Beast May Like Cornflakes

Today I will be staying in my room for most of the day, and probably getting sick. My one journey outside will be the walk to the grocery store, I'm really looking forward to it. All I have in the fridge is juice and peanut butter. There are things in the pantry, but I kind of think the pantry is a whore. She's always enticing people to enter her realm and pick from her shelves the dried good goodness. I go in there sometimes with boxed cereal on my mind and grab some, shut the door behind me, and under the light the weak bulb emits I pour it's contents into my mouth. One time I almost died from choking on a corn flake. I do my best to sound like some kind of ravaged beast, but my impression is no match to the beast in my dreams. Maybe if I offered it cornflakes... Maybe.

Me

But only when I want to appear sympathetic, i.e. pick up chicks. Chicks love dogs.

From Jill Greenberg photography.

Spare Time

More Fresh

Let's tell people we did something strange and got in trouble for it. No need to pretend, friends, it will happen.

We wanted to have a beer, and since it was the Ukraine, and we were on holidays, we went ahead and found a pub. They served the beer in really cheap glasses, which my friend broke from squeezing it. He wanted to know if it was glass or plastic, and we found out from all the shards on the table. No biggie, we'll just get another. In a civilized nation the broken glass would be sent to the garbage without ceremony and would be forgotten about. There, though, they are very poor, and looking for money everywhere, but especially from the tourists. The glass probably cost about fifty cents, but the bartender wanted five dollars for it. No way! (We were also poor). Fucking Ukrainians, I said, a bit too loud, then we paid and left. I slammed the door a bit too hard on my way out. Moments later we heard a shout, and turned to see a strong man running after us. I wondered if we should consult with him, but my friend had different designs, and began running. Then my other friend and I ran and we ran for our lives. We managed to out run him! We were all very fast runners. Then we were scared but also quite excited, and secretly laughed at the slow Ukrainian. Tee hee.

So, our make believe plans came true for the evening, and I felt all the fresher.

At The Disco

I'm going to the disco today. I'm bringing my rainbow socks, and alligator underwear. I've shaved my nose hair, I don't know how the ladies will refuse. I'll light my shoes on fire, and after I've danced that flame out, I will light my hair on fire, and pretend to be an amazing torch. I'll be all charred up and singed, but that won't stop me from having some ice cold water, and then lighting my cape on fire.

For those brief instances, whilst aflame, I will be Fire Man, and one of my dreams will be fulfilled. Dying will be a little easier after that, because if anyone asks, at least I can tell them I've lit myself aflame.

Then it will be time for more dancing, and to showcase my speciality: the pointy finger dance. I don't know what I'm pointing at, but goddamn, whatever it is, it knows. It knows the experience of being pointed out, and with such rhythm.

My feet, my patent leather booted feet, are quite the attraction themselves. Tappity tap, bitches, tappity mf tap. One minute I'm here, the next I'm waaaaaaaaaaayyy over there, much like lighting, or a forest fire, yeah. Soon everyone will be on fire. The fire will reflect in our eyes and cause our skin to gleam. Dragons will clink glasses in the rafters. Lizards will walk on the windows. A snake will slide up my pants and try killing me, but instead of him strangling me, I will use him as a dance prop: the whip. Snakes are no match for being grabbed by the tail and hammered against the ground, ha ha!

The climax of the evening will come when I'm spinning on my head. I'll use my legs and the splaying of them to gather momentum, allowing me to experience centrifugal force. "Centrifugal force", they'll say, "In his brain."

The denouement will arrive with the lobsters let loose and their anger, and snapping claws, and poop eating. All the ladies will cry "Lobsters!" and scream and get to running, and the men will do likewise, but they will want to forget that. The lobsters eyes will shine black, their smiles will be cruel. Some of the party-goers will not make it out alive. The dragons will blow out the candles, and the lizards will head back to Australia. I'll walk home with my heart keeping time to my walk, and the swaying of my arms and pelvis. The entire world will follow suit. The moon will broadcast my name.

I'm not the only one who digs.

Making Room

At work I don't say much, but tend to keep to myself, since people only aggravate my condition, and who are they, anyway? Who am I, for that matter. Who am I? That is a koan, and my reply, whilst sitting before the high monk, is to yell and thrust my right shoulder forward while pounding my chest with my left hand. That is who I am, but I can't tell my co-workers that, not in the office anyway, not if I want to keep my job. My boss is understanding, but even she would object and send me packing, maybe if she nurtured her femininity, but that was severed to get ahead in the real world, and to make room for the balls.

