The Tiger's Last Tooth

the tiger’s last tooth

par ab l e s, p oe ms, pasts & plays

an dy r i h n

t he tiger’s last tooth by andy r ihn

Monofonus Press Au s t i n , T e x a s IF 09 L AYOUT BY M AUR A M URN A NE , 2 0 10

D e d i cat i o n

The biggest handshake is for Morgan Coy. This project, and many others, would not have happened without your patience and singular belief in artists.

Thank You.

To my parents, John and Linda Rihn.

For a lifetime of love and support and hot sauce.

To all my descendants in the Rihn and Arche bloodline.

A toast to a South Texas history of being alive.

To every friend that I have ever shared a laugh with.

Many of y’all have inspired the lines of this book.

The Tiger’s Last Tooth is dedicated to my wonderful wife Pearly and our daughter, Clarabow Darling.

Buckets of love.

the tiger’s last tooth Tab le of C ont e n ts pa r a b l e s poems … pa s t s … p l ay s …

… 01 41 67 89

PARABLES

A Dog For a Tooth BumBum LeBouf’s skeleton almost showed through his skin, which was a sticky, deep yellow with splotty, pink liver spots, veins, and an occasional hair. He was blind, and his eyeballs seemed to be made of Vaseline schmeared into their sockets. All of the dog’s teeth were gone. His breath smelled like a lady hobo’s panties dipped in summer vomit, and it steamed like car exhaust. BumBum’s tongue was cracked and mangled and dangled out of his mouth like a piece of stale, gray, fossilized chewing gum. He was completely deaf, and the skin of his ears resembled scabbed old cupcake wrappers. His red and festered anus bloomed and wilted with every wheezing, painful breath he took. The dog defecated every 20 minutes, spritzing a blanket of sticky brown blood accompanied by the perfume of ammonia, chocolate, and burning particle board. He could not walk or move and was pushed around in a grocery cart. Rita LeBouf was the sole caretaker of BumBum—the world’s oldest living dog. She was planning a surprise party for his 30th birthday.

When Rita was 11 years old, she’d lost her last baby tooth, and her mom and dad gave her a puppy as a reward for shedding all her childhood teeth. She named him Lil’ BumBum Tippytoe LeBouf. The puppy was a Pekingese and Yorkshire Terrier mix: tiny, fluffy, and cute as an animal could possibly be. Rita cherished the little dog with all the love available in her innocent, preteen soul.

Rita and her new little dog were inseparable. Even as a six-week-old puppy, however, Lil’ BumBum was far more than a bundle of fuzz and puppy breath. The dog started to stare at little Rita for long periods, motionless. He would look her in the eyes and darken her soul like a burning bubble bath of angry, orphaned tires. She loved the dog, but he was starting to become a daunting presence. Rita could not understand how, but she eventually started to hear the rumbling of BumBum’s thoughts inside her head.

As the voice of BumBum became clearer and more abrasive in her mind, she decided to tell someone about her concerns. Rita was a shy, dreadfully quiet girl and had rarely complained to her family about anything. One afternoon, while BumBum was asleep, she went to her father and nervously told him that she had a problem.

“Daddy?” Rita carefully started the conversation.

“Yes, honey?” her father answered, while watching a bow-hunting video.

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“I wanna talk to you about BumBum.” “Goddamnit, that is a good lil’ dog!” he exclaimed.

“Well, I’m a little bit scared of him,” Rita nervously explained.

“Them teeth are sharp, but he’ll puppy on down and quit biting.”

“It ain’t his teeth, Daddy. He just kinda looks at me funny.”

“Well, kick him,” her father easily replied.

“No, it ain’t just the way he looks at me. He also says things to me.”

“What are you jabbering about?” her father asked impatiently.

“Well, Daddy. I can hear BumBum talking to me in my head, telling me to tickle him with feathers and feed him butter and stuff.”

“Are you a goddamn witch? Get the hell out of here, I’m watching Bow Masters.”

Rita’s father was Stump LeBouf. He was the richest man in Beaumont, Texas, and one of the wealthiest men on the Gulf Coast. Stump owned the patent for the design of the tip of a drillbit that every oil-drilling rig in the world needed. He got royalties every time it was used, and it pulled in millions of dollars a year. He’d stolen the idea from an engineer he’d worked with when he was a roughneck on an offshore oil rig in the ’70s.

Stump LeBouf was a stout, arrogant, booming force of a man. He was disappointed that his only child was a girl, and further frustrated that Rita was so quiet and strange. His wife Shelby, Rita’s mother, was a shell of the homecoming queen that she once was. Quaaludes and a family history of disappointment had wrecked his oncelovely wife. She never left the house, or her nightgown, and mostly stayed in bed to watch anything on TV. Rita was the sole heir to the LeBouf fortune.

BumBum became more and more demanding of the young girl. He would throw a fit if Rita ever tried to leave his sight, so she gave up on her own life and catered to BumBum’s needs. Which was exactly what she wanted to do. The LeBoufs were all right with Rita dropping out of high school because they were completely uninterested in her. BumBum was very happy that Rita would be at home all the time, because he would only take naps on Rita’s belly. He could only eat if she handfed him butter rosettes, one by one.

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The relationship between Rita and BumBum grew stronger and more permanent over the years.

“BumBum told me to pierce his right ear,” Rita told her father.

“Then do it and shut your mouth. I’m watching monster truck,” Stump grumbled.

“Sorry to bother you, but BumBum is forcing me to get a Depeche Mode tattoo.”

“Goddamnit, Rita! While you’re at it, get one that says, ‘Questions Are Stupid.’”

“Daddy, BumBum wants me and him to get the same color Doc Martens.”

“Don’t you be going to no colored doctor, and don’t come tellin’ me that shit when I’m eatin’eggs!”

Rita was becoming a lovely woman, but her earthly life revolved around BumBum and his needs. Although he was very demanding, he was always there for her. When the voices in her head became dark and cruel, BumBum’s voice would always cut in and give her a compliment or sing her a song. It was always Rita’s favorite song at the time.

The interactions Rita had with her parents melted over the years into a distant swamp of idleness and bitter inconsideration. Rita had BumBum in her life, and that was all the companionship she needed. It was a silent harmony. Their relationship stayed strong over the years, and as they aged, Rita and BumBum became a contented old couple.

Some October, Stump and Shelby died mysteriously while at a knife and boat show together. It was a celebrity funeral for Beaumont. All the important socialites came out to observe the millionaire witch and her famously repulsive 29-year-old canine life partner. It was a fairly unemotional event; Rita didn’t cry. Most people disliked Stump, and Shelby hadn’t been gossip-worthy in about a two decades. The highlight of the event was when BumBum went into one of his 10-minute-long, deep, dry, vomitheave coughing fits. Almost everyone at the funeral puked; it made the front page of the Beaumont paper.

Rita and BumBum were alone together in the mansion for the first time, and it was a lonely place. The only sound that Rita heard was BumBum’s poems. His poems sounded like sweet little barf-barks mixed with the pounding of meat, hovering above loud digestive gurgles and the feeling of bones boiling, on top of heavy wheezing. Ever since Stump died, BumBum had stopped talking to Rita. There were

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no whispers of approval, no nudges of encouragement, no dog voice saying, “You’re pretty, you should always shave your eyebrows and wear black lipstick.” It seemed like BumBum’s voice disappeared from her head altogether, and she had to start listening to herself.

Rita was secretly planning BumBum’s 30th birthday party for the next day. It was going to be a surprise party. She wanted to throw him a big blowout, with bubbles, butter, and Styrofoam angels. For some reason, though, BumBum just seemed like a very, very old and nasty dog to her now. He was not the soul mate that she’d always wiped with doilies and cleaned up after. There was no connection with this disgusting little dog who’d kept her company for almost 30 years. She felt lost.

