A-Rod In Germany

“It’s my knee, Doctor...”

“Ya, I can see it.” This German doctor was looking over the MRI’s, the X-rays, the CT scans... used to be on paper but now it’s a laptop, now he has to navigate with arrows and the mousepad-

“Can somebody get me a Red Bull?”

The Doctor, shaking his head, scratching his beard, calling for his secretary Mina. Mina, dark hair and lipstick, pausing to look at the superstar in the leather chair, an extra blink. A-Rod’s eyes were on his iPhone.

“Can you get a Red Bull soda for our patient please?”

Mina nodded, and turned to get her coat with an extra bit of swivel just in case, and then out into the hallway and the cold of Magdeburg Street, a slow snow starting to fall on a Friday morning.

Dr. Zummayer waited until the door closed, and only a German accent can stop a man from texting.

“So you want to undergo the therapy?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“It’s much more than the plasma, you understand-”

“Hm-I’m beginning to see that.”

The Doctor stood up.

“This is mental. This is spiritual. This is total. This is not about committing yourself for your job, for your game, or your image. This is now about your soul... you must find it... together we will heal it. You live in a cannibalistic culture... a very dangerous time... if you are not prepared to surrender yourself to the treatment, to the specifications... you need not waste my time. Or yours.”

The laptop digitally chirped an incoming message for the Doctor.

“If you fight me... you will win. But you will never play like a champion again. You must learn how to lose. You must learn how to let go... ”

Alex stood up then, his cell phone falling to the carpet. “I'll do it," and then, "I'll do it."

He looked down at his cell. "Will I get my swing back?”

The Doctor took a breath before smiling. “I promise nothing.”

The Circus Murders


“I’m not going to the circus this year, Dad.” And Fructose meant it.

Dad took the hookah from his mouth and sat straight up. “What?!?”

“I’m not going to the circus this year. I don’t ever want to go to the circus again!” Fructose threw his car keys down on the sofa, where they bounced and landed on the living room carpet.

Dad looked heartbroken. “No circus? Why the hell not?”

“Do you remember what happened last year? Mom got eaten by a lion! And the year before that? Uncle Ray was crushed by that elephant! Do you remember the year the bear got loose, cracked your vertebrae in half and put you in that wheelchair?!?”

Dad looked down, almost surprised, almost as if he’d forgotten he was paralyzed. “Was that how this happened?”

“Do you remember when the clown went nuts and started shooting into the crowd and killed my fiancĂ©?”

“That clown saved you from a bad marriage...”

“Do you remember when the tent collapsed and put Tommy in a coma? Do you remember when Aunt Christie choked to death on a candy apple and the bearded lady just stood there laughing? I’m starting to get a phobia about the circus, Dad... I just don’t want to go anymore.”

“Welp, that’s your choice,” he said, taking a long drag on his waterpipe, “but if you don’t go you’ll miss the puppets and the horses, the dancing bears and the clowns... you’ll miss the trapeze artists and the tightrope walkers. You’ll miss the whole show!”

Neither of them spoke as the apple smoked slow in the hookah bowl.

Dad added with a wink, “And you’ll miss the cotton candy.”

Fructose sighed, agitated. “And what happens if you don’t survive?”

Dad smiled back. “Next year you go without me.”

Fructose stared into the smoke, hypnotized. A smile unfolded on his face and he bent to get his keys. "Let's go to the goddamn circus."


Christmas Wonderings

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: blistering gonorrhea

Holiday Tip #405: Christmas Carolers don't seem to like being greeted at the door with a boiling pan of olive oil

Frosty just doesn’t look right since the gastric bypass...

Candy Canes are perfect for those hard-to-reach places

...but he was no longer just a cow, he was now The Cow That Saved Christmas. The End.

Good news for jealous Jews: Christmas has been cancelled!

Shame on you, Santa Claus, for raping my daughter yet again

Christmas: When Jesus came back from the dead to turn water into eggnog

And though it’s been said many times, many ways, I need you to back your Kia off of my granddaughter

I’ve been kind of a Grinch since I woke up to find Santa’s charred corpse in the chimney

Shitneck’s heartfelt speech filled us all with the true spirit of Christmas

Bad News: That wasn’t figgy pudding

Grandma's Pot Party

She invited me, and my girlfriend, “Bryan don’t you be late,” and I said “Okay, Nana,” because I’m always five when we talk on the phone.

And there I was at the Community Room of Cedar Woods Retirement Home, standing in the middle of two dozen elderly in a haze of pot smoke. An old man named Frank passed the joint to Helene, who inhaled with a puff of Chanel No 5, and laughed out a cloud of scorched weed, a storm forming over the punch bowl and slowly dissolving, “Just The Two Of Us” playing on the super-strong sub-woofers.

And there we were out on the dance floor, my Grandmother and I, all of us, dancing, like it was 1990-something. The folks in the motorized carts took the steel drum solo, and we just stopped caring. Some old guy had his hand on my girlfriend’s thigh- but what do you expect with the tango? Sweet green smoke blew through the room, and the old people had forgotten their age. A bald man in a vest kissed his wife's bare shoulder. 