Giant Vagina

From Wentworthshire, I moved to Westingmoormouth and it was there I found Fred. He said he wanted peanut butter, and as it happened I had some in my pocket -- taking some for the journey, but since Mother Fracklestein could not spare a container, I had to contain the peanut butter in my pocket.

"Here you go, Fred" I said, and extended three fingers of peanut butter.

"Why thank-you" he said, and scraped some of the peanut butter off of my fingers. Apparently he didn't think it odd for me to have peanut butter in my pockets, but was pleased to have his craving sated. He seemed to be preoccupied with his own matters and looked thoughtfully at the horizon, which happened to be the ocean. It just so happened that I was carrying around balloons in my pocket for the purpose of making animals with -- a hobby I picked up to make some extra money.

"You look like the sky, Fred" I said, and Fred looked up at the sky. Then he looked back at me in confusion. "Gloomy," I confirmed.

"Oh. Yes. My wife has just left me for another." And he looked down at the ground.

"How about a balloon animal?" I said, and took out a purple balloon and began blowing it. It wasn't long before a purple poodle was being extended toward Fred, just as the peanut butter had been not five minutes ago.

"A purple poodle?"

"A fine animal."

He took the animal, somewhat hesitantly, and examined it while turning it around. He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. A glazed look came over his eyes while he smiled, a smile, in my opinion, which had gone on too long. I was about to comment on the weather when I saw his nose start to bunch up, and his brow furrow, much like a dog. Then his teeth were out, and I was more than a bit scared.

"What's the matter, Fred?" I asked, and as a reply he chomped down into the sumptuous purple that was Poodle Dog. He shook poodle dog around with his head while the deflated dog was snug in the grip of his jaws.

"Fred! You've gone mad!" He stopped shaking it around and started approaching me with his hands like claws ready to claw out my eyes. He took small steps towards me, pensive ones, and hunched down a bit, further enhancing his animal like appearance. He started growling, which almost let loose the poodle, but it managed to hang from a space in his teeth. Thinking Fred was either not a fan of poodles, or the colour purple, I reached back into my pocket for another balloon, with the intent of making a giraffe. I hoped a purple balloon would not present itself, and by the Gods, it did not. I got orange, and proceeded to make a giraffe, which is like a poodle, but with a longer neck, and no tail. I made it quickly, quicker than pancakes, and presented it to him much like I presented the poodle, but this time as though to a beast, which he was. Fred grabbed the giraffe and proceeded to hump it, which led me to believe he absolutely loved giraffes, but I was again surprised when he took it between his teeth and chomped down on it.

"Fred!" I cried, "Have you no shame!" But Fred couldn't be reached with my human words. Something had happened to him. My only choice now was to run, as Fred was a brute man, like a beast, but with tiny little legs, while I was known at work (where we had the olympics) for my leg pumping ability. And so I turned and began pumping my sweet legs. I could hear Fred grunting behind me, much like a beast grunts when it runs. I imagined him also frothing at the mouth, with red eyes. I could almost feel the heat of his breath on my neck as I ran -- His spindly legs quite the pumping machines themselves. Although I didn't want to, I looked back and saw something similar to my imaginings, but instead of Fred being covered with hair, or fur, he was wearing a tweed jacket and casual pants. At that moment I seriously feared for my life, but could not help but think that in a few months, maybe days, I would look back on this and laugh. Fred really was quite sedate most of the time. I've met him at the pub a few times, and there I saw him make bad jokes, but that was the most I've seen him deviate from his norm, which is mild mannered, if anything. I also imagined his wife, who was the same as Fred, who did not strike me as the type to leave her husband. But while running, I imagined her losing her mind and being feverish, and screaming, and running off with a younger man in a red sport's car, flashing her breasts before she left, mounting the new man in his car as they drove off.

I was headed for a giant, brightly decorated woman sculpture who was exposing her vagina, which in this case, had become an entrance way. She was pregnant, and may have been ready to give birth, but I did not imagine to find a baby inside, since the vault like stomach was probably a logical next step of such a large vagina. I met Fred in a parking lot, which was being used for the circus, but all the circus stuff had gone away, except for the woman, who may have been abandoned for her size. There was nothing else to run to, except the forest way in the distance, but I knew I couldn't make it there in time, and it seemed if I did, Fred would surely sniff me out.