BumBum’s party was going to be a breakfast surprise party. He’d always said that Rita’s blue veins showed through her pale skin prettiest first thing in the morning. Rita had prepared a platter of butters from around the world. She rented a high-powered bubble machine with a strobe light. All of BumBum’s favorite Styrofoam angel statues they’d carved over the years were in attendance. Everything was ready, now all she needed to do was blindfold BumBum, roll him in, and yell, “Surprise!”

Rita went into BumBum’s room to get him for the party. She looked down at him and finally saw what he had become over these three decades: a disaster. She was, for the first time in her life, disgusted by him. She could smell him, she didn’t want to touch him, his wheezing and gurgling made her queasy. She was finally scared of this horrible wreck of a dog. Rita thought to herself, “I don’t think I love BumBum anymore.”

The moment that thought reached her mind, BumBum started to swell. His bile-tinted skin started blowing up like a putrid balloon. Every note possible was seeping out of him, like a drunk marching band playing only broken, syrup-covered bagpipes. Rita watched the dog expand to the shiny point where it looked like he was going to explode. She threw herself onto the ground and covered her head. All of a sudden, the noise stopped, and it was completely silent. BumBum let out one last piercing squeal, followed by a loud whisper of “RITA.” He immediately released the remainder of his grotesque fumes, deflating into a lifeless pile there in his dog bed.

Rita stayed there on the floor with her head covered for almost an hour. She knew BumBum was dead. She lay there and thought about her life without him for the first time. Rita was now a 41-year-old Gothic virgin who knew nothing about the

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world. She didn’t regret the fact that the last 30 years of her life had been consumed by that little dog, because it was the only love she knew. Rita was completely alone now, and she knew it was time to start living the life that she wanted.

One of Stump’s hunting buddies came over to help Rita dig the grave for BumBum. He was Dr. Teddy Overby, the dentist, a close friend of the LeBoufs, and the only dentist she’d ever had in her life. After the short and tearless burial, Rita and Teddy went back into the house and talked for a long time. Rita thanked Dr. Overby for coming over and made an appointment for the following week.

That next week was a very long one for Rita. Alone in that huge house, the only memories she let into her head were fond recollections of her childhood: before BumBum came into her life, before her mother spiraled into depression, before her father started accusing her of being a witch. She thought about the joyful days when her parents loved each other and there was still ice cream and laughter in the house. Rita imagined the melting of chocolate, the crunching of hard candy, and the lost sweetness of childhood.

Rita called a taxicab to pick her up and take her to the dentist. She got out and told the cabby that she’d be back in a while and to leave the meter running. The taxi driver had waited out in front of Dr. Overby’s office for almost nine hours when Rita came running out of the dentist’s office, opened the door, and jumped into the back of the cab. She was giddy, giggling and bouncing around like a little girl.

The cabby asked, “Is everything all right? You were in there a long time.”

She gazed at him with glittery eyes and in a medicated slur said, “Everything is finally perfect.” Rita flashed him an exuberant smile of swollen, bloody gums and a full mouth of tiny, glistening white baby teeth.

The shocked driver stared at her new childlike smile for a long two minutes, then grinned and asked, “Where to, young lady?”

Rita brimmed with excitement, stomped her feet, pointed her finger, and squealed, “To the nearest candy store!”

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B r e a d R at t l e s na k e I have made a lot of things out of bread over the years: A bread jellyfish; bread hats; bread jewelry; bread swords and knives; a bread shotgun; a bread Texas, Maine, and Colorado; bread boxing gloves; many bread animals; a bread panther-dragon; et cetera.

The most realistic and effective bread creation was a rattlesnake.

It was a healthy, plump diamondback with lifelike markings painted with food coloring, Red Hots for eyes, and a red bell pepper cut into a forked tongue.

The bread snake was made out of leftover focaccia dough and took about an hour of on-the-clock construction.

I wanted to show the bread snake to the world.

The first people I saw were the dishwashers.

So, I slithered across the bakery with the snake cradled in my arms and snuck up behind the three ladies washing dishes.

I fake tripped towards them and loudly yelled, “Hay serpiente!”

It worked real good.

All three of the Latina dishwashers splashed about and screamed at the top of their lungs.

They were so scared they were trembling, and one almost started crying.

As their horror turned to curiosity, two of them started laughing and touching my cold-blooded focaccia.

The third woman had her arms firmly crossed on her chest and she was scowling at me.

She was apparently not amused, so I said, “Lo siento.”

It didn’t help.

The woman continued to stare disgustedly, right into the core of my being.

One of the jolly ladies deciphered the situation.

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She pointed at the angry one’s boobs and giggled, “Es leche.”

The mad woman was also a recent mother, and the jolt of fear when she saw the snake forced milk out of her.

Her brown shirt was wet with two big milk-drenched spots.

I apologized again and ducked out, because she was fuming, and the others laughing at her lactic mishap was making it worse.

I went back to the bakery, put the snake away, and prayed that the dishwasher wouldn’t put a curse on me.

That is the story of the first time I ever scared the milk out of someone with a bread rattlesnake.

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E av e s d r o p p i n g D u r i n g t h e Day i n a B a r Why didn’t you tell me your real name?

Why don’t you tell me everything?

How could you not know I wanted to know your real name?

I’m confused.

Why didn’t you tell me the truth?

I would never.

When I ask you your name… I… You’re in this country now.

I told you my name was Carol.

I’m not talking about that.

Other table talking about jobs: One guy said, “They don’t got me by the balls, but I gotta pay my bills.”

Well, you know.

Don’t you think there’s a certain ammount of deception there?

How would you feel if the tables were turned?

Hearing that your boyfriend’s name is not what you think it is?

I found out from someone other than you what your real name is.

It’s disconcerting.

I’m trying to modify my feelings.

I’ve already met your brother.

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There is only one reason I wouldn’t want to be a woman.

It is because of the lingering possibility of an immaculate conception.

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The World’s M o s t D i ff i c u l t K n o t Clem Topler has spent the last 15 years of his life trying to undo the most difficult knot in the world.

Heaving Line Bend Bimini Twist Diamond Hitch Bowline Bend Double Heddon Knot Angler’s Loop Cat’s Paw Good Luck Knot He bought the knot for $157,000 at a rope auction in Austria. That was the bulk of Clem and his wife’s retirement money, and he put the rest on credit cards. Clem’s wife of 36 years left him a week after he brought the knot home.

Icicle Hitch Brummycham Bowline Jury Mast Knot Monkey’s Fist Pedigree Cow Hitch Barrel Sling Surgeon’s Loop Racking Bend The knot is recognized by the International Guild of Knot Tyers (IGKT) as the Most Difficult Man-Made Knot in the World. The lore surrounding the knot’s origin is as mysterious and unyielding as the knot itself. The knot has toured the world to much fanfare. Clem became an instant knotting celebrity when he bought the knot.

The knot’s nickname among avid tyers is the Humbler.

West Country Whipping Prusik Knot Farmer’s Loop Fireman’s Coil Munter Friction Hitch Boa Knot Alpine Butterfly Tarbuck Knot

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Clem gets home from work at 6 pm every weekday. He takes his work shoes off, washes each of his feet in the sink (using a solution of two parts dishwashing detergent, one part sand), then gets in the shower. He slowly dries off in front of the space heater and uses paper towels to dry his hair. Then he puts on his beige coveralls and blue corduroy house shoes and walks into the kitchen. Every night, Clem makes three hot-dog tacos smothered with Thousand Island dressing and drinks a tall glass of iced milk. He eats and listens to the police scanner at a very low volume. The Certificate of Authenticity for the knot hangs on the wall above the table.

Square Turk’s Head Penberthy Knot Anchor Bend Zigzag Braid Pole Lashing Midshipman’s Hitch Knife Lanyard Knot Sailmaker’s Whipping After he washes his plate and glass, he goes out to his shed, unlocks the door, turns on the light, sits down at his workbench, and works on the knot. He toils over the knot with sharpened dowels, needle-nose pliers, galvanized fids, and antlerhandled chisels, with all his progress going into his leather-bound logbook. Saturday afternoon is devoted to yard maintenance. On Sundays, he spends the day compiling the notes in his logbook and writing his monthly column.