Everyone was moving... The lights were bright, then the lights went out and we were in black and white, spinning in a circle, moving as a plural. Some guy named Nicholas exhaled and everybody had it. I swear I could feel the room moving, grooving to the tilting of the ocean, feeling the sea water splash in my face from just over the rails.

Nana had the hula-hoop in full swing and her neighbors were cheering her on... my next partner was a brown-haired beauty in a one-piece swimsuit named Frances, and I knew she had done this before.

Choreography comes easy when you let it... we all looked like we’d been rehearsing for weeks. My grandmother caught me dipping my girlfriend, and I saw something magical in her eyes, and that perfume was so strong and why is it that every story has to have an ending?


Stop looking at my crotch, ladies- my eyes are up here

I move once a week just to piss off my mailman

Testicles grow back, right?

Figure-skating would be much more interesting if the audience was armed with hunting rifles

Tsunamis are devastating, but you’ll never boogie board better

Duck sex is surprisingly provocative

If I wanted my heart warmed I’d buy a blowtorch

The early bird gets the worm… and McMuffin diarrhea

July’s lemonade tastes like April’s Tang

If dentists have the highest suicide rate how come mine is still alive?

Wild weekends start with magic markers

A part of me wants to make love to you... the penis part


Christmas In December


“Merry Christmas, Cocksucker...”

This was Santa, doing his thing, spreading the joy of the holiday season. He slammed Cocksucker's neck with the butt of his gun, knocking him to the floor.

Cocksucker was speechless- on his knees, petrified- and unable to speak. He had been hiding from Santa for almost a year but it was too late: Christmas Eve had found him. 

"Please," he said to the fat man. "Don't do this."

Santa scoffed and slipped the gun between Cocksucker’s lips, pulling the trigger, exploding blood and brain all over the decorated tree. Hot red liquid drip from the dangling ornaments and blinking white lights, the only illumination in the midnight den.

Santa exhaled hard, dropping the pistol, stepping over the body. There was a plate of cookies on the mantle and Santa could smell cinnamon and all-spice over the metal scent of plasma... he hadn't eaten all day, and nobody would miss it. He stood by the stockings, eating all 14 cookies: oatmeal raisin, peanut butter, chocolate crinkles and molasses swamp, washing them down with the cool glass of milk left out just for him. The lights on the tree blink on and off in 3/4 time.

Santa noticed the stockings hanging empty, with each family member’s name embroidered on the cuff. “When in Rome...” he reasoned, and pulled his sack from beneath the arch of the brick chimney.

He pulled out a handful of prizes, filling the socks, topping each one off with a candy cane. He smiled to himself, suddenly feeling warm and lighthearted, and his eyes found the plastic tablecloth beneath the tree.

Oh, why not?

He grabbed his other sack- full of presents- and laid everything out. The two dozen boxes in festive green wrapping held toys, games and gadgets, books and sweaters and gift cards- every child’s inner-child wet dream come true. Santa laughed to himself, and his round belly jiggled under his red suit.

His work was done- he felt a sense  of pride- but before he left there was one last job to be done. He headed for the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took a hot shit in the lettuce crisper, just so no one would ever forget that Santa Claus would always be calling the shots.

Back in the living room Cocksucker refused to die, twitching, making spasm and forming foamy words through eyes of red blood. Santa put his heavy boot to Cocksucker's throat and crushed it- windpipe, voicebox, the works- before putting his finger to his nose and rising magically up the chimney.

But he was heard to exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas, Cocksucker! And to all a good night!" 




Binary Adventure


110 1010 101010 10010110 001 0 101 0101011 11010010 11110111010 001001 100100 01010 0001 101 1010110101 110101.

0001 00001 101010 100110 1010 00 10 0 0 10 1 0 10 10 101 01 01 01 0111 001010 01010- 001 00 110 0010- 10100 100 100 10010 10010 0 01001 10 10 10 0. 1010 10 1010 101 0101  101101101111 01001 10 1 001 001 01001 010 1001 001001 010001 10100 1001 001 001 0001 0 0110 11000 1000 0001 0010 0100 100 000 10101 11010 001 001010101 01 01  010010 01 0 1010 0, 010 10001 01 0,  01 00101 0 0100... 

“100 1011 00101 010, 0 001 01010 11101 110001 1001, 100010 01 0,” 010 1 1010 10 010, 100101 1010 10010 10 1 01 0 01 01 01 11001 001 0 1 01 00 10, “ 10 10 01 101- 0 0111 01 0110 00 1 10 0?”

1 01010 010 11010 10101110 11101001 011011 010 1010 010 110100 11110 000010 10 0100100 1000 010 0 010 01,  01 0 1010 0 01 010 1011010 0 10 0 0110 010010 0 1001101010, 10 0110 0 0 0 10 01 11101 1 1 0 0 1 0 000 0101101 101010 1101 0101 01 01 0 01, 0 1010 01 0 110100. 0110 11000 110001 10100, 1000100 001101010 100 100100 10010, 1001 10 1010100111:

01001010110 100101010101
01000000010 00 10101001010

“101001 1010 101101 010 1010 11110 00101, 11001 101010 100!” 10 101 1010 01 10 010 10 10, 10 0101 01110 01 0 010 01 01 10010 0 1010 10 0 101 11 01 10 00 10 10 001 01, “010110 10010 010, 1011 101 01010 010110 1100 01010 01001, 100110 1010101 0110 101101 10101: 0110011010 0001010001."

