Ennui

The word slings pretension
like a post-modern David.

A stone from his folded strap
that missed its mark, that lies
in the dried-out brush
ignored by foot and beak,
waiting for a heavy rain
to carry it whichever way
the gradient flows,
or to at least wash off the dust:
I am that sometimes (I lied

I am that mostly.)

I do not lack charisma,
there was just no room for it
with the acne medication in the cabinet
and urn of vaseline on the dresser.
It did not salve my rippling skin.
I threw it away like a good garbage tosser.

I've got a bloody nose
and a fecal anus,
and there's arctic water
trickling through my thighs.
And my face is burning, burning,
a wooden cross on a scorched summer lawn.

I will not get ketchup on my tie
today. I will not let my coffee
bubble out its holey cover. I will not
mark my hands with black ink
and fingerprint my desk
like a criminal.
I will not be interrogated.

Poor grey telephone
all alone all alone.
I kiss your mouth
with rubbing alcohol.
You are grey as ashes,
and I will wait in earnest
for you to ring me asleep.

shitface has a dream that one day...

Definitions for phrases/acronyms that may be used in this document:
BPJ: Banana Peel Juk- The process by which one uses a banana peel as a masturbatory aid
SWF- Sopping Wet Furney- Describes the state of a woman whose furney (vaginal area) is sopping wet.

I have a had a problem lately getting SWF lately. The sad thing is I don't care. I have other ambitions now. Think about how much you could get accomplished, if you quit the endless pursuit of SWF. Now, I concentrate on achieving other goals, the kind that make or break a man. Some prefer to hike mountains, learn how to play a musical instrument, or play video games until they are sexually aroused by the thought of losing to the computer.

I, on the other hand have transcended all of these petty annoyances and now concentrate on doing something only few others have done. No, it's not the BPJ, though I have been actively participating in this process over the last couple of months. No, not video games and baseball cards. This Feat goes beyond collection. It doesn't involve reading, eating right, or getting exercise (for the most part).

Ok give up? Here's my plan!

It will be a Friday, or a Saturday, right, and I'll wake up late in the morning. I start the day by unsettling my stomach. Many nuts and chocolate items will be consumed. I'll probably use the bowl a couple of times, but not too much. As the day rolls on I will eat some stewed prunes and 15 dollars worth of taco bell food. The stomach gods will become angered and Posiden's trident will rapidly strike the insides of my intestines.

It's party time. On this particular day my friend will be having a house party. The kind where girls from his work come and are looking to drink alot. I will start talking to the girl with the lowest self esteem and the worst couth in the place. She will preferably be loud and obnoxious.

Her friends will abandon her and I will get her drunk to the point of alcohol poisoning. I will be incredibly friendly, doing the best I can considering I am in pain from the taco bell. She will pass out in my friend's house. I will then proceed to leave a note in her pocket telling her I will be right back and that my stomach is bothering me. Ahhh the truth. I will instruct my friends to go by the story, that she stammered out shortly after yelling obscenities.

This is where my plan will spring into action. I will eat half a bag of dried fruit in three minutes, eat half a box of All-Bran extra fiber, choke down some milk of magnesia, and then drink a barium milk shake. I will then proceed to take a lap around the nearest track with a very tight belt tied around my waste. I will be in much pain at this point. This is where mental discipline must and will take over.

While I am getting ready, this near alcohol poisoned, passed out, girl will be placed in the middle of an open space, maybe under some bleachers at the school I am running a lap at. This is where all my delicate planning and flawless execution will pay off. This is the 'bigger' thing I referred to in the introductory paragraph. Remember? The thing that is superior to the 'the pursuit of SWF'

I will proceed to drop my drawers and squat over this young lady's face. I will relish the moment and contemplate my journey. Finally, I will open my sphincter and let loose a volume of excrement reminiscent of the floods that occurred in Superman one before Superman reversed time. After I have finished, I will run for my life. This will be the pinnacle of my existence and I dare anyone to debate otherwise. Not having wiped, I will run for my life jumping and crying. Victory will finally be mine....

Now you may ask, what about the young woman? She is going to eventually wake up covered in shit. There are a couple of things to remember. The girl's friends did abandon her, you did specifically pick her out because she had low self esteem. Also, who would admit that? Something as humiliating as that. Could you take someone seriously who got shit on like that in the middle of a field. I don't think so. I mean, you may put that on the resume of the job interview for some fetish film, but the bottom line is, it's not a great experience.