Sheepshank Bachmann Knot Portuguese Bowline Triple Fisherman’s Knot Mooring Hitch Clinging Clara Sack/Miller’s Knot Bale Sling Hitch

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The IGKT quarterly newsletter features a regular column, “Humbler Haven,” by Clem Topler. The column inset is a little picture of Clem, scratching his head, looking cross-eyed at the knot. Clem writes about his progress on the Humbler with detailed descriptions of successful untyings or “rope blocks” that he ran into. The column is a subscriber favorite.

Blood Loop Dropper Knot Plank Sling Vibration-Proof Hitch Tom Fool’s Knot Strop Bend Chain-Stitch Lashing Snuggle Hitch Handcuff Knot The troublesome, wound, puzzlesome chaos of cordage is the only passion Clem Topler has in his life. Clem never actually attempts to untie the knot. He just goes out to his shed every night to be in love.

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Entrepreneur.

One time I got a really good idea for a business.

I would start a line of fashionable women’s aerobics apparel.

First, I got a business license.

Then, I called my rich uncle.

He gave me an over-the-phone thumbs-up for the start-up capital.

All I had to do was email the prototype to a factory in China and PayPal them.

They said the shipment would be to our house in six to twelve business days.

Our financial woes were over.

The morning I planned to tell my bride of our new life, I made my her breakfast.

I brought it to her in bed.

After I’d woken her up with some tender cooing, she said, “Breakfast in bed. Thank you, honey. Oh, you made my favorite.”

“You’re welcome, darling. Guess what? We started a business!”

“We did?” she said with a crackly morning voice.

Then she crunched her breakfast.

“Yep, we are selling a summer line of ladies’ UV-protected, outdoor, stretch gym bottoms.”

“Wow, we are?” she asked confusedly, while chewing.

“What are they called?”

“Sweaty Wife!” I proudly exclaimed.

She looked me in the eyes and spit out her breakfast nachos.

Now we have 3,000 pairs of cheddar-colored ladies’ workout pantyhose at our house.

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Traps Shit. It has been too long now. I can’t say anything to him. I have been staring at the back of this bartender’s oily head for over 10 minutes and still don’t have a drink. He won’t turn around. It is probably about 2 in the afternoon, and there is no one else in here. I don’t think he is ignoring me, he just doesn’t know I’m here. He’s doing something to a cowgirl statue, but I can’t tell what it is. But, goddamn: I need a drink.

There is a sparrow trapped in here. It is trying to get out through the only window in the room. The little bird keeps flying into the frosted glass, over and over. It looks frustrated. When it stops moving its feathers, I can almost hear it breathing.

I don’t know how I have never noticed this place before. I walk past this building almost every day. I know of all the bars around here and I only drink before dark. This bar can’t be new. These neglected, wooden walls have no memory, the bar stools seem lost, and the floor feels like it is going blind. There is a huge, dull-blue neon sign covering one entire wall that says, in cursive: GONNA MAKE IT RAIN SAUSAGES. The bartender is trying to light toothpicks as if they are matches. He is striking toothpicks on the cheek of a two-foot-tall concrete cowgirl behind the bar. Every time he strikes a toothpick on her cheek and it doesn’t light, he says, “Damn that.” He strikes it every couple seconds. His damn-that’s are like the ticking of a very slow clock. “Damn that… damn that… damn that.” There is no music playing in here.

All right, this is bullshit. I’m going to try to burn the back of this fucker’s head with my stare. I repeat in silence: turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around. Shit. I’ll use all my mind’s power this time, and squint. Turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around, turn around.

Suddenly, the bartender turns around, looks at me, and says nervously, “There is a bird in here!” He points at the sparrow in the window.

“I know. Can I get a drink?” I reply, with a little attitude.

The bartender screams like a woman, reaches down, picks up an armadillo, sets it on the bar, and spastically runs out the front door.

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The armadillo sits there on the bar in front of me for a couple of seconds. It opens its eyes and tries to run, but its long nails just peel out on the slick bar. I watch it as it scratches and taps its way down the length of the bar. The armadillo eventually tumbles off the end of the wooden bar and follows the lead of the bartender: out the door.

Ah shit, I’ll never get a drink. I suddenly feel a burning stare on the right side of my face. I hear, in a strong Russian accent, “Are you violent?”

I look over and make contact with the dark green eyes of a lovely Latina woman. She is looking at me with an awkward, sideways glare. She has very long, straight, black hair, which she is sitting on, and it is pulling her head back. The woman is straining her neck and trying to bring her head forward to stare at me. She’s very skinny and wearing a short, strapless dress made of aloe vera stems sewn together, and she is softly bubbling with aggression.

We look into each other’s eyes until the eye contact becomes unbearable.

I look down and start to knock my knuckles on the bar.

I don’t understand how that voice could come out of that face.

She breaks the silence by repeating in the deep Russian voice, “Are you violent?”

I think about her question for two Mississippis, then mutter, “Not really.”

She fires back, “What would make you violent?”

I adjust my stiff pants and say, “A lifetime with a painful mouth infection, maybe.”

The aloe-dressed woman snaps, “What if I punched you in that pencil-thin moustache of yours?”

“Would I get an infection?”

She raises her voice. “Are you saying my rings are dirty?”

“No,” I mutter.

“Are you a sailor, or just a faggot?”

“Pretty sure neither.”

“Why are you wearing all navy blue, then?” she questions.

Honey-tongued, I answer, “My coal miner outfit was dirty.”

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She charges, “You’re scared of being passive-aggressive.”

“Not really,” I say with an accusation-dodging shrug.

The exhausted sparrow flies across the room and lands on the neon sign.

The woman and I stare at each other till wet cement forms in our eyes. There is a current between us. I hear an electrical buzz. It is coming from the sausage sign.

It sounds like the cracking of an electronic whip. Every couple of seconds, it sounds off: snapbuzz… snapbuzz… snapbuzz. Our stare continues till the cement dries.

She breaks the tension with an extended, heavy grunt while trying to free the hair she is still sitting on. It remains stuck. Futilely fidgeting, she adjusts the stems in her dress and looks into my eyes, defeated, and sighs, “You’re beautiful.”

Puzzled by her remark, I ask, “Do you need someone to cut your hair?”

The woman’s voice deepens. “Not really, but you need to buy me a vodka.”

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A p o l o g i e s t o TA Z A conversation I had with a friend in high school, while he was driving: “Dude, start calling me TAZ.” I just looked over at him for a couple of seconds.

“I want to be called TAZ from now on.”

“Are you making up your own nickname?”

“Yeah, it’s like the Tazmanian Devil.”

“I know who he is, but you can’t just start calling yourself TAZ.” “But everyone knows I love TAZ.” “Everyone?’ I questioned.

“That TAZ sticker.” He pointed with a surly gesture to the decal on the back windshield of his Bronco. “So, from now on, just call me TAZ.” “No,” I quickly responded.

“Dude, I’m asking you a favor.”

“I can’t just start calling you TAZ.” “Why not?” “’Cause your name is Pat.” “Come on, I’d do it for you,” he pleaded.

“No.” “Fuck you, then.”

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Mallard-Ear Wine He spilt a mason jar of red wine on the hardwood floor. The spill happened near the brown extension cord that powered the buffalo-head lamp, whose eyes lit up red when you jingled pocket change in front of it. His name was Son, and that mess on the floor was just a slice of one of the worst days of his life.

The wine was made by Son’s father, Spider. It had been gracefully aging in Son’s fridge since Spider’s wedding day, over three years ago. In that time, hundreds of Pearls and Pabsts had disrespectfully knocked up against that jeweled liquid. That jar contained the last bit of mallard-ear wine left in the world, and it was perfection.

