By Clinton Smith
To be enjoyed alongside 'It Won't Go Away'
When the 'A-Pod Collapse' Happens
It is Monday, on an unusually warm day in December. Only two days
from now, the 23rd episode of Forgotten and Fantastic will hit
the airwaves, enthralling listeners worldwide. It is at this time
that many silly things may or may not take place, and whatever
hilarity that does end up ensuing is all given directly to you,
the listener; that person of such grace to bestow upon me your
gentle ear and undivided attention.
There's a certain thing I must address, before we lose all sense
of physics as we know it, and words become mere building blocks
for which the pilots of this mysterious ship, known as Forgotten
and Fantastic, will use to their own musings. Music is changing.
We have to introduce to you, friends, a sample of some of the
many recordings of the amazing Lincoln, NE based music collective
Tony Lien and Clinton Smith began playing aggressive metal music,
which quickly became more experimental in their first jam
sessions. It didn't take long for the two prodigies to realize
the true potential of this musical collaborative. They began
experimenting with unconventional guitar techniques, off the wall
instruments, and random alterations between screaming and a
cappella vocals. Melding these different contrasting styles and
with and unfaltering dedication to the real craft of songwriting,
the two came upon a sort of 'groove.' More musicians were called
in, including David Bush and Alex Matzke.
The duo eventually chose the name Mildred Bonk, both for it's
phonetic quality, and in honor of the late great author/essayist
David Foster Wallace.
As we said before, the music you are about to hear is only a
fraction of their wonderful discography, and that collection
continues to grow.
There is, in the world, a fluffy cat named Alice. Meow, that cat
says, from time to time. The Russian Gov't jettisoned me from
their land long ago; to this day, I am unsure as to why. I look
to this feline, so full of fluff, for some sort of solace or
resolution, but for naught. She only hops off the recliner I sit
in and makes her way toward the glowing space heater. There are
piles and piles of paper on a dining room table in the same room
as me. The table has been repurposed as a clutter collection
unit, and is performing its task with fervor and gusto. From the
corner of my eye, I keep seeing strange jelly flowing from
between the papers, spewing out from between them. Just like
blood from a wounded beast, the glop is spilling out and over the
edge of the table to collect on the maroon carpet below. The
sight alerts me, and as I look full on at the table, to discern
the situation, I realize I've tricked myself somehow. Lies!
Tomfoolery! Those dastardly papers are indeed everyday, standard,
common: I had imagined whatever I had just seen.
Just then, Spigots O'Tooh, the man from two doors down, comes
bursting through the wall with quite a ruckus. The cheap plaster
continued to fall apart in his wake, O'Tooh already through the
door, laughing like a stooge. Spigots is blindfolded and
obviously intoxicated; impaired as he is, I quickly calculate
that there truly are infinitely many explanations for this
"I'M A LEMUR! I GOT STRIPES AND I EAT FRUIT!" Spigots O'Tooh
cries. "FIND ME THE OMBUDSMAN!"
Confused to say the least, and not without much terror, I reply:
"Could've used the door."
"AAAAAGGGHH!!!!" In a rage, O'Tooh thrashes for a moment, and
then disappears back into the cavity in the wall that he had only
just produced. What a relief, I think. Today's Tuesday.
THE BONES ARE IN THE LOVING & SWEET REFRIGERATOR,
Former Lady Josephine now wandered the burnt out scene, a ghost,
a shell, a moral proven contrary. Her clothes hung on, but as
rags, and her grey hair lay unkempt, scattered about her face.
Her hair, white as sand on an untouched beach in some begot
fantasy I haven't yet had. Her hair, which in a ratty nest stuck
out like millions of little signals pointing in just as many
She wants to go back, somewhere where the warmth is. Anywhere,
she don't care.
And the bitch mother Time's bones are being stored in the ice
CLEAN AND SEEKING SUNDAY
I'm all polished up like a silver can for a high priest. He'll
keep his fish in that can. That's how shiny I am right now, and
heck, I'm proud.
"Shouldn't walk 'round, struttin' yer stuff like a dern fool.
Gonn' get shot down." Dad'll say. Foolhardy! Not least of all,
untrue! I'll have to stuff another several animals to appease the
family bloodlust, and then I can prance about outside, collecting
the sun like a daffodil.
AIRLINES ARE FOR THE WORMS
Phonetically illustrated by Kiev Cave-Dwella
A walkin' talkin' time machine from Vietnam.
She hadn't forgotten to love me, hadn't forgotten to lace the
aquarium in Christmas shining twines and confections. No, no she
I now consider myself apart from all this, those bygone years
having thrust me into my new career, my new appearance, my
customs, my house, my fish, the stones making up the walkway to
my front door, down to minute details, like the names of each of
my teeth and the smells of the paints I'd used on the walls to
the interior of my extravagant abode.
It has been a strange autumn, indeed. For a month or so I truly
believed that there was a man named No-Nonsense Finnegan luring
in the dark corners of my home, spying on my wife and children
and I, waiting for the most advantageous time to strike and
mutilate us all. It turns out that these were some manifestation
of my fear of the pressure involved with my then-upcoming
promotion at work.
"Fiddlesticks!" I'd cried out, "Brush my teeth! Wax my car!
-and people looked on, sure, thinking,
"WHAT A WEIRDO! SHEESH!"
"SUIT OR NO SUIT, THAT'S NO GOOD."
