More like Voluntary Prolapse of the Colon, am I right?

What's the prognosis?

Soon.

At the Listening Post

We're getting some feedback...

All I can tell you is a few days ago, you were hunched over on the front seat of your car in the mall parking lot, caaarrrrefully tearing open packet after packet of Theraflu strips while you watched Sunday drivers shuffle from church to buffet to wasted life to buffet.

Remember that? Can you see them now, with those hungry eyes of yours?

And a week before that, I was there too. A starving white tiger wagged a crab leg at you, his crooked teeth just glinting right at you from across the table. A funny thing: this was at a buffet! You called it the feast of limbs, as it was: a bloodbath of wings, legs, arms, thighs, elbows, and tails. Smart!

A year ago, I coughed as you watched Saturnus eat his young. That one's slight, hardly noticable from here. I only remember I had a cold and that the numina protector of sowers and seeds met you in the black winter of space to devour his children. Ah-ha, you repeated myself. Well, I don't know if I enjoyed yourself, but that coat hanger is still there. A slow, red drip: quite fitting in ten hundred thousand different ways. I don't think you're going to squeeze anymore out of yourself today. I don't get so hung up on being an aborted fetal god, do I? Boo-hoo, the universe is my afterbirth and I'm just a dead soul with nobody to love me... Hey, what are you doing? You aren't going to get that out of you no matter how hard you pull. You don't even know, it might be the little boy with his finger in the dam. It could be... well, I guess it doesn't matter.

SI: Congratulations, Sappy! Now that you've won the World Series of Mudskipping, where are you going to go?

TC: Thank you Thomas Paine. Thank you Target girl. Thank you cuticles, thank you last cigarrettes. Give my regards to June Bugsby and the Dusties. Old David Portner. Miriam-Webster. Planet Hollywood. Steven Junior. The Red House in Rio. Agent Nine. The Baxter kids. Goodbye St. Louis, Hello Fish Bladder! Yes, we finally hit the big time. It's hard to break through when you're riding the stream as much as us, but whew, I'm just glad it's finally happened. And I would also like to thank the contents of Geraldo Rivera's trashcan and this coconut husk someone gave me. Three hips and a hooray for lead-based paint! I love you, kiddies. Where is the nearest turkey brothel? What? Beastiality is illegal in this state?!

You stay sleazy, I'm out.

The Mitch Hammer Chronicles

Chapter One - Semiautomatic Antelope

The gas powered llama (who's name I should immediately disclose as Mitch Hammer) left town at 4 in the AM on a green sort of hazel gray Saturday just before dawn. The fog had rolled into town and coincided with his decision to hoof it out, but the real reason he left was undisclosed to me at the time Mitch recounted the story. Suffice to say, he hoofed it and never looked back.

He crossed the sierras on two humps of unleaded that could get an astonishing 60 miles to the gallon, taking the forgotten and widely unused back roads that could give him a scenic pause now and again as he traveled. It was just outside of the Nevada-California border that a teepee dwelling half cougar/half meat grinder (who we call simply, Cougrinder) fell in with Mitch, and proved to be long for the road. Aiming vaguely for Big Sur, Cougrinder insisted on being the navigator, and showed Mitch the way down mountain paths that would eventually lead to that splendid coastal region where awaited a semi-automatic antelope (who could ride real fast) and their now conjoined destiny. Mitch informed me that, though it was rare for such an assemblage of industrial carcasses to join company, he had not planned for said company to occur, but chalked it up rather to astrology and the rare Pluto-Zapracorn alignment of planets in that tepid month of August, 2006.

It's hard to say how many days they spent on the road, but Mitch and Cougrinder arrived at the cave where semiautomatic antelope dwelled in the early days of September; and you could tell with just one concussive look into the antelopes eyes that he was firing one short of seven pistons.

WE FOUND THIS
BULLSHIT IN THE
LOWER MAINTEN
ANCE LEVELS...

WE KILLED IT



evilrabidoctopi: whats the deal, k-real
SRT Entron: what
SRT Entron: can
SRT Entron: what
SRT Entron: can we
SRT Entron: what can we do
SRT Entron: i wanna do it
evilrabidoctopi: hold your horse is
SRT Entron: whatever it is
SRT Entron: lets get the doing done

Attempiture

Okay, faces off ladies and cats and germs and rats
The mainframe of your mind has suddenly collapsed
Your third eye has lost the need for bifocal lenses
Your Mantra shall now read: I am the lattitude of the
stars and skies centered in the heart of the earth
where resides truth and contentedness for all children
who seek the lesser known splendor of letting go:

This is my dome, my domain, the chromium cage and
spectral parade, where I march clowns and philosoph-
ers down Main Street to the Town Hall in the city adorn-
ed with statues of the blessed bloody virgins who gave
more than a pint to those with a little imagination, ah,
love is such a tepid splendor

But for the moment, put all of that asside and focus on
this moment and what it means to you, and look on in
wonder, for I shall show you truth, lies, distractions, &
yes even a little bit of shock house horror, in the form
of word
s.