Sandwich of Respite
By: Scott Sousa
I was calm, collected and ready to roll. The stack of pink and yellow was a sign from the Creator; Don't fuck with me and you will be rewarded. I took a bite and an explosion of onion and mayonnaise overwhelmed me. The cheese like a razor blade to the tongue. I was bleeding to death and happy. I lost control of my body, convulsing, covered in a white, sticky goo. An orgasm of the mouth. Tongue jizz.
If God ever existed she would have manifested herself as a ham and cheddar sandwich with a pair of giant tits. She would have loved to be eaten but would have hated to get fucked. So I kept eating her. She was loving it and I'm in love.
One bite at a time I escaped from the forty-hour-per-week mentality. Heroin addicts envied me. It was like attending a luncheon with Buddha, Christ and Garuda. I left full and never looked back.
The Search
By: Scott Sousa
In a tiny dark room stood two men, one from the organization, the other was born with tiny ears and the ability to get the job done. They stared out a large window looking out at the universe. They used his tiny ears to listen in on microscopic worlds.
"What do you hear?" Agent Dunbar asked.
"Shh..." replied Heywood, aiming his right ear toward the target. He heard voices. They were all clamoring for attention, screaming, whispering, singing, booing, cheering, chanting, exclaiming, sighing, whimpering, whining and some were even sleep talking. "It's hard to make out who's who."
"You need a filter."
"God, no, please, no more filters," Heywood begged, cowering into a dark corner.
Agent Dunbar pierced his skull with a hypodermic needle full of a yellow liquid. Paralyzed with pain, Heywood collapses to the floor with the needle still stuck in his skull, occasionally twitching.
"Quit screwing around. We have work to do." Agent Dunbar pulled the needle from Heywood's skull. Heywood regained consciousness and stood up, dusting his pants off. He re-aimed his ear.
"I hear him," Heywood said.
"What's he saying?"
Heywood said nothing. He was listening to himself and Agent Dunbar a few minutes behind where they existed at the moment. It no longer mattered what he heard because he already knew what was said.
Dilettante & Tyro (A Series. In Conversation): Mindfulness
By: Jonathan Briggs
-Let me see those.
-I take one every morning before my breakfast. Sometimes I take one at night or in the afternoon if I'm feeling particularly B deprived or something.
-Why did you, of all people, become a vegan? Is it vegan or a vegan?
-I don't think it matters. But I think you can lose the article. It sounds more unified and communal without the “a.”
-Ok, why did you become vegan? You love meat. And cheese.
-That's just it. I love meat. I love cheese. But why should I indulge in something based solely on pleasure? You don't roam around the streets kicking homeless people.
-Right. But I also find no pleasure in such pursuits. Besides, you don't eat meat solely for the pleasure it gives you. Nutrition is another factor.
-My point exactly. It's a kind of asceticism.
-You mean you see yourself as a sort of palate-monk.
-Precisely. I deprive myself of something I enjoy, I make it harder for me to ingest B12, vitamin D and calcium, I consider before eating, all because I believe in something higher than a whimsical craving for a cheesesteak. Why should a cow be slaughtered because my stomach belts an insatiable growl?
-Not insatiable.
-What?
-Your stomach could easily be appeased by popping a chunk of ground beef into your mouth.
-By shoving beef down my gullet? You aren't following. As long as I'm alive I am going to be hungry. I might as well eat with a mindfulness of my food.
-Mindfulness?
-Yes. Mindfulness. Being aware of what you eat. How it impacts the entire universe, not just your impermanent appetite.
-And you eat with your mind how often? Every time you eat?
-Every time I unhinge my jaw to bite.
-How long have you been a vegan now?
-Since last May. So going on eight months now.
-And how long have you been taking these supplements?
-The same.
-Have you ever read the ingredients?
-Once. When I bought them. A bunch of stuff I couldn't pronounce.
-Yeah, I bet. Except for this one. You can pronounce ingredient number two.
-What is it?
-You have to promise you'll appreciate the irony.
-I think I know where this is going.
-Gelatin.
Sausage Youth
By: Scott Sousa
The sausages of our youth reflect out gaping lack of humanity.
We were young.
We were reckless.
The sausages we ate injected saturated fat and cholesterol into our philistinic hearts.