So tonight, I Shitface Mcstevens, will prey to god (Darrel Hammond), and hope hope hope that one day I will be given the opportunity to unpack my glorious plan...

Purging Pinche

Some information has come to light concerning one Pinche Cabrona, former BfN contributor and translator. There are conflicting reports, so the following is a list of what our trusted sources have so honorably reported.

1) Pinche lost all of her fingers in a catastrophic protein shake accident. She has in fact been working on a post, but must type with her nose, so it is very slow-going, especially because of her famous weak capillaries. She can't read the letters on the keys for all the red, but still she trudges every day from memorization of the home row. Despite her determination, the ETA for the article is 2012.

2) She has given up all technology and spends her days writing stories in the sands of a faroff beach, only eating sand between leaves which she cleverly calls a sandwich.

3) Pinche was actually the pen name for Lance Bass, and now that he's gay he doesn't feel the need to post anymore. Elitist!

Any additional information should be posted below. If you see Pinche Cabrona, do not approach or confront her, as she has teeth like staple removers and nails like the hard plastic packaging electronics come in that get really sharp when you try to open them. They're a real hazard.

Mucking About with...Headlines

This is something I made up. Me. I did it. Don't steal it. It works like this: I look at a headline and try to guess what the story is actually about. I created this. Again, don't steal it.

Obese people may collapse more in heat

As the whiskey in our collective thermometers rises with the summer months, there is an oft overlooked danger on the streets.

"Heatstroke is a real menace," said Dr. Menelaus Menses. "People are passing out every day: the young, the old, the infirm, and especially the obese. This last group is the one we should worry most about."

In an average non-summer month, an obese person will collapse 3 times. During the summer, that number quadruples to 36.

"It's a danger. These 'tugboats,' as they like to be known, are collapsing all over the place. Every 5 seconds, an obese person collapses. Our hospitals are filling up." Dr. Menses also wanted to set straight some rumors concerning the 'tugboat' appellation: "These people do not float, and only a small minority finds them fit for a tug."

The obese's extra weight is, "like wearing three snowsuits while sitting in a microwave," Dr. Menses told us. "Together, with the other problems the obese face, such as hypertension, diabetes, and the increasing difficulty in procuring children to eat, I'm surprised anyone is fat anymore."

An obese is defined as a man or woman(no trannies) who weighs at least 636 lbs. Like all of us, they play sports and are allergic to cat hair, but unlike us, their sweat shoots out of their pores like a clicking sprinkler, and they fall down really hard. Dr. Menses told us, "The bigger they are, the farther[sic] they fall." These fallings are crippling the non-obese at a rapid pace.

"Yesterday, I treated seven normal people who had been injured by this increase in obese collapses," Dr. Menses told us while visibly erect. "I lost two of them. This is getting out of hand."

36.4% of tugboat falls hurts a non-tugboat. Ways to prevent injury include: drinking fluids, wearing sneakers with fresh treads or those sneakers with wheels in the heels that kids are zipping around the mall with crazy bastards, not bathing in bacon grease, and staying out of the shade, as what you think is a tree may be an obese person with eczema.

Ways to prevent obesity include: not eating.

Dear Stalin,

I'm officially fed up with people. I came across an article a while ago and I feel that things are really getting out of hand. This article is talking about a lawsuit that has been filed against MySpace.com. Supposedly a 14 year old girl developed an online relationship with a 19-year old man. Understand this, she voluntarily gave out her name, address, phone number, and most likely several other personal tidbits like the fact that the only blood that she has ever seen come from between her legs was from chafing she received on her big wheel; did I mention yet that she’s 14? So this 19 year old guy picks her up after school to take her on a date; oh yeah she’s 14 so that puts her in 8^th maybe 9^th grade. They went to dinner (I’m guessing Chuck E. Cheese) and a movie (once again I’m guessing Monster House) and afterwards he drove to a parking lot and raped her in the back seat of his car. At that point, it is unconfirmed but I believe that she pulled out her Harry Potter wand and attempted to cast a spell to prohibit this personal intrusion from continuing. However, being 14 and not realizing that magic isn’t real yet her world and self-esteem came crashing down in a 19 year olds 30 seconds of pleasure, only to ruin every relationship that she attempts to have for the rest of her life, not to mention her contribution of cock-blocks.