0101 100.

Frosty The Child Molester

“Thumpety thump thump
Thumpety thump thump
Look at Frosty go”
- Jack Rollins & Steve Nelson

He stood at the counter, across from the Indian man with the accent so strange, the Indian man who wouldn’t lower his cell phone to card a nine year-old with a crate of beer, or to raise an eyebrow at a priest with a box of condoms, but here was Berbert- according to the name tag- tilting his Blackberry away from his chin, cocking his neck and interrupting his call and asking Frosty point-blank:

“What do you need with all this Reeses Pieces?”

Frosty slipped a fifty from his wallet toward Berbert, who accepted it, but asked again without breaking eye contact:

“What are you going to do with all those Reeses Pieces?”

Frosty flashed him a warm smile. “Nunyo,” he said proudly.

“Nunyo?” asked Berbert.

“Nunyo fucking business.” He beamed back at Berbert, who babbled profanity in a language not yet discovered. Berbert handed Frosty his change- sixty-seven cents- and reached beneath the counter for a plastic bag. Frosty raised his reusable canvas shopping bag, and with that Berbert was back on his Blackberry, lost in a conversation with no beginning, middle or end. Maybe he was talking to another convenience store clerk somewhere?

Frosty scooped up all thirty bags of Pieces and headed out to his car, the sleigh bell on the door jingling as he made his exit. He checked his watch: 2:49. Perfect; he was right on time. He got into his Kia Paloma and cruised down Neptune Avenue, finding a station playing Electric Light Orchestra.

Frosty loved Electric Light Orchestra.

He turned off Roxbury Road and drove past the Ridgeway Theater. He flashed back to his days in the darkened auditorium, enjoying action pictures, reaching accidentally into the bucket of popcorn which the strange man beside him had offered to share. As a kid he loved hot buttered popcorn, but when he went to reach in the strange man’s popcorn bucket he found it wasn’t popcorn that the strange man had in his hot buttered popcorn bucket of –it was- hot buttered popcorn- something else- in the bucket of- something else, something else-

His brakes whined to a stop at the same instant the school bell rang, audible even from the parking lot. There was a moment of silence, of strange quiet, and then the children began to emerge from the doors of Davenport Elementary. They sprang out like snakes from a can- full of energy and running for their lives. Frosty licked his lips because he just couldn’t stop himself.

Boy children… girl children… androgynous children who could be boy children and girl children at the same time. Frosty felt like a boy today and tore open a bag of pieces… he poured a pile in his palm and stuck his hand out the window. A six year-old wandered by and Frosty asked, “Want some candy, little boy…?”

The boy covered his mouth and walked directly past Frosty’s car. That was bizarre…

The next boy walking by had already made eye contact with his mother, who was eyeing Frosty suspiciously. He retracted his arm into the car and dumped the pieces into his ashtray… even in the winter the damn things melted so fast! If they weren’t so effective he would switch over to fun-size Snickers, if only for the ease of-

Frosty saw him. A beautiful boy, a boy he simply had to have. He was nine years old with light brown hair and blue eyes, wearing a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. He walked with a proud posture, taller than his four-foot five frame, and he almost seemed to be walking directly towards Frosty’s car. Frosty took a deep breath and got into character.

“Excuse me? Son?”

The boy stopped, alarmed.

“I’m supposed to give you a ride. What’s your name?”

The boy arched an eyebrow but answered anyway. “Logan.”

“Yeah, Logan- my name is Mr. Whitman- your Mother asked me to give you a ride. Home today.” Frosty cursed himself- that hesitation may have cost him his prize.

“Where’s my Mother?” Logan asked, wary.

Frosty decided to go for broke… he took a shot. “She had to pick up your sister… your sister got sick at school.”

The next moment seemed to last an eternity. Finally Logan’s face relaxed. “Is my sister okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Frosty said, his heart pounding in his chest, “she’s fine.” He could barely keep the grin from his face.

They pulled out of the parking lot, Frosty chatting about baseball and Logan carefully fastening his seat belt. After a few minutes on the road Frosty felt ready, and he pulled into the Rite-Aid plaza, in the back parking lot, back by the dumpsters behind the Yarn Barn. There was no other car in site.

“I need to take a break from driving for a few minutes, Logan.” Frosty put his foot on the brake, letting the car idle to keep the heater going.

“Okay,” said Logan, uneasy.

Frosty popped open a fresh bag of pieces… he held it up to Logan. “You want some candy?”

“I’m diabetic.” The boy said this as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

“Should I have guessed?” Frosty snapped, and Logan shot him a panicked look. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable in this strange car and tight-fitting seatbelt.

Frosty kept his cool. “A lot of people are diabetic,” he said smiling, calming, “like me. I’m a diabetic also!” He reached for the tupperware in the back seat, popping the top and taking a deep sniff. “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” said Logan, with more fear in his voice than he knew he was feeling.