We kill ourselves by lacking to care.
"But sausages are good. We'll live forever," you said long ago.
Now you're dead.
Death by sausage? Not quite.
It was a McNasty car accident that did you in.
If adjectives had ethnicities, 'nasty' would be Irish.
The car accident was (No No No) nasty, but Irish at the same time. Consolidation. McDonald. Nasty. Hence, McNasty.
"Not Donald Nasty!" the midwife shrieked seeing the car accident in the distance.
"SHA-RIEK!" a passerby said laughing to himself.
He had not thought of Applied Chaos and "The Butterfly Effect." What you do does indeed fuck the future.
A man calls the police. Says, "I think someone's in trouble."
"Okay, calm down, sir. What happened?"
"I heard a man outside shriek."
Congratulations, midwife.
You wasted taxpayers' dollars. What are you? British or a just a bitch? It can't be both. No way, José. One way or no way. No how.
***
The cause of our "sausage youth1" comes from our hatred for everyone else. It also comes from our undying love for everyone else (while we hate ourselves, obviously).
We cannot end like this.
We must move on.
"And we must become vegan."
"Shut the fuck up," an attractive woman said.
Somewhere behind a one way mirror an FBI agent watched the scene unfold. She was suspected of weapons smugglings but could never be convicted. Sorry to ruin it for you.
No, it's okay.
Good because I'm not sorry.
God damn it, Fred. Shut up.
Fred nailed the accelerator and rear-ended the car of Donald McNasty.
-
1 The words of Dr. Gerald Accordion carved into a toilet stall.
A Neat Party Trick
By: Scott Sousa
- Tell an acquaintance that if a twenty dollar bill is folded a certain way an image of the Twin Towers on fire will appear.
- They may have seen the trick before and think it's stupid or have never seen it before. Come up with something clever to say like, "No, seriously, it's pretty crazy. If you have a twenty I'll show you."
- Once the bill is in your hand, run like hell!
JubJubTheRhino – All American Rhino
By: Scott Sousa
JubJubTheRhino - All American Rhino
JubJubTheRhino is back with some more tunes to dish out for free! This EP is titled All American Rhino and it fuckin' rocks so check it out and blow him a kiss. Download.
Here's a taste:
Tracklisting:
1. Drink of Choice
2. Ummm...
3. Serious Talk
4. Raymond Carver
5. Mary Ann
Rich Bitch
By: Scott Sousa
Can you imagine? The thought of you (yes, you) and I trapped together on a desert island for all eternity simply disgusts me. The taste of vomit in my mouth is more pleasant.
You would obviously cave within hours and attempt to thrust your Irish 'breakfast' (it's probably not more than a nibble, I imagine) in me but I am a woman of class. My cunt does not drip for drooling baboons such as yourself. It, even with its primal urges and pubic hair, is far too sophisticated for a vagabond. It is invited to all the best parties. Of course it always RSVPs with a plus one (I'm the plus one) because it does not want to come off as some mangled moose head that can be bought and sold with the snap of a finger.
So go ahead, stare at my heaving breasts. You will never touch or see them in the nude. Not even if I die. They would self-destruct, you slobbering jammie dodger. I may be close to thirty-five (forty) but they do not look a day over seventeen. That is unlike your spaghetti and meatballs. The probably look so run down an old Sicilian wench would shriek at its sight but gobble it reluctantly in an attempt to cure her insatiable appetite for crème de la twit.
My men ARE class. Their salaries match their smiles. Of course salaries still matter when you're trapped on a desert island with a man! How else would you pay your way out? With hopes and dreams while you dangle your nauseating flaccid steak and potatoes in one hand and hold an overdrawn debit card in the other?
You! You odious man! I bet you take public transportation. Riding around, tongue draped over your chin, whistling and groping at night walkers and good Christian women. If you ever dared to touch me I would scream! The thought of you in general is revolting and I ought to report you to the authorities out of principle you filthy pocket pool-playing man you.
Man on the Moon, Part Two
By: Scott Sousa
Diego parked the cab in front of a café and punched a number into his cell phone. I didn't understand a word of what he said. My high school Spanish teacher with big tits failed me.