So in I went into the vagina. It was darker than I expected, but since Fred was so close on me I had to keep running. I ran straight into a wall. I felt around trying to find some corner to hide behind, but it was completely smooth and circular. What little light that did enter, was quickly blocked off by the beast Fred blocking the entrance. He didn't enter all the way, but stomped his feet and growled a bit. He stomped and growled for some time, but I guess Fred was afraid of the dark. So eventually he left. I figured he would be waiting for me around the corner, so I waited until night to leave my shelter.

(sculpture by Jean Tinguely)

Butter Socks

I've washed my socks and they've turned to butter. I took them out of the dryer and noticed them buttery and buried my face in them. I took them to the kitchen and layered them on some toast. I made some spaghetti and mixed some socks in with the spaghetti. I put a sock in my coffee. I used a sock to grease a pan. I added some socks to my popcorn. Now the doctors are telling me they have to operate...

Walking the Dog

I have a little dog that may be called a little scottish terrier. Just a wee one that can be held in the hands either as an offering, if you so desired, or as a football. His teeth are very sharp, and extra white, because I brush little Sherman's teeth once a week. I would do it more often, but the last time I took him to the dentist, after the dentist had finished talking nonsense about not accepting dogs, he suggested I only do it once a week, since everyday might be harmful. Harmful? I said, once again tightening the grip on my can of mace, and he said that dogs diets are different, and that they don't eat as much processed sugar as people do. I told him Sherman was a person. He smiled, and his eyes darted to the can of mace. O.k. Dentist, I'll take that advice, but if I find out you've been tricking me: I know where you live! I said with a cheer, and little Sherman and I pranced out.

Sherman also has the most expressive little eyes! What a little dewdrop he is, a real ladies man. In dog years he is 78, but that doesn't stop you, does it Shermy Wormy Permy Lermy Fermy! No it doesn't. Noo noo noo! Mama's little boy can have any lady he wants. Yes he can!

And when it comes to a potential mate, Sherman will stop at nothing! Why, just the other day we were taking our daily walk (and Sherman's daily poopy), Sherman was walking quite far ahead of me while taking out quite a line on his retractable leash -- a habbit that I allow, because no harm usually comes of it. He saw a man approaching, and wouldn't you know it, Sherman made eyes at him! Well, what was the man supposed to do? Sherman's eyes are the most sultry of vixens, I was suprised the man was to pull himself away from the gaze and continue walking... almost.

At first it just started out as a leg sniffing, but then matters escalated out of control. Only a moment passed before Sherman's little legs went up and he got his hump on! The sight was so shocking, yet so.... awe inspiring, that I just had to start clapping. The man's face was that of the most awful of ravages.

It's just a bit of a leg-hump, I almost said, and that he should be honoured. Sherman hasn't humped for ages! The last time may have been a bit traumatic, what with all the electricity frying him up like that. Poor Sherman, a wild eyed look he had after that for sure. Who knew hair dryers packed such a wallop? His look after that reminded me of the time my ex-husband forced whiskey down his throat at a bonfire at the Mayfield's. Oh, wasn't that a horrible time! I had been talking to Mrs. Pattersmouth for a while, and when I returned to the fire, there was Sherman, tottering around it like a lumberjack on his day off!

He's had quite the eventful life, I won't deny that, and now it will be even more so with his machinery working again!

Sherman's bright little eyes got some animal in them when the man walked away, and although I didn't want to, I had to restrain him. Sherman barked at me so bad after that. He was saying: "I just want a bit of a hump! I just want a bit of a hump!"

I know Shermy Wormy Fermy Lermy, I said. And to console him some, I picked him up and licked his neck, which always makes him feel loved. I petted him, and congratulated him, and I hoped and prayed for another walking visitor down our sidewalk, but it had started to rain, so Sherman and I decided to head in.

There's always tomorrow!

Sick

It was a bad day to stay inside all day, apparently. I didn't have a shower last night, because I cut my finger, and did not want to disturb the cut, and it's affection for the paper towel used to clot it. I went to sleep smelly, and today the microbes in my hair (vile and treacherous without washing) have found their way into my ears, nose and throat.