Everyone called his brew Spider Cider. Spider had spent most of his adult life, before and after the mowing accident, honing this custom nectar. The old man had gotten the nickname Spider in high school because of the way he got low to the ground while playing shortstop on the baseball team. The nickname Spider stuck, and the legend of his wine was burned on the mind and liver of just about everybody in town. Most of the fights, car crashes, and child conceptions in Medina County happened through a haze of too much Spider Cider.

Spider said, “It takes a coon’s age to trap enough mallards to get the potion right.” By the way, coon-claw wine will choke a deer. Deer-leg wine will drown a carp. Carp-gut wine will coil a coral snake, and no self-respecting person would drink snake-bone wine, but somehow Spider milked them all just right. The other brews were good, but from a mallard’s ear such sweet cider could be harvested.

One drunken night, fueled by that particular mallard-ear batch, Spider kept repeating, “This mallard-ear wine is so fine, it keeps me cryin’.” Spider and Son watched the sunrise while sitting in lawn chairs in the bed of Son’s ’65 Chevy truck. That night was the best time they ever had together, and the first night Spider talked about his girlfriend, the Bimbo. He revealed in a gravy-thick South Texas accent, “Son, I know that woman ain’t worth a bucket of cold piss, but goddamn, those tits.”

The hangover that followed Spider home was so severe that he unwittingly asked his girlfriend to marry him, and they got married the next day. She probably had a real name, but after years of honing her slutty reputation, everyone just called her Bimbo. This woman was a liquor-drenched pile of breasts, blonde, and bitching, with few other redeeming qualities. On a good day, she was just an asshole whom you could daydream of pushing into a burning building. On a bad day, she was the

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kind of person that you wouldn’t piss in her ass if her guts were on fire. The day those matrimonial hooks went in Spider’s pride, he somehow crumbled as a man.

Now the poor son-of-a-bird lives miles away in the suburban annex of hell. He spends his life bowing down to that Bimbo, watching his bank account blister and drain, and feeling his once-manly backbone busting into little shards on a daily basis. He stopped making wine years ago and never attempted to recreate his mallard-ear masterpiece, because for some reason, the salty old fucker just gave into her shitweb and stopped trying.

This bad day that Son was having began when he pulled a muscle in his neck while putting on his shirt before work. His girlfriend, Tanya, showed up at his lunch break to dump him. It stung real bad when he took a piss, too. His boss hired a dumbass nephew, and Son was given a final paycheck and fired from his feedlot job. The transmission in his pickup was about to go out. Son’s whole life was one shitty predicament, like having dirty hands and a hair in your mouth.

If he could make it home that day without burning his eyes out with the cigarette lighter, he was finally gonna drink the remaining mallard-ear wine that had been winking at him for years. That wine was the last few swigs, in the last jar, from the last batch that his old man ever made. The brew was flawless and reminded him of long-gone better times. As soon as he jiggled the lock on the crooked door to his crumbling duplex, he went straight to the fridge.

He smirked as he pulled out the cold jar and took it into the living room. The bare room had only a stereo sitting on the ground and a beat-up brown recliner that had been his dead dog’s favorite chair. Son unscrewed the lid, stuck his nose in the jar, and took an impassioned whiff of the beautiful fuel that shocked his senses. He tossed the two-piece lid into a small pile of crushed beer cans in the corner, set the wine on the floor in front of the chair, and plopped into the mangled cushions in a cloud of flying dog hair. Son stretched his arms up and looked around the aging wood-paneled room, noticing that the brown water stain on his popcorn ceiling was getting bigger.

Son glanced at the jar of wine on the floor, then decided to get comfortable and take his dirty, damp boots off first. He raised one leg and grabbed hold of his boot.

While he struggled to get his boot off, his other leg flailed and knocked the mason jar over. The sound of tumping glass triggered the buffalo-head lamp’s eyes to light up the room with a soft, red glow. He looked down, catatonic, holding his boot.

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The once unblemished vintage was now mixing with the dust, fur, and antique woodstain there on the floor before his eyes. The Spider Cider was streaming toward the buffalo lamp cord and seeping through the cracks in the timeworn floor. So, with a pissant sliver of thought, he yanked the white tube sock off his foot, fell to his knees, and started soppin’ up that mallard-ear wine.

He kept a-pattin’ and a-splottin’ till every thread of that dirty sock was a dark, wet burgundy. His heart was pounding, his breath was heavy, and he let out small, impatient grunts of “oh shit.”

The bouquet of the mallard-ear wine muscled out the fertilizer and sweaty odor of his work socks. He hunched possum-like, there in the dimly lit room, trembling just a bit. The aroma of the wine peppered his senses until salivation reared its sticky head. He absolutely had to have his tongue drowned in that sacred booze. The only thing he wanted more than the mallard-ear wine was to sit on a back porch with Spider somewhere, rattle out bad jokes, and sip on the old man’s latest concoction, like they had for years.

Son stared at the wet misfortune in his hand and had the tragic thought of throwing his old man’s legacy into the dirty-clothes pile. So, without another moment passing, he lifted up that wine-soaked tube sock and wrung it into his mouth. The sensation of the wine falling into his mouth and down his throat was like ecstasy’s dream of exploding. Time seemed to stop, and his ears rang. As his eyes rolled back into his head, he felt every known feeling in a single instant as the flavor drove him to ultimate contentment.

At that very moment, miles away, Spider got a bliss-brimming, warm memory of his favorite son. He put down his lawn edger, walked into his unwanted suburban house, opened up the closet, and pissed on his wife’s new $800 pair of shoes.

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poems

The Drowning Beacon o f Pa r a d e s A fat bird perched in a leafless tree.

A limbless guy reaching without a sleeve.

A rotting bottle that turns into cans.

Picking up a hairdresser without using your hands.

Groomed sacks blinded from far away, By the drowning beacon of parades.

Hair growing from out of a fence.

A windmill that you don’t have to rinse.

A cough that smells just like a bark.

Sweater, yellow, beat up in the alley dark.

Measured spoons tilted from far away, By the drowning beacon of parades.

Splintered toes slid on a wooden plank.

Getting a loan for a blister from the honey bank.

When you freeze up, and a habit throws a fit.

Hand used to punch is also used to wipe shit.

Rough knuckles glassed from far away, By the drowning beacon of parades.

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Exit 451 A hand-painted sign nailed to a fencepost, reading: Snacks, Sun Tea, and All Olympic Trivia Answered… Fast.

I pulled over.

It wasn’t a gas station or a convenience store.

It was just a house off of the highway.

A paper note on the front door read: Come On In. Free Snacks and Sun Tea. Olympic Trivia Is $1 Per Question.

I went in.

A little dog came barking.

It barked a lot.

A frail little old man came in the room.

He assured me, “He’s just loud, he don’t bite.”

He hit the dog with his cane; it yelped.

I just watched.

The old man asked me, “You here for the snacks, tea, or trivia?”

“All of them, if possible?”

“Well, sit down,” he pointed with his cane.

There was a couch, covered with newspapers, in a room covered with newspapers.

I sat down.

“You just wait right there. Be right back.”

Looked around the filthy room.

It had the feeling like it had never been cleaned There was a poster of Mary Lou Retton hanging on the wall.

The little, wiry-haired dog growled at me for about ten minutes.

Alone in a strange room, you start thinking about horrible situations.

I might die.

The old man finally came back into the room, carrying a tray.

His little dog ran behind the couch.

He sat a TV tray down in front of me.

There was a huge plate of chicken and dumplings and a big glass of ice tea.

It was very generous.

I was surprised.

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He said, “Eat up. We got more snacks and sun tea.”

There was an immediate contradictory thought.

A plate of chicken and dumplings cannot be considered a snack, and it is hard to prove if a glass of tea is sun tea, unless you see it in a jug, brewing outside.

