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.
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.
The Photons of Our Being
By: Scott Sousa
"These lights flashed in the sky and I swear it was a U.F.O."
"A U.F.O.? How do you know?"
"They were big lights. Trust me. I know it sounds crazy but they zig-zagged and changed colors and then they disappeared."
"Look, Mr. Sellick, it seems like you're describing a fighter jet, or perhaps a weather balloon."
"A ha! A weather balloon. That's how you government men describe it on T.V."
The shrooms were kicking in and watched the lights on the RFK twinkle. A few weeks ago I started a clerical job with the United States Postal Police and now I'm being labeled a government man like I actually give a shit about lights.
"They talked to me, man."
"What do you mean?"
"They spoke to me, telepathically or telekinetically or what ever the hell it is. And even though I didn't want to respond they forced me to."
"Did they waterboard your sense of integrity?"
"It was like deep down, I formulated a response, but I didn't want them to hear it but they heard it anyway."
"How did the conversation go?"
"They said, 'We have come from Uranus'," he said laughing uncontrollably.
"You son of a bitch."
We laughed some more and the occasional person would walk by and see us sitting on the roof of this black car and they would hear us laughing and talking and they would stare at us but we didn't care.
The lights on the RFK began to sway and they lifted themselves, changing shapes.
"Holy shit..." I said.
Lacking
By: Scott Sousa
They whispered and giggled. They were all alone and had nothing to hide but that surely didn't stop them from enjoying the thrill of sharing their secrets.
Bill and Donnie walked in. Rachel and Denise, caught in the headlights of a semi that has no intention of braking, stopped, stunned, and stared at the men only to succumb to the sudden urge to crack up.
The women laughed and the men walked past, not really knowing what to think. They sit down in the living room and Bill turns on the t.v.
"Have you ever gone to the bathroom to take a piss and found a very long hair mingling with your carnival when there's no reason for one to be there?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you haven't been with a woman in a while, and out of the blue you pull out your snake to refill the Hudson and there's a long hair wrapped around your straw. Has that ever happened to you?"
"Well, could it be due to poor personal care?"
"I don't go more than a week without whacking the weeds. And what are the odds I've been missing this one hair all these years only to have it fall out suddenly?"
"Wait, are you telling me you haven't dipped your pen in Rachel's ink in a while?"
"It's this thing we've been trying out recently that's supposed to get us to bond. She gets sauced by another guy while I watch."
"That's fucked." Bill smirked.
"Ha ha, funny."
"How did you get roped into something as crazy as that?"
"Our marriage counselor suggested it. She said it would help me feel connected to her."
"Does it work?"
"The first few times it pissed me off so now I just bring a book to keep my mind off it."
"Do you at least get to putt in some other chick's green in front of your wife?"
"No."
"That's like... feminism out of control or something, man. You got to put an end to that."
Donnie shrugs. "The only thing I can really do -"
The door to the apartment was broken down and two men wielding shotguns raced in, and in a panic, they immediately fired shots at Rachel and Denise. The men, realizing they shouldn't have been so hasty, bolted.
Bill and Donnie ran into the kitchen and found their wive's brains splattered on the floor and walls.
"Bad ass," Donnie says and they high-fived.
Reality sets in. Donnie awoke from his dream and cut off a stream of spit that had begun to drip down onto his mediocre book as Denise moaned, "Harder, Rex, harder."
He watched Rex's balls slap against his wife's pelvis for a moment and tried to regain interest in his novel...
Next of Kin
By: Scott Sousa
You know the moment the phone begins to ring that it is going to be bad news. Something about the ring or the time of day or the person whose name shows up the caller i.d. tells us that it is not a phone call we want to receive but have to answer. It was 11 pm when my phone rang. It was my mother, gasping.
"Your uncle died," she cried.
My uncle was a textbook example of someone who noticed an abnormal growth on his skin and chose to ignore it. The next thing he knew he had several malignant tumors all over his body. His doctor told him to quit drinking.
"Whaddayah mean quit drinking? What does drinking have to do with skin cancer? Nothing! That's what," he slurred.
"But-"
"But nothing! I know what you think of me, Mr. College Graduate. Poor, dumb fuck of an old man and his dumb fucking dirty blue collar. I'll show you something they probably didn't teach you at Harvard!" and he swung at the doctor, busting three of his teeth.
Soon after the restraining order was filed a doctor at another hospital gave him four to six months to live without treatment. That was eight years ago.
I pictured my uncle's wake: Relatives grieving, distillery execs posthumously awarding him medals for his dedication to the industry and an open bar for those who chose not to cry.
In reality his wake was odiously beautiful. My father gave the eulogy.
"Jack was... Well, he was a man with crude intentions and an impeccable taste for liquor."
People began to whisper and I was in nearly in tears trying to hold back my laughter.
"One must wonder how many diseases could have been cured with the money he spent on brandy and vodka."
He paused, surveying the stupefied looks on people's faces.
"But, as his family and friends, we must remember that not all of Jack's life was negative. He never once got a D.U.I. How this is possible no one will ever know because our Lord works in mysterious ways. Thank you."
Everyone silently watched him step down from the podium in front of the casket, except for me, I was trying my best to mask my hysteric laughter as crying. My cousin rose reached out and put her hand on my shoulder, saying "It'll be okay. Be strong."
We all knew that although my father's eulogy was grossly inappropriate that he was right. Everyone left the funeral home that night without saying goodbye.