Was that the cause of the shakes? The shivers? The knives running through my brain? Or was it my decision to take the recycling out of my room. I keep my recycling in my room, because as I've recently learned from my subconscious, I one day wish to build a makeshift home from the recyclables, in a back alley somewhere, and I would call it my nest. If anyone visited me I would pretend my arms were wings and run out screaming and flapping my arms only to peck at their legs. Even thugs are afraid of leg pecking.

The recycling harvested dust, pee particles, food remnants, and one bottle of juice sported moldy juice growth. Well look at you, mold. Aren't you special. I took the lid off of that container being careful not to get any of it on my hands, or sniff it up my nose, but I'll admit, my mold sniffing problem sometimes resurges and am left with a moldy nose, and ccheetos in my hair. I carefully put it in the bag, like I might put a child in a bag, since mold was the co-operative heart of a lady friend of mine, and could not help but have fond memories of the little tykes that brought us together, and carefully walked it to the garbage. Uncarefully I pulled it out, and mold juice all over my hands. Drat! Did I lick it off, whilst no one was looking only to be sent to euphoric highs? Nay, friends, but scowled, and shouted a bit, and quickly returned to my hut.

Or is it the botulism that's making me feel so. Could these be my last words? Or even worse: the H1N1. Maybe it was not the recycling, nor the cabin fever, but rather the jaunt I made into the hall whereupon I was accosted by two Chinese nerds, held and sneezed on repeatedly. Oooooooooooo, that's worse than a gun, friends. Worse than the bog!

Whatever it is, I will be sleeping early tonight, and hopefully toss and turn with only the hallucinations to keep me company.

What's that, Kafka? You want me to come work for you again, alright. We can take your giant turkey!

Isis is a hottie

From Joanne Berry's The Complete Pompeii. (2007)

Ancient Horny

Phallus brings good luck in Pompeii.

From Joanne Berry's The Complete Pompeii (2007).

Beard Tax

"In 1698, as part of an effort to westernize Russian society, Peter the Great outlawed beards for all but the clergy. According to Orthodox belief, however, shaving was a sin, and many devout men who were not in military or civil service refused. They were allowed to keep their beards upon paying a special tax. While the rules were relaxed somewhat by subsequent rulers, the prohibition on beards in the state service remained in place until the 1860s." - Anna Brailovsky

Pigs Will be Happy

I smoked a cigarette today. It wasn't a cigar, like the last couple of days, because today the dude didn't leave one in the ashtray outside the school of music. Instead I asked my friend for one, who gave it begrudgingly, not because they are expensive, but because they are cancerous and tar up the lungs. How am I to huff and puff with tarred up lungs? The three little pigs will be happy, anyway.

As The World Turns

I leave my vegetable clippings in a bag in the fridge, so as to prevent the heathen fly from hatching it's young, and going about their sex business. My roommate calls them fries, because he is Asian.

What's wrong with fries? I asked, before I found out what he was talking about. Then I realized his mistake and imagined fries with wings, and imagined them tasting pretty good.

"Hatch your young, fries! Hatch them well!" I would shout, while plucking them out of the air, and putting them in my mouth. Frylets, Frytots, Frydolescents, Frydults. All with their own savory advantages.

Today my roommate put frozen chicken in a bag in the fridge, and let it de-thaw. His shelf is above mine, so chicken blood got all over my vegetables; my chili peppers were especially bloody. I told him about it when he got home. I told him that caused botulism, and botulism can kill, but he didn't know what botulism was, probably because it is pronounced different in cantonese. I also told him it was disgusting. He apologized, but it lacked heart. He didn't seem to realize that in a few hours I could be another victim of the silent killer: Botulism.

If my aunt were here she would have killed him, as she bleaches the counters and scrubs her hands after handling the ugly bird. Bird blood into the tomato bag would send her having asian for dinner.

My roommate offered to clean up the mess by getting rid of the bloody bags by removing my food and putting them into one large bag. I didn't want him touching my food, even if it was defiled, preferring to live with it if for no other challenge than beating botulism in the contest of death. But without thinking much, or not trusting my intuition, I observed and participated, as he grabbed each bag and I took the food out. He came to the vegetable remnants, and I got embarrassed, because keeping that in the fridge is odd. I muttered it was garbage, and after the horrifying food transfer was over, I left to dispose of the clippings, as I like to call them.