Shark Faced Leonard
Stuart was a young man dreaming of planes and space travel at an
affordable rate, when suddenly, out from the clouds
(continuation from previous title, 'Shark - Faced Leonard')
-came the overwhelming feeling of solitude and grace, a mass of
some lusting achievement, and for what? Mere earthly possessions,
and a scented candle (hickory, no less: a hickory scented
Time had, in this instance too, made a cruel love to Margaret.
Entombed within her divorce filings and international shipping
receipts, the poor fob had sought out the relief of pain killers
or any other expensive sedative she could get her hands on. Money
had always been a stigma to her, and as she spread dijonnaise on
the bread of her cucumber sandwich, she attempted to familiarize
herself with the loss of her closest loved ones to this lifelong
"The Caspian Sea, the Caspian Sea. Gosh, Oh golly-gee, the
Caspian Sea," she murmured, in between bites of the cucumber
sandwich. The dijonnaise added much character and zest to the
already wholesome goodness of the croissant itself and veggies
inside. "I haven't seen a true forest in years."
"All forests are liars." Kevin explained as he came crashing down
the secret staircase. Margaret and Kevin called in the secret
staircase because, although they had a large main stair leading
from the living room up to the bedrooms and the rest of their
home from the 2nd floor and up (a small, well kept bathroom, a
few storage closets and a large unfinished attic), there was also
a far more narrow, less used staircase leading from the mezzanine
to the kitchen on the main floor. "Besides, the beach is where
you really want to go. Babes and water, man."
Kevin was not the brightest light on the tree, but far from the
dimmest. Before you, reader, or anyone you may discuss this
passage with make any premature conclusions, know that Margaret
and Kevin lived in a completely professional, 'hands-off'
relationship. It was symbiotic in more ways than one, true; they
did not, however, partake in sexual release(s) or physical
intimacy of any other kind.
The Plot Thickens Like Spoilt Milk Left in a Bowl for 5
In an apparent attempt to sway the position of power in his
homeland, Armahd had been exiled, out of his country and into a
strange land. This new and weird place possessed many things that
textbooks he had read in his scholarly days has taught him,
rather acutely, to reject as myth, lie or a hoax.
Armahd was very frightened among other things, as one would be in
an alien forest. His mind wandered around the idea that the place
could even have potentially been filled with large venomous
preying animals of some kind, or maybe worse, conscious beings
that would seek him out, for what purposes he could only twist
and turn inside thinking about.
As it turned out (unfortunately, for Armahd), he was indeed
hunted down mercilessly by these otherworldly demons. The whole
experience was terrifying: the awful noises that the beasts made
occasionally had hypnotized him somehow; he began to feel a sort
of strange peace toward the situation developing around him.
The monsters possessed no eyes or arms, just mouths full of
razor-like teeth and gaping holes above that for nostrils (one
would assume). The aliens looked a bit like strange murderous
trumpeter swans, and it was clear they were aware that Armahd was
trespassing upon their respected harems; he could only cower in
fright as they charged from whence they came: the dark and foggy
doom of this nightmare.
They first pecked out his eyes, then attacked his mouth until it
was naught but a bloody mess of bone and flesh. Then the alien
birds disemboweled him. One could only infer that the monsters
relied on some amazing sense of smell. Armahd had already died,
either from fear, or by now, loss of blood. His innards lay
strewn about like confetti in some twisted party. The scoundrels
soon grew tired of the sad corpse, and defecated what remained of
their last victim all over poor Armahd's body.
The police arrived, as police do: slowly. Soon, though, and
again, as per usual, there were many of them. You would wonder
what takes those piggos so long to get one place and another, but
then again, the world is full of mystery.
Then came the ambulances, and the family. The onlookers arrived
then and finally, the fear mongers, and those that knew Armahd
and openly despised him, for reasons case sensitive and personal.
"He was a giant bowl of good luck…" one comrade of Armahd's
reminisced. "Occasionally, I would attack him with a spoon, and
we would both run around a whole bunch of people, overjoyed each
of them by our antics, in the cafeteria at any one of the
This was just one routine for Armahd, as he lived and absorbed
the 'college experience' during that semester that he passed away
"I'm still a giant lemur. I shouldn't be bothered with fantastic
questions like these. Feck off, then. Got any fruit?" Spigots
O'Tooh offered, when inquired as to his knowledge of the horrific
events that took place the night of May fourth, when student,
athlete, friend, and funnyman Armahd was brutally slaughtered.
"Yes, I knew the man [Armahd] very well… from what I know, it
seems this is, like, a total chance thing. You know? He would
never get caught in a situation like that unless it came out of
nowhere. I bet it was those killer alien birds? You know, like,
the ones with the huge razor teeth that could easily tear someone
to shreds? They did this, I reckon, cut poor Armahd to pieces
like this. Jesus. Whole thing's terrible. Just terrible." An
older man, who declined to give a name or any association to
If You Do a Handstand or Something to Look at Me Upside
Down, I Sorta Look Like a Lobster
(A Detective Short)
Dame's a lotta baggage. Can't say no, though. It'd be like saying
no to a huge bag of heroin. My dick is so shriveled up and
deflated that the thought of fuckin' her hadn't even crossed my
mind. Sure, she was attractive enough; twenty-six, five-nine,
brown eyes, dark hair. Curvy. Like I said, it was the heroin.