A voice of reason came into my head.

I said thanks.

The old man sat down next to me on the newspaper-laden couch.

He smiled as he watched me eat.

The tea was definitely sun tea, and the chicken and dumplings were delicious.

“This is amazing, thank you very much.”

“It is nice to have you over. You got any Olympic trivia for me?”

I thought briefly.

My first question was, “How many medals did Mary Lou Retton win?”

The old man looked at his poster, stood up, and walked out of the room.

It was a little confusing.

He came back holding a beat-up laptop computer.

Sat back down on the couch and said, “Wait a minute.”

I sipped tea.

He typed my trivia question into his broken computer.

The dog came out from hiding, looked up at us, and started wagging its tail.

The old man stared at his blank laptop screen for a couple more seconds.

He blurted out, “She won 32 medals.”

He stood up with a big smile on his face and did a little dance.

It seemed wrong, but his answer was very enthusiastic.

I was impressed.

He gave me another plate of chicken and dumplings.

He gave me four more glasses of sun tea.

His dog jumped up in my lap.

The old man was very excited to have a visitor.

I ended up asking him over 100 Olympic trivia questions.

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R e l at i o n s h i p w i t h a T r a s h bag Trashbag.

Plastic Trashbag.

Can I put my junk on your insides?

Thank you.

Trashbag.

Plastic Trashbag.

Can I turn you inside-out and use you just the same?

Thank you.

Trashbag.

Plastic Trashbag.

Can I use you to cover up my driver-side window when I am too broke to replace it?

Thank you.

Trashbag.

Plastic Trashbag.

Can I spray-paint a big arrow on you to tell people how to get to my party?

Thank you.

Trashbag.

Plastic Trashbag.

Can I cut you up into long, thin strips and make you into a shitty hula skirt?

Thank you.

Trashbag.

Plastic Trashbag.

Can I wear you as a shirt on a summer day?

You fucked me over, trashbag.

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Love P oem

He is so stubborn, he fistfights the ocean.

She is so sweet, she plays patty-cake with the wind.

When they get together, they chop up the moon and turn it into a campfire.

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O n e day i n C a l i f o r n i a A guy wiping his ass next to train graffiti.

Foil-lined windows to hide what is going on in the garage.

Back door to a one-door house.

Concrete bags as fence posts.

Can there be that many thumbs under one awning?

CB talk by the window seat. “What’s your PSI? Over.”

Old lady stumbles on a median made of bricks.

Cardboard can never go over the speed limit, she says.

Brand new paint on flat-top bush trees.

Ornamental window barriers to keep your family in.

Junk in teepee form, no Indians around.

A sign that tells you where to buy signs.

Yellow guardrail, smell of rain.

Slight Grade, we need a little more dirt. Just a little.

“I swing this thing all the times, that’s why I always drop it sometimes.”

Palm-tree farms got nothing to eat.

Wipe the sand off your feet into your shoes.

Ladies with big hats and skin cancer don’t answer.

Some people have to go to work.

Wave at a train, the whole train.

Baby carriage in a ditch.

Karate in the water.

Personal belongings.

Everyone surfs these days.

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63 Fa m o u s S ay i n g s I’ve Overheard H o m e l e s s P e o p l e S ay i n g You have this layer of teeth that only comes out when you are eating chicken eggs.

Wood is one of the world’s best ointments.

Latex gloves sometimes make me feel like I have an unlimited time to live.

I’d chew through a zipper for some cornbread.

I wonder why my ass itching makes my mouth taste like pine.

If you make eye contact with a dog while it’s shitting, you get the day off.

Man, have you seen my tropical do-rag? No, it’s the one with fish and paradise on it. Yeah, it’s pink and shit.

That is the oldest bruise I have ever seen.

He hasn’t been able to wear long pants since 1978.

I’m a certain height for my body weight with my nipples tucked in.

Shit man, everything splashes. I mean everything.

One spring break I gave a seagull a blow job for a Crystal Light.

I need 41 cents on pump two. Regular. It’s the Buick LeSabre. Maroon.

The planet is essentially a gazebo.

When I get a chance, I condition my beard. That’s ’cause I am very considerate to my lady’s needs. Bob Seger taught me that.

I didn’t know they made Bob Marley shirts in that size.

You can’t just mix ice cream and lunch meat and call it a Blizzard.

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I always keep feeling like I have vomit stuck in my bones.

That lady could open up a beer bottle with her ol’ puss.

Motherfucker, people love dune buggies.

I’m glad old ladies are finally wearing peace earrings.

Do you know why God makes it cold outside? It is His way of getting to see your sweaters.

My spirit animal is a BLT. There ain’t enough edible statues in this town.

Farts are like thoughts. Sometimes you want people to hear them. Sometimes you’re embarrassed of them, and they scream at you inside your head.

I like to put my dog in places that it won’t fit.

My beard’s name today is Transelpants Pointy. It is allergic to dairy and castles.

Cuidado for my corazón. It’s mucho slippery.

He’s always washing his ass in soup.

Damn girl, you can’t just squander that $20 ham flower.

Don’t ask me that kinda shit, man, I ain’t Hans Christian Anderson.

I love giving milk massages to strangers on the bus.

A man knows when he has a horseshoe in his ass.

Every angel owes God money.

I’ve been assassinated a couple of times.

Sheet metal, huh? Ever been to La Grange? They love sheet metal there. Love it.

So, I was giving this gumjob a cough drop…

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Do you remember when you could use fajitas like birthdays?

That shit I just took started out like a rock quarry and ended up chowder. It was quite a journey.

My friends call me Flapjacks, but I can’t do a lot of push-ups anymore.

The next 20 minutes are gonna be sweet.

Birds don’t give a shit if it rains.

That dude was so decadent, he would drink milkshakes in the bathtub.

I used to own a candy-wig store on the coast.

I’d jack a dog off every day if it were okay with the big man upstairs.

Pink Floyd is just a more pussy Queensrÿche.

That is why I keep an emergency biscuit with my dance poison.

My brain is a bomb and my ponytail is the fuse.

China still makes shitty donuts.

If you see a guy running fast in the middle of the street, look at his pants. If he has on sweatpants, he’s exercising. If he has on pant-pants, then he stole something. It is harder to tell with shorts.

Yep, that smells just like Michael Jordan.

It seems like I’d know somebody named Dwight by now.

You can’t just sit around waiting to get blankets and hand jobs on Patriot’s Day. Blood and bait are two of the most popular stains.

I will share my corn-on-the-cob with your mouth first.

This haircut smells like barbecue.

Most of my children are magic.

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I’ll sing you “Paint It Black” again if you hold me up while I piss.

My asshole turned inside-out looks like a bunny trying to break through pantyhose.

No, dumbass, the world’s oldest profession is train conductor.

That’s the meat he owes you.

Bitch, you know I love tangerine.

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I fucked a laser once.

It was when I snuck into Pink Floyd.

I thought I was backstage.

But I was up in the laser cabinets.

All-a-sudden I heard a low humming sound, and it got real bright.

I covered my eyes, but the laser didn’t want my eyes.

The laser shot through my pants into my peehole.

It shot up there real hard.

The laser punctured my cum-bag.

I cummed more powerful than I ever had in my life.

Then I got kicked out.

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Burt Reynolds Is a M a j o r Fac to r A dozen eggs, a dozen beers.

That donkey went to the store and brought ’em back here.

He stumbled in and threw down the bag of shells and cans, Glared at me like he wanted to break my cornbread hands.

I said “Mister Mister, Friendly Friend, what happened to you?”

Staring at his one ripped-off ear and both eyes, black and blue.

“Drink this Lone Star or suck on this egg, Anything to get you back on a friendly leg.”

His eyes were filled with fire and plenty of smoke, And he hobbled on a front leg that looked mangled and broke.

I was generally concerned about that burro’s miserable state.

So poppin’ open one of those beers was gonna have to wait.