The garbage room is the last room at the end of the L shaped hallway. Garbage has it's own room, and at night it's very chatty in there with the three garbage cans and the recycling bins. There isn't much interesting gossip, because they're all confined to the same room, but manage to create drama between them, on account of nothing else to do. I'm sure they'd rather be out in the fresh air, but that is there fate. Putting garbage in a room seems akin to putting garbage in the fridge: strange, but sensical. Unless there was a garbage shoot. Shoots of any kind are fun. Especially the poop shoot.

There are security cameras in the halls, but I have learned not to pay attention to those. There is probably no one on the other end watching and masturbating. Probably. So, as is usual, when tormented, and wishing the past had not presented itself with the memories, and the awkwardness and the glavin, I was doing my funny walk down the halls, which consists of a bobbly head, loose limbs, scowly face, scrunched up nose, bearing teeth, quick inhales, puffed up chest, puffed out stomach, and sometimes spastic legs. In addition to the security cameras there is another form of surveillance: the peephole.

What are you peeping at, uncle Rex?

Nothing boy, now get back in the basement.

Most peepholes in this building look across the corridor to the facing door of your neighbours place. Others look through the windows that illuminate the hall. While others, a select few, six in fact, have the view of looking down the length of the hallway.

What fun this would be for someone like me, hoping to spy a lady with cleavage, or tight pants, but probably getting sweat pant cleavage instead. I have never noticed this second form of surveillance until tonight. I was doing my funny walk, and as I got nearer the door that looked down the hallway, I happened to look in it's direction, and I heard said door deadbolt, ha ha!

Poor dude trying to get entertainment, or cleavge or funnies instead gets Mr. Funny Walk, which I assure you is not funny at all, the horrors of which would only be amplified from the claustrophobic view of the peephole. The peephole is a world unto itself, the depths of which one can get lost in. Sometimes, like in your dreams, it is hard to look away, but other times it is easy because the imagination fills in the gaps, far surpassing the peephole.

I have not yet returned to the door with my mask to put on a show, but intend to.

Plans for this were running through my mind as I returned from my trip down the hallway and back into my kitchen, where my roommate was with his girlfriend. He had just found out that I had been putting garbage into the fridge for over a year, and since he is peculiar, and stupid, the thoughts of that sent him into a subdued fury. His mouth was quivering as his muddled english came out, trying to explain his fury. Apparently this was way worse than having blood pour all over my vegetables. Besides, as I pointed out, the "garbage" were simply severed vegetables, a lot like vegetables themselves, but without the edibles, and when was the last time vegetable infected your food? The clippings were safer in the fridge than in the garbage, which never gets changed, and spawns fries. Fries, goddamnit!

And that brings us back to fries flying around with wings like dragonflies, and a brusk, insistent attitude as they hover about your face.

I told my roommate I wouldn't keep garbage in the fridge anymore, and so will most likely once again be seeing my good friends the flies. So at least there's that to look forward to.

A Heavy Bag

I took the bus today to get some plaster at Winroc just off Kenaston Ave. I studied a map to get there, and had to take two busses. Both the bus drivers were women. The first one I wanted to do, the second one was larger and smoked.

I had to wait twenty minutes at my first transfer so I decided to get some real yoghurt, since I saw James eating it the other day, and since the grocery store was right there. I put it in my bag saving it for later.

The bus came. Also boarded were two christian guys who made a phone call, calling the receiver brother, explaining they'd be late.

I got off at Lorimar and Sterling Lyon. The stop was in between two empty fields. It was cold out, and windy, and the wind blew in my face. I saw Kenaston in the distance. The map said I had a 17 minute walk. It looked like a busy road, the Sterling Lyon Parkway, was not. There wasn't a side walk on Kenaston, so I had to risk death and eyes, by walking on a dirt trail by the road. I passed a self storage company, and had thoughts of storing things. Then there was Winroc.

I walked in confident. They were having a sale on leather pouches. I phoned earlier and asked what their hours were. A guy named Frank answered and said their unofficial close was at 11:50, but officially were open to 12. He sounded like a real tool. I met Frank again when he asked me what I wanted. I told him plaster, gyproc, nervously. He looked at me strange. I have to make a model, I need some plaster. What, he said, and continued his strange look. I need a bag of plaster. A bag of plaster, he said, like he didn't know what that was, like he wasn't working in the plaster store. Finally someone else came over who knew what I was talking about, and said I needed the statutory 1, but that they were all out, and wouldn't be getting any till the end of the week. A larger man in the office at his desk confirmed this fact looking smug. I thought they were joking, no, my heart broke. It must be a joke, it took more than an hour to get here. But alas, it were true, so I left, trying to keep what dignity I had left, after calling Frank a bitch and throwing a leather pouch at him. I started back down the road, the wind at my back now, a date with yoghurt.