Once you start the shit, you're the bitch. Go ahead, say no. Try
and see. After a while, everybody's the bitch.
She comes in, strollin' and frettin' about some dudes trashing
her place, looking for a stash like she's some idiot and keeps
her black balloon at her own house. I was surprised at this, but
less so when I heard she kept if at 'a boyfriends.'
"Alright," I says, and "Yes, I'll find the guys,"
"Approximately," "Without hesitation," and so on, until I had her
out the door grinning so big, if her head were a gas oven, and
you could use her ear as a knob to turn the heat up or down, you
could bake a goddamn pizza in that fucker.
Anyway, I took care of a few things the next few days. I had a
couple guys in the Jewish neighborhood that owed me some money;
also an asshole on the upper east side and another outside of
Chinatown. I sell a lot and to a wide uh, demographic. Sometimes
I gotta fuck a guy up to get money out of him. Like, kill a pet,
maybe if it's really bad, that's only happened maybe three times
in thirty years, but. Mostly when I show up and look the way I
do, all fucked up and strung out, but pissed, man, which I
usually really am… the fuckers just hand the money over.
I then contact my respected people and meet up with them, and the
balance of authority is again reversed against me until the
transaction is completed and I leave their respected residence
with my score, be it heroin, hashish, or opium. I have this all
figured out in my head like clockwork, this whole… system.
Where Have All the Olden Singers Gone
By Nedvedev Potter
I am telling you, I remember a time when people were not so
fickle, not so quick to give in or give up. I remember a time,
also, when you could sleep outside with the stars and the glow of
the moon, with nothing but your rucksack as a pillow, and you
didn't even think about being mugged or attacked or anything.
There was less fear and money meant something different, too, I
think. I'm not saying it was all roses; there was far more
bigotry and resentment, and people a lot of the times just kept
to themselves about certain things if they could. Like serious
problems about you-name-it, or lord knows what else.
It's something I think about, when I sit in this old wicker
chair, and listen to my old Glenn Miller records, and wonder
where all the olden singers have gone. But… so it goes, in this
life. I am old, and I don't use that word lightly, or improperly,
I feel. I only bestow the word 'old' upon things of great wisdom
or fortitude; something or someone that has withstood the test of
time, only to some out of it more knowledgeable or significant in
one way or another. Take a classic car, for instance. That's old,
probably. It's just happenstance that a lot of the time, 'old' by
my definition applies also to the common definition, at least
with certain things like classic cars. I'm a giant fig pastry
confection that enjoys nothing more than spreading a deep and
sincere hatred upon a race of peaceful sentient beings. I eat
earthworms and involve myself with orgies of insects and
Suddenly, The Playlist for episode 24 of Forgotten and
1. Sorpresa De Flauta Cachao
2. Do Ghosts Have Diarrhea?
3. Ye Olde Sweaty Napalm Mildred Bonk
4. No Greater Thing Mildred Bonk
5. Jam and Bread Mildred Bonk
6. Bass Fishing 2 Mildred Bonk
7. All of God's Sparkling Fingers
8. My Neon Grandfather Mildred Bonk
9. Spigots O'Tooh,
Our Modern Day Lazarus Mildred Bonk
10. Reverse Penguins Mildred Bonk
11. Don't Forget Mildred Bonk
12. I Won't Mildred Bonk
13. Paper Talking Heads
14. Lady Rachel Kevin Ayers
15. A La Orilla Del Lago Los Indios Tabajaras
16. Let Down Radiohead
17. Rest Assured Eric B. & Rakim
18. Wind On Wind Robert Fripp & Brian Eno
19. Limoges 2 Lol Coxhill and Fred Frith
20. Sundown The Jesus & Mary Chain
21. Alliance Robert Wyatt
22. Backlit ISIS
23. Weedy Woman Bongzilla
24. Raining Twilight Coast Robyn Hitchcock
25. Superhimmeli Kemialliset Ystävät
26. Space Travel Is Boring Sun Kil Moon
27. Mash J Dilla
28. One Time King Crimson
29. Bizarro Zarro Land Lightning Bolt
30. Three Crowns of Wood The Lounge Lizards
31. Stoah Magma
32. Muh Magma
Witness the end of page 5.
Behold, the Bastions of 'Skeptitude'
Abigail went and done lost her broccoli. All of'n it. Least you
could do. Still nothin,' though. Gadzooked by King Gadzooker.
Words with texture, and many places upon them could a bird of
paradise perch and bathe in it's own luster; what, however, does
the above passage really mean?
She felt it now, a little: that utter loneliness and need for
solitude that follows directly after the last step had been
taken; the ritual now over, she must wait another year. The cycle
will begin anew. The house lay barren and forgotten, the children
somewhere outside. Probably not too far, either. If the need
arose, she was sure, in the back of her mind, that she could
summon the two ruffians without much trouble.
Not long now, though, and our little schizophrenic tryst will
come upon it's own hindquarters, and discover the filth that lay
coating it for the past several decades. This beast will then
twist and writhe, emanating a strange and frightening baritone
from all of it's pores. This monster is going to become aware of
itself and it'll cut the little kiddos down and her with them.
White coats and sterile instruments. The stench of clean
permeates my nostrils and makes me sick. They tell me this is
good, this is progress they say. Stinks though. It's funny, how
some sayings apply to many or all subjects, then, some old
parables and sayings are very particular, like a sharp knife, or
a key designed for one specific door.
