as me, the next hook is just around the corner. I got a secret project in the works to get me back on top. Don’t want to reveal too much, but let’s just say it involves both the addition and subtraction tables. Look, I ain’t lookin for no recognition. I had my day. But just remember that when you only saw one set of footprints in the sand, that was me carrying you (you can tell because the tread marks are Fila, and I was rocking those kicks before anyone).

June 2011
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