“This,” said Frosty, “is seafood salad. It’s delicious. Do you like seafood salad, Logan?”

“Is it imitation crabmeat?”

The kid better be good.

“No, it’s the real thing,” said Frosty. He pulled a stainless-steel fork out of the center console and handed it to the boy. “Just a few bites of this and you’ll be… it’s delicious.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Logan said.

Frosty put his hand on the boy’s knee. “You’re gonna love it, Logan… just take a bite and enjoy the taste…”

Logan bristled in his seat, a shiver of cold fear running down the back of his neck to the base of his spine. He tried unbuckling the seatbelt but it wouldn’t budge.

Frosty stroked Logan’s thigh through his denim jeans. “It’s delicious, Logan… tuna, onion, celery… crab and lobster…” There was a musical quality to Frosty’s voice- a sinister lullaby in a minor key- and Logan saw in him something he hadn’t noticed before. He saw Danger. He looked up to see Frosty staring at him, two eyes made out of coal.

“Just relax, buddy,” Frosty said. He ruffled the boy’s hair.

“I want to go home now,” Logan said, but Frosty was just getting started. “I’ll take you home in just a little bit…” Logan tried his seatbelt again but it wouldn’t budge. It felt like it was bolted closed... and tightening around him.

Frosty’s fingers found Logan’s belt buckle, and he began to unhook it slowly. Logan felt sick… paralyzed.

“Please,” Logan pleaded, “Stop…” His speech was slow... he could barely muster the power to protest. He felt like he was underwater... awake in a nightmare...

“Relax…” Frosty went straight to his work, unhooking the clasp and pulling the boy’s belt through the loops in his jeans.

“Please…” But Logan’s mouth was so dry the word was just a mumble.

“We’re gonna have a little fun,” Frosty said, salivating.

“No,” said Logan, but that didn’t make it stop.

“I’m gonna make you feel good,” Frosty whispered, un-tucking the child’s shirt, “and you’re gonna make me feel good too. Just trust me, Logan...”

Frosty’s fingers found the zipper of Logan’s pants, and-

Logan plunged the metal fork into Frosty’s right thigh, and Frosty howled like an animal caught in a trap. His leg jerked involuntarily, slamming the gas pedal and sending the car flying over the icy pavement. Frosty was too distracted to steer, and Logan braced for the worst..

It was probably in the boy’s favor that he’d been wearing his seatbelt, because as the car smashed into the brick wall of the Yarn Barn Frosty flew out of his seat and directly through the windshield, which had spider-webbed and fallen out of its frame. Logan couldn’t be sure whether or not Frosty’s head had collided with the wall directly but he knew there was blood all over the dashboard... and he knew that it wasn’t his own.

In the impact Frosty had bitten off his own tongue, and it lay there on the dashboard, mocking the boy, taunting him, and Logan only felt better when he definitively recognized that Frosty’s skull had cracked open and that there was hot brain dripping down the car’s grill.

Logan released his seatbelt, which flew open like a hand, and stepped out of the car. He could already hear sounds from the front of the shopping center, could already hear the excited shrieks and worried voices from the people who’d felt the crash. He knew that the adults would be here soon, doing what adults do, so he walked off in the opposite direction, away from the car, away from the people, away from the child molester and his bags of Reese’s Pieces.

The force of the crash had popped Frosty’s trunk open, and who should appear but twelve year-old Katie Zelic, missing from the middle school since Friday afternoon. She climbed out slowly, wincing in the bright sunlight, sore and disoriented. She looked at the wreck- unable to process- and staggered away from the car. She sat down on the freezing pavement, too traumatized to move any further. Katie licked her dry, chapped lips and waited for the customers and employees to come around the corner and find her, to pronounce Frosty dead, to call the police in a vain pantomime of making sense out of the senseless, to return her to her home.

She sat, waiting.

Frosty’s car radio was still working, a Christmas song:

O come, let us adore him,
O come, let us adore him,
O Come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord

Katie couldn’t stop herself from laughing.



I’m cincosexual, which means for five bucks I’ll do anyone

What are the odds that Wetzel would dedicate his life to the pretzel?

I always use the male voice on my GPS, because I’ll die before I take direction from a woman


Blo-gurt: When the Yoplait won’t stay down

There's no "I" in team... unless you spell it wrong

Never underestimate the drunken Vegas wedding

How can jaywalking be considered a hate crime?

The buffalo will never fly again because you people were hungry for wings

Converting lesbians is thirsty work

I'm paralyzed from the nose down, so you'll have to insert the hard-boiled egg directly into my nostril


Regina the Liquid Weatherwoman always nails the five-day

You know that dog that says “I Love You”? I don’t think he means it


Saturday Morning Madness


Butter melts good on a frosted raspberry pop tart, but there was no sign of Bobby at the breakfast table. He had gotten up at seven-thirty, had a few bowls of Sugar Pegs and enjoyed two hours of cartoons in a glucose-induced coma... but as usual he had snuk out to the shed to tinker with his newest mystery project and was late for breakfast proper.

Rayna was ready for the Saturday morning ritual, kicking her footy pajamas under the table and pouring a good gallon of maple syrup across her mountain of scrambled eggs.  