Now, the girl and her mother have filed a lawsuit against MySpace.com for no less then $30 Million, arguing that MySpace does not protect kids. Please understand that I do not condone sexual assaults in any way, and that this guy was no where even close to being in the right (14 is too young to rape, set your sights higher), but there has to be a line people. This girl is suing a third party for an unnecessary amount of money because of her mother’s poor parenting skills and her poor life choices. This whole thing makes less sense than the belief that Lance Bass is the only gay N*Sync member.

There you go…I’ve contributed and I’m angry….now please excuse me I’m late for my Bratz chat room appointment…the discussions really pick up during the summer.

Call me Stalin or one of the Olson Twins, because...

...there will be a purge.

This is a notice.

One week from today, any so-called "contributor" who hasn't posted will have his/her membership revoked and will have an embarassing post about him/her published.

This is a notice.

My Biopic

It starts with a wail
and a tear.

The action rises
as my dad marks
the top of my skull
on the wooden post
next to the stairwell.
He uses a pencil
and my hair crunches
as he draws the line.

The lines stop climbing:
Crisis! Something else
is rising constantly,
an action unspoken
like a prayer.

There is a girl
and another, the first
a tattoo, the other
a piercing.

Sometimes there is rain
which pats my head
like a withered aunt's hand.

The denoument is filled
with cigarettes.

The resolution
is a long nap
on dirty bedsheets,
stained with my seed
and covered in
bits of my skin.

This poem is like giving your starving child a bag of popcorn

This is wasted breath,
Old Gerald thinks
as his legs carry him
slowly up the grassy hill
he hasn't seen since thirteen,
when he'd croon Rosemary Clooney
and roll and tumble,
let gravity do its job.
Today there's not a breath
left to sing.
Even his dog is panting.

He's come here to see.
He's come here to laugh.
He's come here to be buried.
He's huffing, halfway up,
legs burning like coals,
cane useless. It's dry and cool.
No fear of mud-sliding
back down, or slipping
and rolling like
Sisyphus's boulder.
Though he could tip back
like a diseased older tree.
Or maybe his legs will just stop,
suspend him forever halfway
up a childhood hill. Modern art,
not like dripping paint
or boxes full of nothing, but
"Gerald", flesh and bone and substance
with frozen legs and a dead dog.
I am a full of nothing.

Look at the grass, Gerald.
It's sloping less and less.
Look! This is called the summit.
We'll call what's behind you
the climb. It's why you're breathing
like a criminal. Do you remember?
Were you a child here?
Where would you like your hole to be?

Gerald falls.
He's lying now, arms drawn out wide
and heavy like urns,
but his fingers sometimes twitch.
His lungs are filling slower now,
but still to bursting.
His ribs are a dam. His eyes
blink and squint
at the villainous sun. He thinks,
with every twitch, every breath,
There's still life in me yet.

When the sun sets

When the sun sets,
The man nextdoor grabs his hat
And a cane. I hear his door
Whisper shut.
He walks the lawn
With tepid footsteps,
Gestures with a cupped hand
At my face in the window.

His daughter has eaglebreasts.
I dream that once
My head might rest
In her nesty flesh.
When her light fades out
And her silhouette is absorbed,
My dreams
Are all dimples and folds
And pure pure white.
When I dream
She's always in my sight.

When the sun shows up again,
A wooden tap roosters
Me awake. There is no wave
From his tired hands; his eyes
Lie on skin pillows
And don't see me
Blink through the blinds.
I know he'd call
My dreams unkind,
But that's because
A daughter differs
From a shadow,
From a distant image
Small enough to carry
In my pocket.
If I knew his name
I'd say 'I'm sorry.'

County Park

I drowned you in this pond.
I breathed the air that hit the surface,
The bubbles of your lungs and lips.
Your arms did not struggle, while mine
Were wrapped by sludgy weeds
And abandoned lily pads. It's a shame
That no one saw me.

On the reedy shore, my shoes
Were slicked with goose shit.
I saw a man catch a fish,
His orange bobber floating above your body,
And he cast again, lusty and impatient.
He caught another. Another flowing
Flick of the wrist, and a third fish
Flew up with his hook. Their breath
Stunk of your tears. How nutritious your sorrow,
When fish will risk an iron barb
To eat their fill.

Soon, the rod was halted.
There was no sport in it. The pond
Became speckled with scaly bellies, and the frogs
Jumped from fish to fish. Your tears
A new lake created, with an ocean's
Salinity. On the bank, I cupped
A hand and fed my mouth, but my throat
Choked on the thickness, and my lips
Were painted a salty red. I had to leave.
I'm afraid I can't go back.