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.
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 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?"