Dad was in his paper, pretending to read basketball scores in order to avoid conversation with the family. Mom called out the back door: “Bobby, get inside for Saturday breakfast!”

“Bobby’s bad,” said Rayna, wrapping a Fruit Roll-Up ‘round a buttermilk biscuit.

“Bobby’s going through a very difficult time for a young boy,” thundered Dad from behind the Times, “I’m just glad he’s doing it in the shed instead of his bedroom.”

“Oh, Frank,” Mom shuddered, repulsed, “he’s only eleven.”

“That’s old enough,” Dad continued, face immersed in headline, “if memory serves I started at seven.”

“Started what at seven?” asked Rayna, her salivary glands squirting in her mouth.

Dad blinked behind his newspaper. “Shaving.”

Ruffy- the shaggy family dog, found a forgotten waffle corner on the floor and gobbled it before anyone noticed.

“I still don’t see Mystery Boy,” added Dad.

Mom got up to grab the sausage and called through the screen again. “Bobby Allen Anderbrook- get your ass inside this instant!” She spotted Mr. Cullen clipping his hedges next door and put her hand to her mouth, humilated.

“Mr Cullen’s out there, isn’t he?” Dad must have somehow sensed it because his face was still buried in Sports.

“Yes,” Mom whispered, mortified, “and he must think I’m a terrible mother.”

“I think he hates the lot of us,” said Dad, snatching a slice of bacon back behind his newsprint wall.

Bobby came bounding in through the back door as Mom sat down at the table. “Wash up, Bobby.”

He laid a small metal control box on the table and zipped to the sink, scrubbing his greasy fingers. Mom eyed the electro-contraption and its protruding antenna.

“What in God’s name is that?”

Bobby needed six paper towels to dry his hands. “Just something I’m working on, Mom. It’s what I’m building in the shed.”

Dad whipped the paper down, giving Bobby a dirty look. “You’re not making an explosive, are you?”

“Nope,” answered Bobby, taking a seat. He added three scoops of Strawberry Kwik to his whole milk.

“Good,” said Dad, drawing his newspaper curtain back into place.

“What are you building out there?” Mom wondered.

“Educational,” Bobby barked between bites of cinnamon roll, and that was the end of the discussion.

“I know what he’s building,” Rayna beamed, showing off her missing front teeth.

“Silence!” shouted Bobby, and Dad’s paper was down again.

“What the hell are you yelling about? It’s an explosive, isn’t it?”

“No, no,” Bobby assured, petting Ruffy from his chair. “Science fair.”

“That’s only half the story,” Dad shot back. He closed his paper, folding it up.

“I think you should tell us the truth, Bobby.” Mom was using her Mom voice.

“It’s a simple voltage converter,” Bobby lied, dunking his danish in his cocoa, “ideal for the business traveler on overseas assignment.”

“Horseshit,” said Dad, and he meant every word.

“I know what he’s building,” sang Rayna, grinning like a pumpkin.

“Traitor!” Bobby’s wandering English accent kicked in, and was just as suddenly gone.

“Bobby, I need you to be honest with me.” Mom looked like she had to make poo.

“It’s a binary bit-blitzer.” Bobby shoveled marmalade on his fried egg.

“Techno-babble!” accused Dad, pounding the table so hard he toppled the Eiffel Tower of French toast.

“I know what he’s building,” teased Rayna, knocking back a shot of Hawaiian Punch.

“Nemesis!” shouted Bobby, as angry as he’d ever been.

“Tell us, Rayna,” said Mom, “tell us what he’s building.”

“Bobby’s building a robot!”

Mom started laughing, and even Dad grinned a little. Bobby’s face went beet red as Rayna giggled melodically.

The boy shot his sister a dirty look. “I’m going to have you deported.”

“What’s his name, son? Your robot?”

“I don’t want to tell you because you’ll just make fun.”

“Come on, Bobby,” Mom’s smile was fading, “what’s his name?”

“His name is Robby.”

Mom burst out laughing, and even Dad joined in with a hearty sarcastic chuckle. Bobby burned.

“You named your robot Robby?” Dad was easily flabbergasted.

“Yes,” said Bobby, “but not for the reasons you think. His name is Robert, Jr. I call him Robby for short.”

Mom was hysterical. “You named your robot after yourself? What is he, your son?”

That was when Ruffy- a lifelong Francophile- leapt up to the table to snatch a croissant, knocking Bobby’s control box into his water dish on the floor. The box shorted out, electricity buzzing from the bubbling liquid.

“Ruffy!” Bobby bent down and grabbed the box, which dripped water onto his lap. “You ruined it you dog idiot! Now I can’t control Robby!”

“Serves you right for building a robot,” smirked Dad.

“You reap what you sow, Bobby,” added Mama smugly, “this is karma.”

Robby the Robot came crashing through the screen door, shattering the wood with his seven-foot frame.

“Kill mode… kill mode…” The knobs and switches on his chest were blinking wildly, and as soon as Ruffy ran up to him Robby hauled back with his iron leg and kicked the beast into the living room. Ruffy- airborne- said goodbye with his eyes.

“Kill mode… kill mode…” Dad stood up, furious.