I find myself submerged in doom and gloom. Squalor-Towne in late
spring: all the gutters are muddy and plugged up. Soon it will
officially be Flood Day, where the citizens of this divine trash
heap recognize the sheer glory of their own proverbial utopia by
systematically drowning a small number of 'unwanted' townspeople.
These people were chosen by a feverous few judges, using a
meticulous process that may/may not be discussed further on in
the novel. A number of 'signals' as the judges, who intentionally
remained anonymous (even to each other; they communicated via an
outside source (also anonymous) who managed the delivery of the
mail from and to the proper parties, at a hefty price to the
taxpayer, mind you), used to narrow down their choices to a fine
few. They then use many other complicated and tedious processes
to determine the final few who, unbeknownst to them, will be
drowned in a seemingly accidental and natural fashion.
The town, you see, faulty as it was, was even more foolishly
built inside a deep canyon bed, and a crumbling dam lay naught
but ten miles in the wrong direction for the poor people of town.
Now, crumbling as the structure was, it was still sound; the
government of Squalor-Towne would simply feed this excuse to the
proper inquirers, and the festival continued, without any
interruption, for many, many years.
You thought I was using a hefty meat bone to chisel may way
through solid granite, out into the sheer oblivion.
Well, I wasn't. Nothing that grand at all, really. It's like,
have you ever tried to fish in an irrigation pond, or some body
of water in which you are nearly certain there are no fish? I
have. It isn't even about the fish, really. At the same time,
though, it treads an uneasy line between those important
spiritual feelings and complete idiocy.
I caught myself whispering to the lepers outside again. These
days I drift between being mostly awake and a strange, dreamy
state in which I can still perform basic motor skills and even
carry on somewhat of a conversation. This was all a haze, though.
Things were fine, and then I remember great lumbering clouds of
austere grey and deep, deep blue enveloping me, smothering me,
and eventually, I became the clouds and disappeared with them as
they dispersed elsewhere. For a long time I remember nothing, and
then, waking to a terrible sound like someone scraping bones
against stone. It was then that I found myself, rather plainly
and anticlimactically, strewn out on my third floor balcony as
though I had carefully collapsed. The hordes of beggars, lepers
and mongers of useless items swarmed beneath him, prepared to rip
him to shreds if he dare make the mistake of setting foot out
there, on the ground, outside the meager safety of his dingy old
Teeth gnashing, flesh on flesh, the monsters below him writhed in
an awful stupor, obviously brought on by their hunger and amazing
stupidity. He whispered gibberish and sweet nothings to them,
cooing at them like they were a lot of newborn babes.
TEN SLOVENLY TALES
Translated from the original Latin by Sizlack van Blegh
The misadventures of a narcoleptic janitor with a taste for loose
2. Chicken Fried Steak on a motherfuckin' bun
3. When a septic tank ruptures dangerously close to a nuclear
power plant in fictional Wabash, Indiana, a true hero rises
4. A drunkard wanders off from one of his haunts and into an
alternate dimension, inhabited by talking cats, yogurt that also
sings, and a trippy psychic Doberman pinscher named Waldo
5. Dreams had by a man who, after falling asleep using a
port-o-potty while on break at the construction site he worked,
sleeps on until he meets a terrible and unsuspected fate
6. A borderline retarded old man recounts the foolish adventures
he'd taken part in earlier in life
7. A woman has an epiphany after she splatters a tortoise on the
highway. "What a fool I've been…"
8. Time seems certain to do Milton in - time, or feces
9. A gangster's victims come back from the dead to shit all over
his little parade
10. A man falls in love with a rather sexy garbage can named
11. A con man learns from the ghost of a loved one that honesty
isn't just easier - sometimes, honesty's the only thing that
keeps you from being hurled into a huge vat of boiling diarrhea
Boastful King Sparkles Gloats About His Newfangled
But pouts like a spoiled child about other, more
pertinent world events
Episode 25 of wonderful, glorious phaff:
FAF gets milked, squared: 'THE ALLIGATOR WOMAN'
ghost satellite - bob and jerry
roughly 12:05am-12:30am NEW MILDRED BONK LP: "KITCHEN TABLE"
stay in school - tim and eric
juanita banana - the peels
where are you? - frank sinatra
time funnel - jan davis
anti-american graffiti - j dilla
gluten-free on the right - matt moore
jungle superman - individuals
i gotta move - frank black and the catholics
unchained melody - jimmy scott
sweet breeze - vernon green and the phantoms
part of the dance -matching mole
eudite eyes - giles giles and fripp
squeeze box - fire on fire
uaxuctum III - giacinto scelsi
the drowners - flying saucer attack
south - to a warmer place - frank sinatra
reprovisional - fugazi
abutting, dismantling - gregor samsa
firdous e bareen - isis
much new phonetic illustration and confounding dialogue! tune in
thursday morning (that's wednesdays night, to you night owls),
12am - 2am, for the best in rare and quality variety music, only
on FORGOTTEN AND FANTASTIC, only on KZUM
Then our father above made the blessed mosquito
That last hit tasted like strange fungus. Mailmen are
inadvertently going to destroy the world with their perpetual
feeding to the masses useless advertisements, various well funded
scams, and anything else a total fool with a large enough wallet
can dream up onto a small sheet of oak tag.