There were two men sitting outside watching us. Normally I don't like to stare but my eyes locked with theirs' and there was no turning back.
"They are ready for you," Diego said. "Go inside and order to espressos. You will be escorted from there."
Carl paid him and we walked in the café. It was a dirty place but much nicer than some of the other places we have found ourselves in. The cigarette smoke smelled more expensive. We picked a table near a window and sat down.
"This is it," Carl said.
An overweight man with a curly mustache came to take our order.
"Two espressos, please."
"Si señor," said the overweight man and he motioned for us to follow him. He led us through a door in the back, down a dimly lit stairway.
A hand came out of the darkness and got Carl, and another got me. A rag went over my mouth and the sweetness of chloroform filled my lungs. The dreams began almost immediately.
Lilacs and whiskey in an extravagant hotel suite in Las Vegas. I was on top of the world but no matter how much I begged could not get room service to bring me a glass of whole milk.
Panic set in. I ran out into the desert but my legs melted in the heat. I became a puddle, stationary, looking up at the sky. A kitten sat next to me, purring, staring at me with a curiosity only a kitten could possess. It began to lap me up. I was the milk...
Man on the Moon, Part One
By: Scott Sousa
The alarm rang and we slowly peeled our skin from the bed sheets. It was hot and our balls were sweaty but that didn't matter much because we were in Mexico City and there everyone's balls were sweaty; The place stank like it, anyway.
Carl had dragged me to Mexico to help him pick up pain killers. He had never done anything like this before. "On T.V. they make it look so simple," he said, "You just cross the border and go to the pharmacy half a block away." Half a block turned into over 1,000 miles into the heart of this perverse jungle of modern badlanders, farmers and uninteresting villages where you could never quite tell if everyone was happy or sad. Our day trip had lasted well over a week at this point. No body's got the quantity Carl wants to buy, so they tell us to keep going south.
We hailed a cab. "You speak English?" Carl asked.
"Of course, meester," the cabbie said.
We got in and took off.
"Where you headed?"
"Do you know anyone with pain killers?" Carl asked.
"Pain killers?"
"Yeah, vicodins, percocets. Pain killers."
"Oh sure, I know someone who can help you," the cabbie said smiling.
"I want to buy a lot, can this person handle that?"
"Sure, sure. Diego can get you however much of whatever it is that you want."
Carl smiled at me.
"Okay. Great. I have a prescription a doctor wro-"
"You won't need a prescription. Nothing requires anything in Mexico, meester."
"Fair enough. What's your name?"
"Me? I'm Cesar."
"Pleasure to meet you, Cesar. I'm Carl, and my friend here is Davis."
I met his eyes in the rear view mirror and said, "Howyahdoin."
"It's going to be a long ride, get comfortable," Cesar said.
He nailed the accelerator, zig-zagging down narrow city streets, racing red lights and yellow at anyone within earshot of the cab who might have been thinking of getting in our way. We were finally making progress and after today we could go home.
The Usual, Please, and Thank You
By: Scott Sousa
I opened the door and Cego was standing, staring at me from across the room. I stopped and stared back, wondering why I was being challenged in this way. I crept toward him, shutting the door behind me. His eyes remained fixed, stone cold. I was perplexed. I felt like saying something but anything I could have come up with would have sounded dumb so I kept quiet, examining the situation. I stopped.
Was he even looking at me? Maybe he was transfixed by something behind me. But I couldn't look away. If he was indeed challenging me then I would lose. I've already lost thirty bucks on scratch tickets in the past week. I could at least try and win this. I was good at this sort of thing.
Cego opened his mouth slightly. Was he ready to speak? No, he sat there, silent, with a dumbfounded look. At any moment he would begin to drool and it would all be over. He seemed to have caught himself and pursed his lips. I slowly moved to the left. His eyes remained fix on the door. I could blink again. I looked at the door. It was certainly a beautiful door but he has lived in this same house for years and to stare at it in awe today?
Cego turned around and sat at his desk.
I walked up behind him. "The hell is wrong with you?"
Astonished, he turned around. "Paul! When did you get here?"
"I walked in the door and you stared at me for almost five minutes."
"Really?" He scratched at his beard and smiled. "I guess we're all a bit anosognosic at times. Would you like something to drink?"