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.

"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.

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.

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:

JubJubTheRhino - Serious Talk

Tracklisting:

1. Drink of Choice
2. Ummm...
3. Serious Talk
4. Raymond Carver
5. Mary Ann

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.

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...

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.

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?"

The children, easily amused by petty amounts of money, eagerly take turns counting the coins. All of them unanimously agree there is $1.17 in the bottle, except for one who was 2 cents short, who will predictably go to art school.

"Wrong!" the grandfather says laughing.

Jimmy, six years of age, recounts the change and confidently says, "Grandpa, there is $1.17 there."

Laughing still, the grandfather says, "You're wrong, Jimmy. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong! Being confident about being wrong will get you no where in life."

Every year for the next ten years the grandfather would test his grandchildren and ridicule them for being wrong. Each year, fewer and fewer participated as a result.

One day, Jimmy is helping his grandfather move. It had been a long drive to Ann Arbor from Buffalo, but after a late lunch they begin moving furniture into the new house.  Jimmy catches a glimpse of the soda bottle in the truck as they both lift an old, heavy, oak dresser. Jimmy thinks about this puzzle once again. Halfway up the flight of stairs to the second floor, the answer comes to Jimmy. "Grandpa, I got it! There's $1.22 in total, including the bottle deposit."

Laughing, the grandfather replies, "Wrong, once again. We're in Michigan now and the bottle deposit here is 10 cents."

Jimmy debates loosening his grip on the dresses but decides to hang on. There will be a better opportunity, he says to himself.