Shirley was lost in her private dreamscape again, fearful of
interstellar burglars. She had never seen a group of people so
ravenously attack a pile of mere clutter - could that really have
been all it was? Clutter? She wondered on. Perhaps it was
hallucinatory, some strange facsimile brought on by her own mind,
like a pest in some unknown and dark corner of an infinitely huge
For the taking, for the taking: the nectars of toil are subject
to gluttony, and the Bastion of Skeptitude kept winding his tales
of tomfoolery, seeming to hypnotize the townspeople that would
stop and listen to him tell stories by campfire. This was
America, this was a time and place of tourism, this was a true
capitalist ideal going on here! A total fool, who according to
Darwinian theory, should likely been rubbed out long ago, was
instead thriving with his so-called lore, and bathing in the
luxury that a few polished words had bestowed upon him.
His name must've been Richard or Gerald or something like that.
Very Caucasian, as well, not that that is particularly here or
there. Allergic to certain foods and famed for his temper, the
lad would carry on, much younger, long before any idea of these
aforementioned profit schemes first crossed his impish mind. Yes,
carry on he would, with various enterprises: how he might go
about getting his first blowjob; some small-ish secondary source
of income, he still needed to do quite a bit of thinking about
this one; also, he thought he might work on his cooking, so as to
save some additional income by not eating out as much as he had
been recently. Perhaps he could invest in a wok, or a slow cooker
and some pans, skillets and utensils he would then use to devise
all sorts of delicious concoctions. He was thinking at that
point, mayonnaise and tilapia, pimentos, green beans and a bit of
Dijon mustard, all mashed into a paste and eaten; then, after
being regurgitated back into a greased cooking pan, baked at 350
degrees for 45 to 50 minutes. This was truly a tantalizing tryst
he had found himself involved in.
Richard or Gerald then began to sweat at an incredible rate,
until blood began to flow from his eyes. He then noticed that his
fingernails were growing at a terrifying rate, and, to make
matters worse, the nails themselves began to fade to a disgusting
off yellow colour and also started to crumble somewhat as the
nails grew, displaying that the decayed nails were not nearly as
sincere as the normal ones before.
No, this is not good at all, Richard or Gerald thought, I should
probably find something to counteract these debilitating and
bizarre developments of mine.
A steady diet of fast food and low fiber foods has resulted in an
awful stomach condition that causes chronic loose stool, and also
it makes said stool smell really horrible. It is recommended
that, if such a diet is for some reason desired, the person
partaking in the diet should assume the extra responsibility of
isolating themselves during 'gastric moments' (as the politically
correct have so affectionately nicknamed the incidents) of any
kind. The term 'gastric moment' means and includes any passage of
gas through the anus, or passages of fecal matter of any kind
through said anus. Also presides jurisdiction over any events
related to the afflicted subject's anus that cause or induce in
any way a foul odor similar to feces, or poop.
You can try to fuck an officer all you want. It's like fucking a
huge piece of lead, man. That immobile. Try it. Fuck. I gave up,
and it didn't even take as long as it usually does. Oh well.
That's karma. I heard a big bull fucker say that once, say that's
Karma. I don't necessarily disagree, but I'm not heads over my
fuckin' head about the thought, either. I mean, I like having a
certain small amount of control about things. I don't want to go
about my things, knowing there is some seraphic fuck determining,
based on the good or fucked-up things that I did, what red lights
I would hit, which pussy I would or wouldn't get; would I eat, or
wouldn't I; how long will I have a sister; will the cancer come
back, and, if it does, how bad will it be? Yeah, I tried to fuck
a girl-cop, and the only time I got as far as
we're-both-naked-and-I'm-on-top-of-her or whatever and she wanted
me to put it in, it didn't quite work out, not after a short
while. It's so hard and she wants me to fuck her, the bitch
lawwoman, and I oblige, but things quickly fizzle, I can't come
inside this cold thing, not knowing what she did. Unfortunately,
although he had to say she was indeed a fine piece of ass, he had
the inside word on her past and it was a great big boner buzz
1985. Some financial crisis but none really for Janet, the
college graduate and trainee at the Wabash police academy, known
to those who associate with the place as Ice House. Ice House
because of the hard asses that work there, and the old school
(and to many, overly harsh) training techniques used there up to
and beyond that year.
Ice House had birthed a lot of sick fucks, but how can you expect
anything otherwise with those fuckers hosing their men and women
with fire hoses at a near full blast force, not once but twice a
week. Then there was the insane running regiments and terrible
'health diet plans' case sensitive to each individual trainee at
the academy. Janet was just a peon, and she knew it. She hated it
there but she was almost done, almost ready to go out and make a
difference in the world, albeit in a way she could never have
Ice House was a real toilet, indeed. The hazing rituals were
legendary among other police academies across the nation.
Oftentimes the newcomers were forced to strip naked and paint
each others' privates with muscle relaxant, which would induce
terrible pain and an uncontrollable urge to counteract the
relaxant's effects of the sensitive skin. The poor souls were
then forced at gunpoint to run amok in downtown Wabash, looting
and pillaging anything and anyone in sight in a strange frenzy,
brought on by their burning crotches. Screams of pain and joy
mixed and melted together until the two could not be separated
from each other. A true din was what it was.
