“O wad some Power the giftie give us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion”
–“To a Louse” By Robert Burns
Other people’s writing is incompetent and zany and bordering on the absurd.
All of my writing is lucid and informative.
In fact, my writing is so analytical and yet, reflective, it is
obvious that I value ideas, principles and abstract thinking above all
But also, fun.
Truly, as I amass knowledge over the entire course of my life, I seek
to understand and explain the entire universe.
Bun in a fun way, of course.
Just name the discipline, and you’ll find me perched on the loftiest
rungs of theory and analysis.
Of course, I also like to tell a joke or too, or, in the vulgar
parlance, to “crack wise” upon occasion.
Because–let’s face it–I am a true visionary.
In truth, I see everything in terms of how it could be improved, or
what it could be turned into. I seek clarity in
everything–everything!–and am driven to build knowledge, and help
society move towards a higher understanding.
Listen, haters: I ignore existing rules and opinions and define my own
approach to a resolution–so sue me! I seek patterns and logical
explanations for anything that interests me. So there! As for routine
matters–bureaucracy, haircuts, showers–those are for the hoi polloi.
I do not like to lead or control people. I’d rather simply have them
vanish. Vanish from my sight! Does that make me bad?
OK–I am not without flaws. I may sometimes become overly critical and
sarcastic with others. Well, boo hoo hoo. It’s not my fault you write
so shitty. Maybe you should go back to school SO YOU CAN STUDY ENGLISH
AS A FIRST LANGUAGE, IMBECILE!
Anyway, I am very independent, unconventional, and original, and I
hope you think so too.
All I really need is an environment which supports my creative genius
and alleged “eccentricity”. Like a penthouse on Fifth Avenue, rent-free, for as
long as I live.
After all, consider this–I am the pioneer of new thoughts in our society.
So…is a lousy little penthouse really too much to ask for?
3. ADD OR SUBTRACT ONE LETTER AND CHANGE THE BAND
A Certain Radio
The Inedible Strong Bund
The Salivation Army
The Butthole Suffers
The Flaming Lisps
Guidoed By Voices
Masters of Realty
The Modern Plovers
In the 1980s, in Cambridge, on the occasion of being congratulated for
winning his reelection by a margin of 90 to 10, Tip O’Neill grumbled,
“But my only opponent was a damn Communist!”
On the suggestion that Nixon might have a role to play in a Reagan
administration, one unnamed source said, “Whoever thinks that must be
Bob Hope, confronted by protesters at the 1971 Miss World Pageant,
remarked, “Anyone who wants to disrupt something as beautiful as this
must be on some kind of dope. The perpetrators will pay for this.
Upstairs will see to that.”–Gerard J. DeGroot, “The Sixties
Unplugged,” p. 288.
Confronting a protestor at a 1968 rally, Nixon said, “Once we’re
elected, we’ll take care of guys like you.” Turning to his security
detail, Nixon then bellowed, “OK boys–throw him out!”
“I don’t do cowering.”
I WOULD BE PERFECTLY HAPPY IF I NEVER AGAIN SAW ANOTHER MOVIE WITH A…
Man causing a disruption in the lobby of a corporate skyscraper, and
the victim yelling, “Security! Security!” (Also seen in a hospital
Man causing a disruption in the main room of a castle, and the lackey
yelling, “Guards! Guards!” (Also seen in Arabian souk setting.)
Venal small-town sheriff with a sloppy pot-belly and a hick accent
thick enough to cut with a bandsaw.
Obviously postcoital couple lolling nakedly in bed.
Group of five friends, one of whom dies.
Protagonist pausing after extended butchery to make witty remark, then
rushing away because he’s in a hurry.
Singing chain gang.
Guy working at the morgue and eating a sandwich.
Guy who gets the girl in the end
Guy who gets the guy in the end
Hooker with a heart of gold.
Group of people learning life lessons.
Magical black person.
Bitchy mother in-law.
Ugly smart girl who is actually hot.
Sassy black woman.
Cop drinking cold coffee from a takeout cup.
Wise old asian guy.
Gay best friend.
Crew of zombified children.
Computer password found on the first or second try.
Fist fights that take place on top of trains
Pregnant woman in stalled elevator.
Destruction of the statue of liberty.
Person of color who can’t get a bank loan.
Stuffy businessmen infinitely willing to degrade themselves for money.
Loaf of french bread sticking out of a bag of groceries.
Man going into a bar and saying “gimme a beer” and the bartender hands
him one, apparently feeling no need to ask him what kind.
Old white person rapping/breakdancing/talking jive.
Really drunk character suddenly becoming sober.
Pages falling or being torn off a calendar to denote the passage of time.
Running to the airport to get the girl at the gate before she leaves
the country forever.
Protagonist is attacked by one or more people wielding machine guns.
He never gets hit but manages to pick off his foes one by one with
well aimed pistol shots.
Teacher keeping a hot student late after school
Tenant who can’t pay his or her rent.
Doctor who says he needs to give an attractive patient a “physical.”
Single tear running down a cheek.
Guy catching an attractive female burglar.
Girl waiting for a ride and a limo pulling up.
Car driving through a fruit stand really fast.
Man turning his back to another man, and then turning around and decking him.
Hero with a gun that never runs out of bullets.
Person always finding parking space right in front of where they’re going.
Post-apocalyptic scenario where only several people survive, set in
some unspecified desert.