My curiosity musta killed 37 cats, But I was scared as a beat-down dog to ask, ’Cause he looked like he wanted to wipe his feet on me like a welcome mat.

I offered him another beer, in hopes he would settle down.

I just had to know what’d happened on his trip to town.

He was pummeling me with his anvil eyes: cold, dark, and stable.

Suddenly he got a full-body shiver and uncontrollably started pissin’ at the table.

Trembling, I says, “About the beer and eggs, thanks for getting ‘em.”

Fast as a trap, he rose up. And my britches, I started shitting ’em.

I would never punch a donkey, even one that’s sleepin’.

Not even if the donkey-fighting club gave me a membership pin.

So I says, “Allsright, allsright, allsright, allsright, Just calm down and tell me what happened tonight.”

I asked real nice ’cause I know that som-bitch can bite.

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He took a hefty breath, and blood ran out his nose.

Then he stopped to think a bit, got wild-eyed, and froze.

The pulverized ass relayed it back just as he saw: “Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw.�

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The Chances The Chances of cat shit tasting disgusting double when the writing on the wrapper is all in Spanish.

The Chances of being caught playing grabass increase tenfold when you do it all the fucking time.

The Chances of being attacked by wolves are nonexistent when you are wearing a tuxedo, because wolves fully respect formal attire.

The Chances of someone committing suicide during a parade are amplified, especially if that person gets really depressed about waving.

The Chances of desperately needing a shoehorn before work were higher when it was 1928.

The Chances of a confused out-of-towner responding, “Why would I want to go to a sex-goods store?” balloon when a Texan asks them, out of the blue, “Do you want to go to Luby’s?”

The Chances of Jim Carrey and Dwight Yoakam conceiving a child together sadly disintegrate because of stupid Mother Nature.

The Chances of Gatorade releasing a french-fry-flavored workout drink called “Sportz Fryz” will spike in about five years.

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The Chances of a man being ridiculed for having the wrong haircut explode when he goes jogging with a mohawk.

The Chances of getting trapped jacking off increase fivefold when your wife baits you with overly scented lotion.

The Chances of your dad being casual and funny rise when he adheres to The Jimmy Buffett Code splashed with Gallagher’s Book of Ethics.

The Chances of a sippy cup smelling unattractive soar when it belongs to a 38-year-old bachelor who uses it as a potty.

The Chances of 1994 being the year that you had the worst breath of your life are high if that was the same year you only ate old men’s tongues.

The Chances of your bank account being overdrawn skyrocket when you have a lifetime addiction to cocaine cut with ground tiger teeth.

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I n P e n n s y lva n i a Bacon in a bird feeder.

A bunny rabbit licking up a melted ice-cream bar in the parking lot of a recently built Holiday Inn Express at sunset.

Our daughter innocently chased white butterflies on the grounds of a Revolutionary War battlefield.

Witnessed a traditionally dressed Amish teenage girl smoking a cigarette and wearing Skechers.

Found a big tick in my hair, then, that night, had a dream that I was being pursued by a gang of naked, fat, legless old black ladies. The ladies resembled huge ticks. They were walking with their hands and dragging their jiggly, wrinkled torsos toward me. Their vaginas were plowing into the earth and kicking up small clouds of dust behind them. They were all being aggressively nice, smiling a lot and repeating, “Have some cornbread with me.” They all had white hair and lots of lipstick, and they were wearing little, purple, going-to-church-type hats. I was trying to outrun them, and though it seemed like they were moving slowly, they were always three feet behind me. As the tick ladies chased me, I was scared and comforted by them at the same time.

I was awakened by a car alarm at sunrise and couldn’t go back to sleep. I told our host about the dream over breakfast, in great detail. She told me that it is the same dream everyone has their first night in Pennsylvania.

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V i ta m i n s I hate to take vitamins.

So I figured out how to do it.

I start off by making a room-temperature cocktail of pineapple juice and beer.

The first vitamin I take is a Rohypnol.

Next, I take a 15- to 70-minute-long shower.

Dry off: hair, arms, chest, genitals, front of legs, feet, back of legs, rear end, back, hair.

Get dressed up real downtown sexy.

Finally, I take the rest of the pills.

I don’t even remember suffering through my 20 other vitamins.

When I wake up in the morning, I cross my fingers and hope my pee is bright yellow.

It’s pretty easy.

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Sw e e t L i t t l e T o r t u r e s Hail damage and high deductibles.

Isolated squeal of an icicled squirrel.

Children starving while stealing cookies.

Expensive ticket for a fighting cricket.

Boomerang broken on a billiard boat.

Car-phone jury with a crabmeat curry.

Moth-wing tear and a mushy pear.

Catfish casket in a balmy brass basket.

Robbery blankets wrongly labeled.  Baby wipes and credit-card swipes.

Oral history of the instructional video.

Space boners and camera-phoners.

Legends moan softly about Internet monopoly. 

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T h e D e v i l’ s Fav o r i t e P o e m Blow off your life’s wishes & Dry the Devil’s dishes.

Forget moral hearsay & Pave Satan’s driveway.

Cause pain when you’re able & Set the Devil’s table.

Embrace tragedy if you dare & Shave Lucifer’s neck hair.

Take an evil looksee & Bake the Devil’s cookies.

“Do anything that feels good, at any time, always.” – The Devil

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pasts

N a t u r e v s . N u r t u r e I read an inspiring article about a bear.

The bear was in a zoo, somewhere in Germany.

A zookeeper haphazardly left two pairs of women’s high-heeled shoes in the bear’s cage one night.

The next day, the bear had one of the high-heeled shoes on its paws.

It was amazing that the bear could figure out how to put a shoe on.

The following day, the bear had two shoes on.

It was walking around its cage with high heels on both its back feet.

No one had ever seen anything like this before.

The next morning, the zookeeper discovered the bear was wearing three high heels.

The biggest surprise came the following morning, when the bear had put all the highheeled shoes on her paws.

The bear had learned what shoes are, and what you do with them.

It was truly a miracle.

The fact that a bear could adapt to human behavior like that was incredible.

It befuddled scientists around the world.

The bear became a celebrity.

Hanna the High-Heeled Bear was becoming the most famous bear in the world.

Everyone came to the zoo to catch a glimpse of the miracle.

But not everyone was impressed by this astonishing natural occurrence.

The Catholic Church accused Hanna of being unnatural and pornographic.

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Big protests were staged in front of the zoo to stop the bear’s behavior.

Hanna was becoming an unprecedented icon of animal filth.

Fame was taking its toll on the young bear; she needed to move on with her life.

A rich businessman offered to buy the bear and get her out of the zoo and that unhealthy situation.

Hanna lived with the man for about a year, but her wild natural tendencies kept coming back.

They had a big fight one night, and she left for good.

Now she is working at a strip club outside of an army base in Frankfurt.

It just goes to show how slutty nature can be.

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Top Stories National Poncho Awareness Month officially starts the day after Cut a Slit in the Middle of Your Favorite Blanket Day. The doctor’s excuse “wall of turds” has been banned by all employers.

The color aqua was busted for operating the Bright Greenish-Blue Chinese Laundry without permits or Chinese.

The Biannual Goose Parade has been cancelled due to “a night of too much triple sec in the back of an AstroVan.” It has not been rescheduled.

The FISHING-LURE BANK was robbed last night. Security cameras reveal that the thief was a security goatee. He is still vaguely trendy and semi-aggressive. Do not approach.

The THEOLOGIAN HOOKERS’ UNION has unanimously agreed, “Blimps are not real. To us.”

Celebrity vegetable Okra collapsed from exhaustion during play rehearsal yesterday. Its stand-in, low-calorie Okra Zero, will take over as lead in the play Shit Don’t Got an Uncle, a rewrite of the Twain classic.

Proud Old Sherbert’s lawsuit against Cocky New Sorbet has been stuck in litigation since 1997. Neither side seems willing to take the moniker “Not Ice Cream.”

