Saturday, June 25, 2005

("SEX AND THE WISDOM OF MEN" is the first installment in a trilogy of monologues about the know-how hidden away in sex, drugs n’ rock n’ roll.

Fuckin’ eh !! And that’s the fuckin’ Eh, B, C’s to you, eh.

We open on a group of aging metal heads standing around a camp fire.


Enjoy your own enlightenment n’ shit….


Shit !! That’s so fuckin’ true. My chick’d be late for her own fuckin’ funeral. Not a goddamn day goes by that I’m not being held up for one thing or another. Even if I’m fuckin’ going out on my own, she makes me late. Don’t come home too late because my mom’s coming over tomorrow and I don’t want you stinking up her face with your hung-over booze breath, blah, blah, blah… I was late getting out here ‘cause she was giving me the play by play on what’s going on over the next month. Christ, am I the president ?! Why debrief me on every fuckin’ thing that’s going on. We can just do it. I don’t need her yapping away about all the details.


Yeah but I guess she’s alright. She’s got her moments. She’s good in bed. Yeaoooooooww !! Although it does take two to tango, right ? Yeah I hold up my end of the bargain in the bedroom. There’s one simple rule that I follow. Don’t come quick. You can come but if you come quick you gotta go back and come again so why not just go the fuckin’ distance in the first place.


And all this Viagra bullshit that they ram down your throats on t.v. n’ shit. What a load of fuckin’ crap. The most surefire way of not coming is so fuckin’ simple that nobody knows it. Nobody knows it because it sounds so fuckin’ ridiculous that anybody who has the power does not want to pass it on ‘cause they’re terrified of being fuckin’ ridiculed. I know if somebody told me what I’m about to tell you I’d fuckin’ razz ‘em about it but I’m gonna tell you anyway because I don’t give a fuck what you think of me. You know we’re buddies. Yeaaaaaaaaoooooowwww.


When you’re going at it just cross your eyes when they’re closed and you will not come because crossing your eyes triggers a nerve in your testicular area which blocks the whole fuckin’ jizz mechanism.


All I ask is that you girls don’t scream out my name in gratitude when you’re bangin’ next time ‘cause it will work and you will be very fuckin’ grateful n’ shit.

Yeah put that in your crack pipe and smoke it !!

Friday, June 24, 2005

("FUTURE WARNING ALERT" is a short story that might just save your life.

The story is based on another picture sent to me by Marieta Tsenova . Check out her site, it's dope without being illegal.



"No time to explain. There is no time to explain. I am from the future and I've been sent to protect you from bowling ball headed creatures from the year 2145. There is no time to explain !! Hurry up. Staying put seals your fate ! You must get out of here. They will kill you !!" He breathes through heaves of oxygen.

You look around at the other people in the line-up. They all stare off into spaces of their own quiet contemplation. Even the sales staff ignore this man who suddenly appeared next to you. He is oddly dressed, has a thick book in his hands and speaks in a loud whisper.

"There is just no time to explain that you will be lured into a shabby hotel room by a sexy, voluptuous woman whose breasts secrete poisonous liquids. As you kiss her cleavage the poison will take efffect. She is not from the future but she has been hired by the future to destroy you. Hurry up."

You look at the Enya CD in your hand, considering whether or not it could be used as a weapon.

"There will be a trap laid out involving three men in gorilla suits. They might be from the future. They will bench press you because in the future weights are illegal so slaves are used by weight lifters instead and your grandchildren will try to put an end to that practice. Oh God there's no time to explain all this hurry up."

"Where do you want me to go?" you ask.

"There's no time to explain there is a monkey right now in a time machine that is getting ready to be sent back and reconfigure right in your head !! There will be a monkey in your head !!! It will be a very intelligent monkey with an oxygen mask who'll know how to operate you. You've gotta hurry up."

The line-up doesn't move.

"There's no time to explain how -"

And that's when the worst thing imaginable happens to you.
("BLUE SUNSHINE" is a tiny little tale for all those vain blue eyed people out there.



"Do you mind if I pay for that in fives ?" In spite of the fact that the edges of her lips curl up into a Grinch-type smile, there is something cute about her. Her eyes twinkle.

"Yeah okay," he says, but he looks at the line-up behind her.

As the blue five dollar Canadian bills are slowly layed out onto the counter, she bats her eyelashes repeatedly over her beautiful blues. Every thrid or forth bill is brought up close to her eyes.

She is on the prowl.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

("SUSPICIOUS HYPNOSIS" is a story as small as a gay little fob that your eyes will go back and forth over until you feel very sleepy.

The story is based on another picture sent to me by Marieta Tsenova . Check out her site, it's dope without being illegal.



"Please come in. Welcome to my... humble abode ? arrogant digs ? I'll leave the assessment of our immediate environs up to you, but do keep in mind that most of this has been arranged for our subterranean purposes." He smiles while lowering his head in your direction, leaving the continuation of the conversation in your hands.

You sit down in uncomfortable silence.