Then not Frank came out and called "Hey!" So I turned around, by the look of him, he wanted to punch in my face, but I didn't run, thinking all I needed was a good fight. I walked toward him and as soon as he got in hearing distance he told me he had an opened bag that had lost more than half of it's contents, which I could have. I said o.k.!

I followed him inside, but had to stay back when he went into the warehouse with a hardhat on. I took the time to survey the merchandise, which consisted of stilts, and leather pouches, mostly, and could not help but think of freaky kangaroos. The guy came back out with the bag all wrapped up in plastic on his shoulder. He said it didn't lose nearly half it's contents, and was in fact quite full. He wondered how I was getting it home, as it weighed about 50 pounds. I told him in my back pack, but I don't think he believed it would fit. So we brought it to my bag, a hiking bag, and opened it up. I saw the yoghurt before hand, but out of embarrassment, did not take it out, telling myself the yoghurt could withstand such a force. I was wrong, and we both heard the popping sound. Hesitantly I told him it was yoghurt. He laughed awkwardly. I would go on to feel the bottom of the bag to feel for wet, but no wet came.

Then a few people came in who reminded me of Mennonites or Hutterites, and they waited while I heaved the bag on my back, then asked for Frank. I thought Frank was an asshole, and was reminded of the Italian Frank I knew from a while back who was also an asshole.

I walked the same way back, I didn't know where the bus stop was, but I made a hypotheses based on logic. I assumed it would be near where the other stop was, but on the other side of the street, and logic prevailed, unlike so many other times in the past.

I set my bag down carefully on the grass, as there wasn't a sidewalk, or anything nearby, and checked the bag for yoghurt spill. The most damage occurred when I pulled it out, but all in all, it wasn't that bad. There was still more than half in the container. The spill was also soaked up by some dirty socks I had in there, hiding from the purge I made earlier that morning, transforming the bag from a laundry hamper to a transporting device.

I ate the yoghurt with my finger, but waited till some cars went by, then ate away. I faced the wind now, and had no gloves, so my hands were cold, but I sacrificed my fingers to the cause, since the yoghurt was well worth it. I saw a lady walking near, but hoped she wouldn't wait at the stop, as then I would be too embarrassed to eat it. Luckily she kept on going. In the distance I saw the bus, and since the yoghurt had no container, I had to eat quicker, but did not finish the whole thing on time, and so set it on the ground. It was the same bus driver who dropped me off. She looked at me funny and said my bag looked a lot heavier now, and laughed. So did I.

I Am A Camel

If I am anything today it's a camel. Look at my humps, my lovely lady bumps. I can spit twenty feet, and the spit is acid, and will burn your eyes. And I'll eat your jacket, I swear to God, I'll eat your freaking jacket.Would you like to take a ride? We are going to the grocery store. I will eat the avocados in one bite, and the papayas in two. No one will be able to stop me, and if they try enforcing the law I will plead camel. My furry and matted exterior is only comparable to my heart, and sometimes my teeth, which are yellow from the highly toxic shrubs I am prone to eating. I save my pee for days, and with a birds mentality, go on someone's shoes.

My girth takes up the entire hallway, and when people try squeezing past me, they are overcome by the smell. I call that the smell of freedom and decay. Today the boss told me to file some papers. I responded by eating them. I told him they were filed in the stomach, then I kicked some chairs with my hind legs and lumbered out. I've been drunk for days. My kidneys are jewels mined by the pygmy huns. They want bejeweled soup. They are my worst enemy.

Can you see them on the rooftops and in the alleys? They're probably looking at your shoes and licking their lips. Seven or eight huns can sit on my back. I let them once, and then took off running. It was so fun. My lips were flapping with the bouncing, my eyes were all a glitter. That's fun, that's freedom, that's why my insurance premiums are so high. Huns have terrific lawyers.

I think I'll go to the pub, where they serve camels. I feel at home there, mostly because they serve dates with their drinks. And by dates I don't mean tight asians, but the variety growing on trees in the desert. Soon I will be home, wandering through the oasis, eating trees and charging things. Until then all I can do is pray, and hope my passport comes through.