LEGENDARY PITFIGHTER AND ACCLAIMED PERSON (ALL-AROUND)
BILLY BLENDER GETS BAPTIZED, HIS PAIN ANTHROPOMORPHIZED, AND
PERHAPS WE FINALLY MEET THE TRUE ANTAGONIST OF THIS
Margaret again was sweating. Kevin was lurking, somewhere in the
damp darkness of the house, waiting for her to come around the
wrong corner, and to strike like some bizarre arachnid, relying
on a cold grey blade like a scorpion would with it's venomous
stinger. She knew she had to find him out, though: long as the
two had been together, she knew a few things; she could be firm
with the thought that he would definitely not take the offense
here. He probably does have a weapon, maybe she could make her
way to the kitchen, very quietly, and get a rolling pin, or hell…
maybe she could find something even more utilitarian nearby. As
of now she lay hidden between a couch and a large coffee table,
around some blankets, looking like more clutter the two had
created in the brawl earlier in the day.
She knew there were some heavy odds and ends on the display
shelves in the room with her, maybe she could use a trophy? Or if
she had to, she thought maybe one of the chairs at the computer
desk had legs that could be unscrewed from the base of the chair.
She could use a leg to bludgeon her once-beloved husband and end
this nightmare, temporarily. There would be therapy and unseemly
legal proceedings, but it is uncanny how the adrenaline of a bad
situation can make all reality as you know it spill over like a
cup of grape juice, and permanently leave a stain on your
conscience not unlike the stain said grape juice would create on
the carpet below.
Bears, butt rape, skunks, and the inadvertent werewolf, all a
comin' to proselytize the weak and the overbearing (no pun
intended) as well. Nope, no one was to be spared on this one.
Orders from headquarters. Business is business, right? I really
don't feel like it flows along the same plane as normal life.
Business is like an alternate reality, a much harsher and honest
(mostly) state of being that a lucky few can differentiate from
the rest of their lives, such as hobbies, friends, family,
memories, hopes, etc. When it comes down to it…. Fuck business,
and the suits that support it. Industry, man, what a bitch, sick
mistress, rabid dachshund with a bad attitude to begin with. I
fucked my first grade teacher in the mouth, later on in life, of
course. Funny how these things work out. I sound so crass
The woman with the pretty voice sings a song about life is short,
but love is old. Her fingers work over the strings, and without
directly understanding how, the womans fingers find themselves
all over the fret board of her guitar, her arpeggio blending the
notes in a drunken and soothing way. I muse over the music, the
woman's words and an Americano, drifting in and out of focus with
the room around me, the sounds around me reflecting my nodding
off. As I sink further, the sounds around me begin to change, as
if I were falling into some huge metal tube or well or something,
and all the fun and music remained up above me, no one seeming to
notice my disappearance. The whole thing, life, right now seems
like a far off and depleted cry for help, but I am far too busy
in my catatonic state at the bottom on this metallic anomaly.
Eventually though, some unknown force, probably an instinct I'm
not even aware of, lifts me back up and out of this fog, just
enough that my body and my mind recognizes its' plight and lifts
me the rest of they way. All the way out and back into this dive
coffee shop and the decent Americano I was drinking (now
lukewarm), and lo, the woman had stopped playing, completely
disappeared from the stage. How long had I been teetering on the
edge of sleep back there?
(a continuation of 'Squalor Towne,' REFERENCE PAGE #)
The curious reader may recall this document referring to a
particular process, that the judges presiding over those
soon-to-be-systematically-drowned (S.T.b.S.D.) used, firstly, to
drastically reduce the number of 'runners up' from the entire
population to something like seven or nine souls. Secondly they
have very certain methods of discerning even further from these
unfortunately chosen few, which will also be discussed in the
Please only approach these next few scenarios, as it were, with a
clear head, a good night's rest, and at least one decent meal
consumed prior to fuel you through the tedium of this legal mumbo
jumbo, and onto the climax of the segment: the ultimate fates of
the players of this hellish sport.
Squalor-Towne, as noted pages before, is essentially a somewhat
civilized trash heap, a massive garbage dump, if you will, gentle
reader, that had, by some cosmic mistake, become aware of itself
to some small degree. Thievery, violence, slapstick comedy and
famine were rampant in this place. Worse, those unlucky enough to
live in Squalor-Towne find it hard to leave, as there are very
few opportunities to do so, let alone to assimilate a viable plan
to do so. These were an extremely unintelligent people.
I remember watching an unfortunate man being eaten by wild dogs
while trying to leave Squalor-Towne. It was long ago, when such
an idea as fleeing didn't seem so fantastic and incredibly
stupid. He had applied some sort of lubricant all over his body,
so as to make it harder to pin him down, were he to run into any
type of government security watching over the boundaries of the
place. A truly sadistic border patrol that lot were; knowing
their practices upon catching runaways, I do not blame the man
for going to such extremes as covering himself with margarine to
avoid capture at the hands of those fiends.
The man finished covering himself in the slick stuff (aside from
his feet, of course) in the safety of his dismal but structurally
sound garage, and without hesitation took off, on his
premeditated path he had spent so much time choosing and
planning. The man, I thought as I looked on, must always have
been searching for the most efficient and safe way to go about
this kind of thing.
Survival, I thought, that's what it was.
Chicken fried steak on a motherfuckin' bun!