"I nod and you do nothing. My nod is not the land of Nod which Cain was exiled to after slaying his sibling. There is nothing to fear in my nod. Oh I'm sorry am I being obtuse ?" He laughs and sits down at a table. Several plates of flowers overflow onto the whiteness of the tablecloth. His laughing mouth emits such a strong floral scent that you would not be surprised if a bee buzzed in to pollinate his tongue.

You adjust yourself in your seat (vis-a-vis your testicles).

"Well perhaps we should simply cut, cut, cut our way to the chase. Give chase to the chase. Yes I read your letter with great care and I learned a great deal about this terrible Aspergers syndrome. I consider myself to be somewhat educated but I had very little knowledge of this brand of autism."

You consider the wisdom of having opened yourself up to this man. You think of what you could have done with that thousand dollars. You cough.

"Yes it's very interesting... and horrid. Horrid that people should shun you for your peaceful spirit. Ostracize you socially simply because you have no "comeback" to a low-browed assault on your field. Ass-burgers !! Really how base." His hands fold together after several flourishes of condemnation.

You cough.

"And I will be upfront. I respect your scepticism. You are a man of science who has no use for the mumbo-jumbo of hocus-pocus. But I guarantee that you will be cured of this intense shyness. This inability to speak up for yourself in social gatherings." He narrows his eyes in an intense focus on you.

You gulp quietly.

"Even as I speak some item in this very uniquely decored room might have already hypnotized you. Perhaps the way I've wagged my floral sneakers has lulled your subconscious into a kind of submission. I've developed this form of hypnosis for the likes of people like you. I've flown in with my stealth hypnosis plane below your radar of scepticism. Oh I'm sorry I'm silly sometimes."

He laughs.

"Perhaps the ebb and flow of my laugh has reduced you to putty and by now you are simply remembering all of this as a time when you were shy."

You hope he does nothing untoward towards you when you are out.

And you are out in three, two, one.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

("DEATH STANDS BLAND OVER ME" is a story that's so short it could be chiseled onto a tombstone.

The inspiration for this micro-story comes from a photo by Marieta Tsenova , a very talented woman whose website is wonderfully playful.



I suppose I should have tried a little harder to understand the ways of my woman. My buttermuffin. My shoo-shoo. My cranberry cream pie. My killer.

Monday, June 20, 2005

("JAPANESE RABBITS, WIGS AND KARAOKE" is a short-short story that would fit nice and snug on a tiny piece of paper that you could roll up, tear into two and stick in your ears for protection while your friends are singing karaoke.

The story takes as it's starting point this photo taken by Vancouver's very own Jason Halayko who's currently residing in Japan, photographing everything cool that he can get his eyeballs on.



He pulls the pink rabbit head off his head with a whoosh of damp heat that reeks of natto, the stinky soya bean concoction that he eats for fuel for breakfast. As the stink spreads out around him, everyone turns in the direction of fresh air. Once again he finds himself temporarily alone in a crowd.

But today he is a cute little bunny rabbit. Today he is ready to delight children until milk comes bursting with laughter out of their noses. Today he wants more than anything to join into the community of costumed performers. Today he is ready to bond with the twinkle-twinkle little stars.

But the stars - baggy sacks of stardust really with yellow wigged starbusts on top - are involved in cussing and laughing over previous shows, late night drinking bouts, tales of conquests of tail and god knows what else. He doesn't know. All he knows is that he stayed up late into the night practicing a humorous anecdote about a baby born in Osaka that, within several minutes of being born, makes comedic sounds which crack up the doctor and nurses. He practiced making this wailing baby sound all morning through mouthfuls of natto. He wants more than anything to relate this tale to a smiling face. He wants to be one of the stars. He wants to fit into their cosmos.

They laugh coarsely amongst themselves while he puzzles his head over how he's going to share his baby joke with everyone.

Perhaps, after the show he should suggest going to a local karaoke. He'll have to make it seem spontaneous, he thinks as he puts the rabbit head back on.

Ready to entertain with a smiling rabbit face.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

("YODA DOING YOGA IN THE PAGODA" is a very short story. I fired this off in two minutes.

It’s been a busy past couple of days and I haven’t had a chance to keep you updated with stories. Feed you with fiction.



“We’ve appreciated the work that you’ve done for us of course but there have also been some… disappointments.” He looks over the tops of his glasses to communicate the rest.

Mr Cooper sits patiently with no small measure of regret in his heart. He had started working at the Institute of Creative Behavior with the highest of hopes. Plans of creating new gestures, walks, standing positions and expressions of surprise filled his head.

“Certainly your waiting for the elevator stance Yoda Doing Yoga in the Pagoda will be remembered for years to come.”

A smile struggles within Mr Cooper’s lips like a dying man in a sleeping bag.

“But since then we haven’t seen enough.”

The smile dies.

He sits in bland silence in a forgetable posture.

He's lost it.

Even you would fire him.

You would fire him with your left leg tucked behind your neck while hopping up and down on the other.

That's what you would do.