Next, the Blomotons

Stingray Johnson, Humper McNasty and Randy Fullerton visited the following locales in their travels through the Moleplingtons: Humptonshire; Bloomington; Wemply; Foogloramathon; Grindledge; Smorkpie; Endosphere; Binglington; Sampmostpire; Sundershine; Frimply; Gangleberg; Dindlepile; Stankhound; Freshoats; Limplingville; Hondershine; Exmertill; Foolen; Makersby; Lamptoast; Nuggetstump; Landoshmere; Vankwaith; Stimple; Undereyes; Lordrington; Fankwarth; and Lundersocks.

They found treasure of the nose, ears, neck, feet, hands, crown, navel, buttocks, privates, tongue, hair, and anus. Stingray gave the anus ring to his ex-wife, whom he hated. She threw it out the window, only to be picked up by a leper, and sold to the nearest cafe for the ever so sweet Kurdish apple tart, of which the leper was all too fond. The tarts would quickly lose their appeal to both tourists and locals alike saying it caused leprosy, but the tarts were still made by Mrs. Fimplefrunge, but were secretly filled with poison, so as to rid the town of the leper. Instead of killing him though, it just made him high, and instead of just a leper crawling around, now they had a hallucinating leper on their hands, which was incredibly worse, according to Wendridge, a local cavorter.

Wendridge was often found in darker corners, with certain ladies around town, with his pants around his ankles, showing the ladies his manhood. The ladies had never seen the likes of them before, and would give Wendridge some Shingles as payments. Wendridge was an avid roofer, a trade he learned from his grandpa. It was from his grandpa also that he learned the art of revealing himself. His Grandpa, Smellington, tied weights to his penis, and looked at ladies in their windows so as to get aroused, making his twig more like a branch. He had spent years doing this, and found out, atop the castle, that such heights were not only pleasing to his airs, but that the view accorded him made for good showing. It wasn't only for quick bladder relief that crazy grandpa Smellington chose to wear a kilt, but for it's superior revealing capabilities. Just a flick of the arms, he used to say, to reveal your most desired treasures. Little Wendridge would nod his head in understanding, and he was grateful for such sage advice.

Now, twenty years later, his grandpa long dead as the result of a pole vaulting incident, Wendridge was carrying on the tradition from atop the roofs he shingled. The ladies of town would gather around, and wave, and Wendridge was only to happy to lift his kilt, so to speak. The ladies would clap, and quickly go on their way, leaving shingles as they did.

It wasn't until Wendridge was in his prime flashing days that fate struck, one stormy fall day. He was roofing, and flashing, and humming his tunes, when by Zeus, in mid flash, a flash to Ms. Endlebrow, Wendridge was struck on the weiner, as though it indeed conducted electricity, like he was always saying it did. Most of the inhabitants of that fair city could not help but laugh, the men especially, since his manhood put all of theirs to shame.

There was one lady not laughing, though. A pretty little thing by the name of Urdlemop. The shingles she left Wendridge were always of the highest quality gold with their initials carved in them by her hand. Wendridge was always careful not to spit on those ones, out of respect for Urdlemop, who he thought was fine enough.

Urdelmop, a witch by most accounts, did not handle his death well, and took to roving the cemetery at night, sometimes accompanied by her cat, who liked sitting on the top of her head. Urdlemop didn't mind, it saved her buying a hat, or making one out of said cat. Some of the residents started calling her Catmop to their own, and others, delight.

On those full moon nights, in the cemetery, Urdlemop would make sure to bring a lot of Bring, to help her ease the pain, and to help with the digging, which she would commence with her bare hands, much like a rodent. Indeed, Urdlemop had very large front teeth, which would show upon riotous laughter, erupting at the most unusual of times. Nothing made her laugh like digging. The memories it set forth were of the hilarious kind, mostly of Wendridge, and of his various deeds.

With the hole she dug, being tired and covered in dirt, she would lay in it, and hum their song. On those nights, underneath the purple skies, Urdlemop knew she wasn't alone, and that Wendridge was happy somewhere, showing his bits to the uninitiated. She would smile, and cleaning her fingers as best she could, they would find their way to the extra soft, and she would have at herself all ways from Wednesday, imagining Urdlemop doing the same next to her.

It was under such lugubrious events that the three travelers decided to light out and to continue their travels to the other unknown lands: The Blowmotons.

I'm A Freaking Artist