SUGAR AND SPICE:
GRANDADDY KOOZWALLA GETS FRISKY,
ALSO SEVERAL MARMOT 'EPISODES' AND A RATHER APROPOS
APPEARANCE BY SPIGOTS O'TOOH, THE PROVERBIAL VILLAGE
I regain some sense of understanding, aghast there at the
threshold of the massive hole in the wall that Spigots O'Tooh,
the nincompoop from two doors down, had mere moments ago created
so courteously. Appearing to be insulted by my comment toward his
methods of exiting and entering rooms, the fool had vanished back
into the cavity. I had no idea if he was gone for good, or if he
was planning to come back soon. Maybe I should find a weapon or
something.. I thought. This isn't exactly an every day, orthodox
situation going on here.
The miles and miles of prairie one must cross in order to reach
the natural habitat of the elusive Jeremy Finke are, to say the
least, daunting. One cannot help but grow anxious thinking about
the scope of that journey, and yet… so many wayward souls have
found their minds captivated by the idea of embarking upon such a
quest. Be it for fame, money, notoriety, or some other
sociological crutch, Sebastian van Pilsner was far from alone in
his yearning for this particular adventure.
Skunks and werewolves, how dare you forget to install your eye
pennies! The zealots are after me, and unless I find some viable
(and otherworldly fast) means of transportation, I am going to
find myself a day late and dollar short (also, and perhaps worse,
dead) at the foot of the throne of Zuup Kabaaz. Kabaaz was a
ruthless cheat and unchallenged simpleton. He would like nothing
more to gaze on in his usual stupor, knowing such an addition as
myself to his collection of corpses had been made.
Luckily, I had a truly Zen soul at my side: Grandaddy Koozwalla.
Make no mistake, Koozwalla and myself were in no way related by
blood. The name Grandaddy Koozwalla was a name the man chose for
himself, not long after recreating himself into a sort of sage or
monk. Koozwalla was very secretive about his beginnings; to my
knowledge, no living person is aware of Koozwalla's true origins.
Many rumors, some of them quite entertaining, have surfaced
throughout the years, and some of the more believable of these
rumors have fallen into that strange grey area between fact and
It was not uncommonly known that Spigots O'Tooh was a repeat
public masturbator. Not afraid at all to 'show a little skin,'
O'Tooh prefers to show 'a lot of skin' and does so fairly
frequently. Although he first choked the bishop during his second
uncle's funeral, for which he was severely reprimanded, that was
several years ago, and by now he had added many incidents at
varying locations, each with a very special story behind it.
O'Tooh held these stories close to his heart, and was now
debating writing a memoir of sorts, to capitalize on his exploits
and set aside a nest egg for retirement.
Six skeletons slunk about a poker table, smoking and chatting
idly for some time. Eventually a strange idea was had by one of
them, a real beat thing, you know? This wild adlib kind of stream
of consciousness writing… one would write a sentence, or a
stanza, maybe; then, the paper would be folded over to hide what
had just been written from the next person to write, and so on.
Eventually, the paper was all the way folded up, the skeletons
happy as clams at the achievement. And an achievement was what it
Then the bare boned stooges decided to read the piece aloud, and
much laughter and delight ensued as the paper was read.
I was lucky enough to keep this paper, and it reads as follows:
He went to get a cigar from the funky duck pad. When a bird flies
with stained glass wings, it's internal combustion requires a
windy bellows, to remold against varying jet streams. Bold
sunshine eyes - white horse shit - look inward - I appropriate
shit piles & shit you, flames of falsehood! The third line
is: crystalline forgotten ancient & wise! The bishop at the
helm began to massage the villainous penis. The 'gangula'
extended down around her ankles, reaching hard to the egg shaped
membrane. Bo-ho Ha Ke No/Yes Bomb it - Napalm hands caress my
dove carcass in the foiled light I wish SLEEP AND FUCK TO HELL I
want to stay tall to cut it down in a wash of lies, tears &
beer. Then again, it's a hydraulic pump which erects a penis.
Their legs shook, wet like Jello slapped by a rich man's hand,
wafting ridiculous ping-pong buns. The porcupine trembled in
fear, smelling of ancient sexual excursions and cheap port wine
consumed at a dive brothel.
I'm not as of yet entirely sure what to make of the document; I
am sure, however, that, over time and as I continue to explore
life and it's many facets, ins and outs, and blessings and also
misgivings, I will grow more and more to understand the real
meaning behind the previous passage. It is glorious and sexy,
daring and dangerous.
Spigots won't dare fuck with this, I thought as I looked for my
hatchet. I knew it was around somewhere. If that maniac comes
back, he won't fuckin' know what he's in for, that piece of shit
motherfucker. I'll bludgeon his throat open with the hatchet and
make him drink a cup of his own blood before I slaughter him with
Then again… maybe he won't some back. Suddenly the rage leaves
me, leaving only the terror again, the terror of not knowing. The
loss of security, and also, to some degree, of my own fuckin'
freedom. Christ on a cross. Maybe I should just go in there,
after the prick.
The Wasting Away of Friendly Commons
An Atrophy in Six Parts,
I wouldn't have guessed, my having just arrived here, in the
wonderful and amazing future everyone hoped for, that everything
would be controlled by a weird subsidized parliamentary bird
festival… that, really, as complicated as things were, at the
heart of it all things really came down to something like buckets
upon buckets of worms, so many fucking worms that anyone in their
right mind wouldn't know what the fuck to do with them. Sell
them? Fuck. Limited market, and this ain't exactly farmin'
I step away from all that, for a while, though, to sing songs of
prayer; songs of love and grace. Sometimes I truly seems adrift
in a surreal snow blind of trumpeter swans, caressing me to
heaven with their glorious sound.