“Now wait one minute Mr. Robot,” Dad said, throwing his napkin into the hash browns.

Robby slid open the junk drawer and pulled out Dad’s service pistol. He pointed it at Mom and fired, blowing her brains onto the kitchen table.

“Just who do you think you are?” asked Dad, clearly peeved. “I’ve got a good mind to re-write your programming and sell you for scrap metal!”

Robby fired twice more, putting one bullet in Dad’s throat and one in his neck. Dad sat back down, in his chair, genuinely dead.

By this time Bobby had opened the emergency service panel on Robby’s control pad and switched him back to the Idle setting. Robby dropped the gun, and stood obediently in place.

There was an awkward moment as Bobby surveyed his dead parents, and Rayna looked at her older brother in genuine fear.

“If I were you,” said Bobby, “I would get upstairs and start cleaning my room.”

She leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair, and ran towards the stairs.

Bobby picked up a plate from the table and held it up to Robby.

“Pop tart?” 


The Thanksgiving Day Massacre


Johnny was not enjoying the holiday. 

It wasn’t just because he despised food, or his family, or that he was learning how awful and endless Life could be… it was more than that. Something about these people, gathered around this table, like hogs awaiting feed, all dressed in their finest church clothes, all smiles and denials. It wasn’t just that Johnny was amongst them that was making him miserable… it was the fact that he was becoming one of them.

“Who wants to say Grace?” asked Grandma, and that’s when Johnny stood up and whipped it out.

His cock slid clean out his corduroys, already hard with anticipation. There was a horrified gasp from everyone at the table, and Grandma fainted instantly, but that might have been a blood sugar thing.

Johnny was already bonking away. His head was lowered in concentration, a lone beadle of sweat dripping down his forehead, and he was masturbating with the fury of the condemned. “Ug… pog… sab…” His mouth gurgled senseless babble as he pummeled his penis, which would have been screeching in agony if it had been blessed with vocal chords. A wave of pleasure shot from its head to Johnny’s, and he exploded like a fine volcano.

A load of semen- what seemed like a gallon- exploded out of him and splashed the perfectly-basted turkey, and the family began to scream in horror. The next round of cream slapped Cousin Larry in the face, and he wet himself, because he'd always wanted to. The next round of splooge landed in the candied yams, glazing them splendid. The following spurt landed in Aunt Judy’s open mouth, and as she prepped for flabbergast she took most of the jizbah down her throat. Dad stood up in rage, and slipped on a puddle of Johnny's goop, tumbling backwards over the table, knocking over the bowl of mashed potatoes and breaking his spine on the arm of his chair, paralyzing him for life.

Uncle Alan vomited forcefully, a projectile spew coating Aunt Sarah’s face and dripping down the valley of her provocative but soggy cleavage. Grandma regained consciousness, only to be soaked with the next load of spunk from Johnny’s gushing geyser. Her lethal stroke may have begun even before the man-juice dripped into her ear, and her face instantly froze into a contorted fright-mask, her corpse stiffening into a wax-museum monster.

Johnny just kept cumming, a tidal wave of baby batter dunking Aunt Nancy’s prized stuffing, drenching the relatives and the mushrooms and the pumpkin pie and the, and the, and the…

Johnny’s testicles had clearly been drained, as the stream of pow-chowder finally tapered off, and Johnny fell exhausted back into his chair. The room was rife with the bleachy funk of nut, and his foul dripped from every surface in the dining room, which was now deathly silent. The family sat frozen, their holiday ruined, traumatized beyond any hope of recovery, and a satisfied smile crept slowly across Johnny’s face. The tradition was over.

Mom entered the dining room from the kitchen, a tray in her hand.

“Sorry, everyone, I almost forgot the rolls-”

She froze in her tracks, her eyes wide at the scene before her, her mouth open in speechless horror.

Johnny took a biscuit from her tray and buttered up.

“Happy Thanksgiving"


The Story Of Peeples

Untitled #1

Peeples clicked his pen and consulted his clipboard. He looked to the clock on the wall, a dusty black & white unit that had been there since he took the job. He reminded himself to buy a new one, as he had every day for the last eleven years. His eyes went back to his clipboard, briefly.

“This is never easy,” he said, contemplating a sip of coffee, “but it is my job as Administrator.”

Pemmy, sitting across from him, glanced at the placard on his desk:


She wanted to ask if his first name was Mister… it had to be.

“I think you know what this is leading up to,” said Peeples with a grimace, “We’re going to have to ask your Father to leave.”

“For a few hours?” Pemmy asked hopefully, shifting in her chair.

“Longer than that,” said Peeples, “Forever.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pemmy. She was still wondering if his name was Mister, and whether or not she still had two fingers of Kit-Kat in her pocketbook. He had to be named Mister, she reasoned, or else why would his parents have named him that? Coincidence was a possibility.

“Your Father is a rabble-rouser,” he continued, “An instigator. He’s a bad influence on all of the other residents. Every week we find him in the Ladies Room.”

“I think he is just curious,” Pemmy said, “curious about what goes on in there.”