The Apple Flu Pandemic scare of last Halloween was just a harmless prank by some neighbor kids trying to get more candy. They have all apologized in writing.

The Kayak Brothers’ “Fountain of Eternal Handjobs” scam has been uncovered.

“Prussia Is da Bomb” has been selected as the slogan of the Extinct Civilizations and Old Catchphrases Club. The runner-up was “Mesopotamia Go Boo-Yaa.”

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C a r l s b a d C av e r n s (a n ov e rv i e w) The History Channel aired a program about Carlsbad Caverns recently, and it was very interesting. Apparently, it was discovered by this man named Carl Lou Milkens in 1904. The show was really good. I’ll give you an overview.

Carl Lou Milkens was a famously shifty entrepreneur in Colorado for a while. He was on the snake-oil circuit of con men and ballyhoos who traveled around selling medicines and potions to wives and hypochondriacs. He was finally busted for the product Sweet Louie’s Mintal Activator and Breakfast Substitute, his home-bottled brand of tonic, which he claimed would help a person stay alert and could also be used in place of food to curb hunger.

Carl sold his magic elixir all over the state and became quite well known. Then he sold a bottle to woman who happened to be a chemist’s wife. It wasn’t long until her husband found out that Sweet Louie’s magic brew was just extra-strong coffee with mint extract in it. The ensuing scandal drove him out of Colorado for life, and he ended up in New Mexico.

He bought some New Mexican desert acreage using the small fortune he’d escaped Colorado with. The exploration of his new property proved to be very rewarding. Carl found a hole in the earth, then a cave, then more caves, and then another business opportunity.

The cavernous treasure that Carl Lou exposed would prove to be his grandest achievement by far. He didn’t advertise his caves for a long time, because he had “big plans.” He worked night and day preparing and transforming his cave into a paradise, exhausting his savings along the way.

When he finally opened his cave to the public, it was like nothing New Mexico had ever seen before. He had decorated his caves with beer posters and neon lights, and carpet covered everything. He had billiard tables, gambling rooms, and live boxing every Friday night. There was an all-male staff and an army of handsome shirtless bartenders ready to sling alcohol 24 hours a day. Milkens enforced a strict men-only policy for his cave, stating: “Men know how to have a good time with other men. If you want dames hanging around you while you’re having a good time, well, find your own goddamn cave.” The sign out front read: “Carl’s Badass Cave—No Dames.”

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The cave was an enormous financial achievement for ol’ Carl Lou. For years, men came from all over the country to enjoy drunken good times without the hindrance of womanly company. It was the largest men-only cave in the Southwest.

Carl was famous for greeting first-timers and long-standing patrons by saying, “I’m Carl, welcome to my badass cave.” He would then take an exaggerated breath in through his nose and satisfyingly bellow, “I can’t smell me no dame, so it must be safe to have me a good time.” He would say that hundreds of times a night to the amusement of the men.

The construction of the dog-racing track inside the cave was almost finished when tragedy struck in 1920: Prohibition. This god-forsaken new law would make it impossible for all his male clientele to have a full-fledged good time. Alcohol was the most important factor in the success of the cave.

Carl Lou Milkens was not the kind of guy to have anything illegal happening in his cave, so he got rid of all the alcohol by piling it up in the parking lot and shooting it with guns. It took about a week to shoot all the booze, but it was gone for good.

The cave had a different feel due to the lack of alcohol. What used to be three to four hundred men drinking booze and enjoying each other’s company on a Saturday night had dwindled down to just a handful of dedicated patrons. His cave was no longer making money; Prohibition was killing business.

He did not want to abandon his cave. That cave was his child: a male-oriented, underground, secret, adult fortress of a child. He loved the cave, but as business slowly petered out, he needed a change to start making a profit again. He needed to revitalize his precious cave.

He decided to take all the carpet off the walls and remove anything that didn’t seem cavelike, just to try out a “more natural setting.” Basically, he just cleaned up the cave to see what would happen. The change that made the biggest impact—and boiled his soul—was taking down his old sign. The new and bigger sign read: “Welcome to Carlsbad Caverns: Dames and Families Allowed” The newly refurbished cavern was an instant success, attracting customers from all over the United States. Women, men, and children walked around his cave in awe of the beauty—without a drop of alcohol to make the experience interesting. He watched from his office as tens of thousands of customers a year toured and snooped around in his cave. Carl couldn’t understand why all these people liked this boring

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rock cave. He made a lot of money and felt blessed by it, but he wasn’t satisfied with its natural wonder.

He deeply missed the way it had been, all the carpet and flashing lights and waterfalls of alcohol. The gambling, the boozing, the kinsmanship. He yearned for those longgone days of men. He wanted his cave back the way it was, with its saunas, private massage rooms, and hot tubs overflowing with men. Men everywhere, drinking alcohol, hugging and being friendly, the way men share themselves when there are no women around. Booze had made and broken his dreams. Without alcohol, Carl’s original, coveted cave could never be duplicated.

On a Saturday night in 1933, while in a Laredo hotel room, he got the news that Prohibition had been repealed. Someone in the street exuberantly shouted, “Prohibition is dead!” and joyous gunshots followed. It was the best news he had ever heard. The rapture that overtook him at that moment was the last thing he ever felt. A second later, he died of a heart attack on top of a Mexican hooker.

75

The Llamerret The Incas were the strongest and largest of the pre-Columbian South American civilizations. Their empire stretched from Colombia in the north to Chile in the south, from the shores of the Pacific Ocean to the banks of the mighty Amazon River. The Incas were the wealthiest dynasty ever in the Native Americas, and their riches were legendary. The most sacred of all possessions in this most powerful nation was not a plush golden temple or a sip of milk from the breast of Pachamama that would ensure everlasting friendship. No: The grandest thing one could own in this world was an Incan llamerret.

The Incan llamerret was an animal bred in the care of the highest shaman of the Incas. It was by far the most royal and precious animal in all the land. The Incas did not have a written language, but they did have a strong oral tradition that recreated the image of an animal that was so soft and joy-filled it was beyond belief. Only the shaman and the children of the king were able to come in contact with the llamerret, for it was so spiritually and physically pure that not even the king himself could pet one. It was stated that the purity of the animal would be preserved for eternity, as long as it never came in contact with anything that had touched evil. The legend of the llamerret was robust in the times of the Incas because of its mythical and guarded existence The llamerret is an animal theorized to be the ultimate union of an Andean ferret and a Peruvian llama. It was a magnificent creature, a natural wonder that only the mighty Incas could have succeeded in creating. After years of dedicated research on the subject, here is the first documented evidence of this extraordinary animal.

In the days of Pachacuti’s rule, the king demanded that an animal be fabricated to keep his children warm and entertained. The breeding of the llamerret became the task of a specialized medicine man. His name was Topchi, and he was gifted with an aptitude for animals.

Topchi took a spiritual trek to the sacred waters of Lake Titicaca to ask Pachamama, the earth mother, for a sign. While standing on the shore of the Incan people’s birthplace, a vision came to him within minutes. The misty form of a llama and a ferret passionately mating on a golden raft appeared floating on the lake, only meters away from Topchi. The visionary creatures stopped their coitus, looked directly at the shaman, and warned him to keep the miracle of the llamerret only in the company of children and away from anything that has come in contact with evil.

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With the image secure in his mind, the extremely short-legged Topchi journeyed back to Cuzco to tell Pachacuti of his findings. The king gave the shaman a room in the main temple to use as the mating quarters. Pachacuti ordered that all the best specimens of llamas and ferrets throughout the land be captured and brought to the room for the shaman’s approval. Almost all the animals were sacrificed. Only the most fertile and jovial animals were kept and used for breeding.