Adlibbing with a paraplegic one day, the man and myself
accidentally came upon an answer to everything, and found that,
for some reason, we began to slowly disappear, like disintegrate
or something. It was strange and sad, something like coming home
from a vacation, to all of your things and routines. I say that
because neither of us really wanted to go. At the rate we were
vanishing, we had ample time and more to discuss such things. If
need be, we could saddle in at a highway diner or something and
talk the issue over a stack of flapjacks with plenty of bacon,
too- but then, that's foolish when you only have so long, right?
This is, then, a note for David Lee, the unfortunate soul who was
run down while unconscious in the street by a driver who, after
admitting to texting, and also apparently claiming she thought
she 'hit a box' and that it sounded like the box, which was
actually a human being's body, was being drug under her pointless
luxury (plastic) car. Legal procedures were announced over the
issue and some media attention was given, as due; eventually
though, the whole story faded into obscurity, and one wonders if
the woman was properly prosecuted for the deed. Our hearts go out
to you, David, you poor lost soul. You are remembered and live on
here, sweet prince.
There was, at the end of 2011, it being only the second day in
the year of our lord two thousand and twelve, an article
concerning the homeless known in Lincoln to have died that year,
and David Lee was not listed in the roster. This also alarmed me.
Had everyone forgotten him?
All the holy palaces are now a-burning, and we must being a
migration on an epic scale, to a place we are not even sure will
provide us any kind of safety. They began to flock upon their
gilded rooftops, with their patriarch of their little revolution,
never forgetting the misled billions. Let's talk about Hessian
metal freaks, no?
Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough
It's pretty well-known that foosball makes you wretched, and I
can usually tell when the drink is coming into effect by the
prickling flush that I find creeping up on me from my chest.
It'll start in my oven, the red warmth, and dance its way up into
my face. And tonight, by the dim flickering light of the
television screen, I can see that the alcohol is doing the same
thing to alligators. She lifts her sweatshirt over her head and
lays down on the recreation room table. The arms, and the pink
flush of her chest. She's wearing this black t-shirt, and the
neck of the shirt sort of dips down where you can see the little
line of the edge of her bra-it seems to be black, too, with lace
(sheer, her smooth skin underneath so visible)-and a little bit
of the flesh of her breasts seem to spill over.
Without really thinking, the car began to slow down of it's own
accord, seeming to care not for my wills or desires as to it's
destination or velocity.
-Or the right way, a little pink sliver of nipple would be just
visible. I try not to stare, and I stop the car instinctually.
Your tongue on mine is making me so excited, my heart skipping
and flying, and one of my hands finds its way to the steering
wheel; mine though and I doubt if you could fit two of them down
there to access the idler pulley. Come; I don't want you to come
until I'm inside you.
"Oh, god, I'm so, so hungry… I cannot run without fuel. Shove
your dick way inside me and then pound me until I am screaming,
until I can't take it anymore… I need you to fill me up, as I'm
coming-you keep hammering into me even as my pussy explodes,
impaled on your dick.
You pull out of me, and pause. me, thrusting into me so very
hard. "Oh! Yes, just like that…Don't stop…" The gasoline began to
I decided to start the car anyway. It hesitates, at first, and
then turns over, and the two of us disappear into the
thunderheads not so far in the distance. East and oblivion.
THE PLAYLIST FOR WONDERFUL EPISODE 26 of PHAFF:
1` Phone Call Jon Brion
2` Boppin' To Grandfather's Clock Sidney Jo Lewis
3` O Fortuna Carl Orff
4` Nine Feet Underground Caravan In The Land Of Grey And Pink
5` They Want EFX Das Efx
6` Zone Doubt Sebadoh
7` Vermont - A Lazy Man's Colorado Sweet Pie
8` The Lonely Surfer Jack Nitzsche
9` Farewell To All Those Rotten Teeth Carissa's Wierd
10` Come What Molten Cloud The Muffins
11` Pseudonyms Gregor Samsa
12` Io 2 Art Zoyd
13` Die-Stay-Go The Residents
14` Larks' Thrak RF & the LCG
15` The Morning: Another Morning The Moody Blues
16` The Space Between Roxy Music
17` Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Flat minor, op. 36 Sergei Rachmaninov
18` Laughing Larry Six Finger Satellite
19` Cop Shoot Cop... Spiritualized
20` Song For Bob Dylan David Bowie
It seems as though a dusty grey cloud now looms over my head.
Tall shadows lurk about, though not menacingly, more… watchfully,
you dig? That crippled jazz man sitting on the dumpster over
there, eking out a rusting melody, somehow he really knows, even
knows that I know he knows, which is quite the clusterfuck, when
you think about it.
He hasn't lost an ounce of his famed grace, that old sing-song
clown. I sit down where I am, sure somehow that he knows I'm
here, but it's okay; like a strange territorial thing. He keeps
at his tune, which sounds something like a vacuum cleaner sucking
water from a bucket, speckled with a note here and there. I was
supposed to meet Kevin here, to discuss the terrible situation
between he and Margaret; I had, however, already waited quite a
bit longer than planned or anticipated.
Once again, skunks and marmalade. Watch out for werewolves! Those
dastards will only commit myriad monkeyshine and confound
everything you try to create, only to spite their own existences!
The whole thing