“The bathroom is only the tip of the mammary, Ms. Styfers,” Peeples dropped his pen on his desk for the sheer shock value, “he also subscribes to magazines without authorization. He switches the residents’ medication as a practical joke and he ruined the lobby carpet with his homemade wine. He comes to lunch without pants. Or underpants.”

“Free spirit?” offered Pemmy.

“It’s more than that…” said Peeples, “We have a list of complaints so long it would take all day to go through them. Seniors come to this facility to live their lives in quiet and solace, and your Father treats the place like his personal playground.” He had been waiting to use “personal playground” for a very long time.

Pemmy noticed the strap of her tank-top had slipped down her arm and she pulled it back over her shoulder. “He is anxious,” she said, without conviction, “and befuddled by the problems of society.”

“It’s not my place to psycho-analyze,” said Peeples, “but your Father is a stunted adolescent with advanced Dissociative Disorder and borderline Sociopathic tendencies. He should be put down, and by that I mean euthanized.”

“There is no argument here,” said Pemmy, un-crossing her legs only to re-cross them, “but the procedure is too costly. Can’t you let him stay here instead?”

“He cannot stay here,” said Peeples.

“Please?” asked Pemmy.

“Never,” said Peeples.

“I will give you pie,” Pemmy offered, uncrossing her legs and spreading them.

“Six months,” said Peeples, rising to lower the blinds, “and then he’s out on the street.”

Pemmy pulled off her tank top, and bent to slip out of her skirt.

“You have a deal, Peeples,” Pemmy said, extending her hand.

“Please,” he said, shaking it, “Call me Mister.”



The Lost Poems of Alfredo Montenegro (1908-2011)


On Sunday October 23, the world lost one of its greatest poets. Alfredo Montenegro's verse has been cherished by readers, celebrated by scholars, and whispered between lovers. Here we reprint some of his unpublished works from his final years, translated from their original Spanish:

Morning orange fall off the tree
And then
In the puddle
You look at me
Full of vitamin C
And accuse me of stealing your wallet

Hammock #4
Take a nap on a summer afternoon
Have a dream full of cocaine and pizza
Shout curses at the neighbors for the loudness they make
And the way they have stolen your goodness

Natural Thursday
Gentle breezes in the overgrown grass
Island music playing off in your head
Wonder women laying bare-breast in the sand
Other things which you cannot comprehend
Where were you when I was writing this poem?
You were at work and I was truly alone

From Behind
You have inside a softness
That I like to put inside me
Get down on your hands and knees please
Right away this instant
The softness!

Eskimo day the answer
polly is a poodle you can never refuse
baby goat
steals a motorboat
is simple with rhythm and blues

Booze (Oklahoma)
coconut luck takes me yesterday bake
bastard man choke on a bowl of corn flake
catalog frog, cat agog on a log
fish-kissing prince turns into a dog
Is dripping out the reasons like a waterwipe

Domestic #7
Meadowlark bark is the answer
“Bonk,” say the wings of the hummingbird
turbo in the bathroom and
mayonnaise is easy
Let the school bell deafen the child

Bumblebees tumble in the fumble yard
Envelope egg yolk alabama boulevard
Vegetables rising from dirty waters
Beauty lies
Between your eyes
And the depths of your hindquarters

Dragonfly is passing by
Lazy on a morning marmalade
Birthday suit, jujy fruit, cosmopolitan cover shoot
I am dizzy from experience
And I’m going home for the day

Halloween Stories


A little girl dressed as a princess walked up to Tilly’s house and knocked on the door.
Tilly, an elderly woman in a plaid housecoat, opened the door. “Who is there?”
“Trick or treat,” said the little girl, “it’s Halloween tonight and I would like some candy!”
Tilly coughed, deep- from her soul- and spat a warm loogie. It splattered the little girl’s face, dripping down her nose and cheeks. 
Tilly went back in the house to watch Dancing With The Stars.

 ˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Two children dressed as bugles went out trick-or-treating. 
Casey said, “I am the grandest bugle of them all!” 
Bowie said, “Incorrect. I am the grandest bugle of them all.” 
Their conversation was cut short when they were run over by a sport-utility vehicle.

 ˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Benny was dressed as a knife-wielding maniac. He approached a house and rapped on the doorknocker. Mrs. Mitchell answered the door and said, “Oh my! Oh my goodness! What are you supposed to be?”
Benny pushed his blade into her gut, and it slid easy into the fat of Mrs. Mitchell’s lower belly. Warm blood spilled from her Christmas package as Billy poked through the candy bowl. He raised a Mounds to her face.
“Does this have nuts?"

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

An old lady- we’ll call her Mrs. Capricorn- was sitting alone in her house watching television when she heard a noise outside. Mrs. Capricorn went to the window and saw a terrible sight. 
She dropped to her knees so she wouldn’t be spotted and crawled over to her phone. She dialed 911, trembling.
“Hello,” she whispered into the phone, “send the squad to my house immediately. There are children dressed as goblins and mad-monsters and they’re raping my daughter on the front lawn. Send the squad to my house immediately!”
 “We’ll do no such thing,” said the Emergency Operator on the other end of the phone, “Tonight is Halloween night!” 

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Mr. Spiggy heard a knock on his door. He opened it up and saw a werewolf.