Wise child, hobo, Negro, or wise child accompanied by a wise Negro hobo.
A super-hot white, or black, or Asian or Hispanic babe, who is not
only a law enforcement official with an expertise in forensic science,
but she also has a sassy “don’t take no shit” attitude.
Go-go-go success-obsessed businessman/woman who by chance meets
and eventually falls for the laid back daydreamer type, thus learning
more to life than making money.
Naked whore dies.
A non-fatal gunshot wound to the shoulder.
A maverick cop teamed with a by-the-rules partner.
Significant message left on an answering machine.
Woman crouched in the shower crying and trying to scrub away the memory.
Man who ducks down into the NYC subway, boarding the train just as
doors are closing, at that same moment the pursuer spots him, but is
too late to stop him.
AND CAN WE PLEASE HAVE A MORITORIUM ON THE FOLLOWING SCENES:
Scene in which a spreading fireball fills a tunnel, a boy whistling
his dog to him, and the animal then leaping into a convenient doorway
with nanoseconds to spare.
Scene in which money is flung into another character’s face.
Scene in which the protagonist miraculously manages to knock out the
seemingly invulnerable psycho axe murderer out, Then, invariably, he
walks up to him to make sure that he’s knocked out, oinly he isn’t.
Scene in which a person’s leg is injured when being able to walk is of
A hero’s death scene accompanied by eerie music.
A courtyard or public square filled with flying doves or pigeons.
AND CAN WE ALSO PLEASE RETIRE THE FOLLOWING DIALOGUE:
“There’s no time for that now! We’ve got to get you out of here!”
“Never mind that….”
“I might as well tell you everything, since you’ve got me dead to rights….”
“I might as well tell you everything, since there’s no way you’ll be
able to stop me….”
AND WHY IS IT THAT:
If there’s only one person who smokes, ninety-nine times out of 100,
they’re the villain. Eaters of red meat are also suspect.
When a disturbing dream forces a protagonist to gasp, he always sits
bolt upright in bed, and is instantly 100% awake.
Some creepy old local guy always issues a cryptic warning to the
The busy dad never eats breakfast.
The kids always go right off to bed.
The shots of ‘the big city’ always include a rap or rock music soundtrack.
Everybody always says hello to the hero as he arrives at work.
Nobody says hello or goodbye during a phone call.
What are we to make of this man? He calls himself a Radical, but we
might better deem him Bitteroso. For he ever ready to offer up a
mordacious wisecrack–indeed, he fancies himself to be one of the Big
Daddy Death Candy Hipsters, who makes his palatial home on Drughead
Street, just off of Bughouse Square.
In fact, he is only the king of the big elbow and past master of the
And yet, like clockwork, when pressed, he will always surrender to his
covert, reactionary, ban-the-bum sentiments as he reliably lines up
with the women of Bergen-Belsen County, the xenophobic
cryptolibertarian gummers, and the big-stick-country squires of his
own prejudice-infested bailiwick, a place where the Jukes talk only to
the Kallikaks and the Kallikaks talk only to God–or, say rather, what
they believe to be their God, though in reality it is only a dud
firecracker tied to a stick by a filth-encrusted string.
Ah, Radical, mon frere! And yet, sad to say, you resemble nothing so
much as a scrupulous opportunist who purveys his robot invective with
all the avidity of a chirping, champing simpleton, bathing in a Niagra
of cat shit. Watching you attempt ponderously to struggle to a far-off
summit of reasonable discourse is like watching a dole blodger who has
been set to work constructing a snowman made of his own frozen flop
sweat. You strut and preen like a crow in the gutter regarding your
own cyber-cred while essentially employing mere water-wit of a grade
deemed old and tired in the long-ago days of Samuel Johnson, for you
are a veritable white trash encyclopedia of meaningless chaff.
Yet if we answer you harshly back, “I am a jelly-filled doughnut” will
be your reply.
You think yourself a supreme avant-guardian of the cybersphere but
scratch the surface beneath the surface–and alas, we will find that
you are all surface–and we will see that you are actually past master
of meretricious blinksmanship only.
DEAR MR. TOWNIE
When you refuse to let me cross at the crosswalk, I could just
casually mention that you’re an ostentatious vulgarian who flaunts the
“I’m more genuine than everyone else because I’m an ethnocentric
jarhead with a high school diploma and flashy car,” usually upon any
occasion someone discourses at a level of intelligence you feel
vaguely threatened by. Like a fiendishly ingenious dwarf, you cackle
high atop a self-constructed perch of your own not inconsiderable ego
and shower your droppings on the hapless groundlings below, all the
time bellowing about how transgressive you’re being.
MORE WORDS THAT DON’T GET USED NEARLY ENOUGH TO SUIT ME
10. The Conspiracy Theorist
Your skin glows like the hatemonger’s,
Arteries pop sweaty as the neck of the farmhand
In the purest hope of a lynching bee.
I follow your contrabassoon voice and leap like a satyr
As you whisper your infamous blasphemies.
The afternoon floats by on a great flying carpet made of moonbats.
I am comforted by the copy of the protocols of the elders of Zion
That you carry into the twilight of the west and hold next to your heart .
I am filled with hope that you may someday dry your tears of nihilism.
As these words emerge from my fingers,
It reminds me of your picture on the NSOR.
In the quiet, I listen for your last honk of petulance.
I wait in the moonlight for your frightened rejoinders,
Hollow, querulous, impotent.