“Trick or treat!” said the werewolf, but Mr. Spiggy pulled a gun from behind the candy bowl and pistol-whipped the werewolf to death and then some. The police came and gave Mr. Spiggy a commendation. 

I forgot to tell you the news report said a real werewolf was on the loose and to beware. 

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

It was the Halloween party of the century, and everyone was there! Mr. Fingerfugger was dressed as a car battery, and Barbara Carble looked to be a Stereomonster. Dennis and Penny Endig- the Endigs- were dressed as dignity and respect respectively, and Mona McNulty had come as a maxipad!

Willy Rooter, who had a mad crush on Wanda Rooter- no relation- had come dressed up like John Lithgow, and he had eaten several pounds of chocolate waiting for Wanda to arrive. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her, especially because of her costume- Wanda was dressed as a fly-fisherman! (I forgot to say that Willy’s mother had been a fly-fisherman, and had died before he was born.)

“Hello Willy,” Wanda said, smiling.
“Intercourse,” Willy said, cursing his tongue.
“I am offended and disgusted,” sighed Wendy, “you are removed from my social circle.” With that she walked away to bob for stillborns.

“O Halloween!” Willy wailed, “when the moon is full of nougat and the heart is wholly forfeit!”
That was the poetic ending. 

 ˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Some little kid dressed as Yoda went out trick-or-treating and knocked on the door of Belva Swank.
“Oh my,” said Belva, “you are a gremlin take a candy.”

“Never,” said Yoda, “I am no gremlin.”

“Apologies you are a goblin,” said Belva, “please help yourself to a candy and some nickels for the starving.”
“Neither,” said Yoda, “I am no goblin.”
“You are the night creature?”
“No,” spoke Yoda.
“One of the Devil’s minions?”

“No,” spoke Yoda. 
“The return of the gargoyle?”

“You will never get your candy back,” said Yoda, as he had deftly emptied the bowl into his bag while Belva was talking. 
“Wait!” Belva called, “I must know who you are!”

By that time Yoda was already waddling away. 

 ˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Some man named Needless baked a thousand toffee bits to distribute to the children on Halloween. He wrapped each one individually and wrote his name on the wrapper. On Halloween night two boys- Smiff and Julio- arrived at Needless’ house.
“Trick or treat!” said Julio. 
Needless held out the candy bowl which was filled with his toffees and an assortment of other candies. Smiff and Julio picked carefully through the bowl, avoiding Needless’ toffees. 

“Enjoy the toffees as well, boys,” said Needless, “Oh, I see- you think that they say “needles” but they really say ‘Needless’ – it’s my name!” 
“The joke is on you,” said Julio, “Smiff is from Cuba and I am illiterate. You are a fool and these toffees were a wasted effort.”
They left at that point I’m pretty sure. 

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

“Who knows how the Halloween got started? ”
Mr. Dunning was in the doorway, holding the candy bowl high above the heads of the young trick-or-treaters. The children- Bin, Spiley, and Merlot- were not amused.
“Candy only comes to those who know the history of Halloween!” taunted Mr. Dunning, dressed as a wizard.
Spiley stomped Mr. Dunning’s foot as hard as he could, and luckily he was dressed as a cowboy because those spurs sure can puncture footbeef. 
Mr. Dunning dropped the candy bowl and staggered backwards, and the children grabbed whatever they could.
College was wonderful except for the herpes. 

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

Eddie the Psychotic slipped a thousand pins and needles into all the Halloween candy in his bowl.
He couldn’t wait to give it out to the children, and watch as they bit into the chocolate, slicing their lips and tongues to ribbons, wet blood gushing from their little mouths.
When the trick-or-treaters started arriving he offered them the candy, and they all took a big handful. “Thank you,” said the children as they walked off. 

That’s when Eddie the Psychotic began to cry… he realized that he would never see the results of his efforts because the children wouldn’t eat the candy until they got home.
Eddie shot himself in the face, but for different reasons. 

˜ ˜ † ˜ ˜

“I sense the presence of the Dark One,” said Katie, clutching her candy bag.
“You are always saying that,” said her brother Lothar, “let’s continue on.”

They were walking up a long dark road toward a menacing old
house, beneath the full moon in the Halloween sky.
“This time I mean it,” whispered Katie, dressed as a kitten, “the Overlord of the Underworld is just up the street.”
“You are handing me the spooks,” replied Lothar, dressed as Spiderman, “and I don’t enjoy the sensation.”

Just then Beezlebub himself materialized in front of them, his cloven feet and decaying face covered in ash. He leaned on the mailbox of the old house at the end of the road.
Katie and Lothar were scared silent, frozen to the spot.

“I am Satan, the Dark Lord,” growled the ghastly figure, the bones of his skull visible through his rotting flesh. “I have travelled many miles and through many cursed realms to be here tonight, and I want only one thing.”
“Our souls?” asked Lothar, petrified.
“Dark Lord, kiss my lips and let me join you in your black work,” said Katie, twirling her tail. 

“No,” said Satan, “I want a Snickers bar.”
Lothar and Katie searched through their bags but Satan had to settle for a Three Musketeers.