After years of constant fine-tuning, the shaman had bred the llamerret to be the perfect companion to the king’s children. All the favorable traits of the ferret and the llama were melded flawlessly, while the undesirable aspects—the spitting and stinking—were extinguished. The fur was softest of any animal, and it was said that it would almost “melt to the touch,” much like petting a cloud. The llamerret’s body temperature would adapt to the seasons. It raised to a warm 103 degrees to comfort the children through the cold mountain winters, and in the summer its temperature would lower to yield an ice-blanket effect.

The combination of the llama’s soothing hum/orgle and the ferret’s soft chuckle produced a luscious bellow that would calm the children at all times. The females produced a sugary milk that the children could suckle on between meals. The teeth were bred out of the llamerret to ensure there would never be biting. Fleshy fluid-filled sacs grew in place of their teeth and were used to give sweet-breathed massages. The animal could produce an alarm-type whooping sound if it sensed danger. The children were also immune to illness when in company of the llamerret.

Touching a llamerret was the dream of every adult and child in all the Incan Empire. Even the king and queen could not come in contact with the animals. They were the most protected and idolized beings in the empire.

When a llamerret died, it would be immortalized. First, the Incan Nation would have a day of silent mourning to reflect on the animal’s beauty, and then there was an enormous ceremony, lasting three colorful days, to remember the gentle life of the creature. The corpse of the llamerret would be taken by the shaman and fed to the sacred condors of Colca, to deliver its body back to the heavens and eventually back to Pacha Papa.

The selective over-breeding of the llamerret produced the softest, kindest, warmest, most entertaining and ideal creature known in the entire Incan world. Although the llamerret was an immaculate animal, there were obstacles to its existence. There are two theories to explain the tragedy of the animal’s accelerated extinction.

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First, the physical explanation: the extensive amount of high-quality fur that the llamerret was bred to grow, eventually led to hair misgrowths. It is hypothesized that the animal began to grow soft, thick fur in its throat. The supple fur completely filled the esophagus and totally inhibited the ability to swallow food, most likely suffocating the creature. The shaman could not “breed out” the hair in the throat, which led to the llamerret’s steady and agonizing extinction.

Second, the spiritual explanation: the llamerrets were deeply sensitive beings, and the gods gave them the purest souls of any animal. When the llamerrets sensed the Spaniards coming towards Cuzco, they started alarm-whooping. The animals sensed an evil approaching and could not stop sounding off. The animals’ alarm could be heard throughout the land. They continued calling for days, without food or water, to warn the Incan people of the impending danger. One by one, all the llamerrets passed away, whooping until their last breath.

The legend of the llamerret, no matter how tragic, needs to be respected and remembered. The nobility of the mighty Incan People to keep such a treasured secret should be honored. The llamerret was referred to as “the ecstasy of the children” and served as the highest possible trophy in the culture. The myth of the llamerret should live on, not only in spirit, but in life.

Raul Santiago Director of Incan Studies University of Peru at Cuzco

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Chevy Chase’s friend on the telephone in 1989: “I saw Fletch Lives. Just wanted to tell you that rabies is still a big problem in the city. Temptation is our cupcake. Responsible is the new fly-by-the-seat-of-yourpants. I have a big bag of angel dust if you still wanna come over. Plastic has pretty much gone too far. You can survive for five days just by eating your own hair. I didn’t enjoy Fletch Lives very much.”

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T h e I m p o r t a n c e o f P o wd e r Talcum powder was discovered by an elderly widow in late 1963.

Joyce Talcumski had become a widow seven years earlier when her husband, Don Talcumski, died in a fluke veterinarianing mishap.

Joyce was a strong woman, and she knew being alone would not slow her down.

Having to relight pilot lights, knock down wasp nests, and make smaller portions of crinkle fries gave her rock-climber-like confidence.

One afternoon, while snacking, she dropped a Cheese Nip on the kitchen floor, and it tumbled under the stove.

The stove she and Don had bought at Sears years before.

Knowing she had to fish out the small cracker on her own, she muttered, “That’s a stupid name for a cracker.

“When I get you, I’m throwing you outside. You stupid cracker.”

She shuffled in her house shoes over to the utility closet to fetch a broom, the ragged one.

Joyce had taken away the broom’s sweeping privileges long ago, but kept it around because the handle still had strong reaching action.

Poking around to recover the lost snack, she once again grumbled, “Stupid cracker, stupid Cheese Nip.” After an hour of fruitless Cheese-Nip-reaching with the broom handle, and hundreds of cracker-cussings, she changed her approach.

Eighty-seven-year-old Joyce decided to get down on her knees and look under the stove to locate that “damned cracker.”

So she stooped.

Lower than she had in years, on both old knees, low enough to see under her stove.

Joyce spied the Cheese Nip, then noticed something moving.

She thought about how much her knees hurt, then looked back at the strange moving object and gasped.

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It is an occurrence that happens very often under elderly, white, American widows’ stoves-but no widow had ever been down on the floor to discover it.

There were dozens of tiny angels barfing up piles of fine, white powder.

Joyce made eye contact with one of the angels.

He stopped barfing, wiped his mouth with a little towel, and said, in a strong Latin accent: “You should sell this shit, you could put it on babies’ butts or have it around anytime you need a good powder.”

She collected a sample of the tiny angels’ dried barf and took it to the powder people.

Immediately they knew that it would be a big seller and gave Joyce a huge contract.

In Latin, “talcum” means “angel barf.”

Next time you have a baby and reach for that talcum powder, just think about how many tiny angels had to barf under old widows’ stoves to fill up that bottle.

So use sparingly.

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T h e G r e at “ H a p p y B i rt h day ” Tragedy Do you remember in 1985 when everyone got mad at the people who owned the rights to the “Happy Birthday” song?

A rumor started in New York that the “Happy Birthday” people were going to give all the royalties from “Happy Birthday” to charity for six months. The night Gloria Estefan and the cast from Back to the Future did a version of “Happy Birthday” on the The Cosby Show, it started a national trend. Everyone on television and in the movies started singing “Happy Birthday” every chance they got. One magnanimous director even made The Happy Birthday Movie, in which the song was sung more than 4,000 times by all of Hollywood’s brightest. MTV hosted a night when all the big pop stars came out and sang their version of the goodwill classic live on the air. During such a frivolous and soulless period in American culture, it was beautiful for all celebrities to come together in such an unselfish manner for such a worthy cause.

The “Happy Birthday” people had a news conference where they announced that it was all a hoax and they had nothing to do with it. They were now the richest owners of any song ever to have been made. America was appalled that the “Happy Birthday” people did nothing to stop the torrent of royalties and just kept all the money. “Happy Birthday” became the shameless theme song of lies and a symbol of gluttony and deception in this country.

For years, “Happy Birthday” was only sung behind closed doors and at secret events where people celebrated their greedy little birthdays. That horrible song was etched into the mind of a generation and never forgiven for the pain it caused.

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A letter to his wife f r o m t h e wa r

dimple camps, milky stamps, forest full of seagull tramps, handicap is full of heaven’s ramps, yodel cramps, warm and steamy yogurt lamps

Tired of talking.

Love, Gums Dumpkin

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T h e P e r f e c t B e lt

Music starts.

Aunt Cheryl, an eight-foot-tall fat woman with a floral-print muumuu, is wheeled onto the stage by Boy. Boy is dressed all in denim with overly baggy pants. Aunt Cheryl only has her right arm, and the upper-arm skin is big and saggy.

Both characters face the backdrop.

Music stops.

Boy: The sky is gay today, Aunt Cheryl.

Aunt Cheryl: Sure is, it’s real gay. Gayest I’ve seen it in a long time.

Musical theme continues until Boy rolls Aunt Cheryl to front of stage.

Music stops.

Boy: Aunt Cheryl?

Aunt Cheryl: Watch your mouth, Boy. Are you ready to learn a lesson yet?

Boy: Not yet. When do you think I’ll find my perfect belt?

Aunt Cheryl: I don’t know that junk.

Long silence Boy: Well, I’m just worried I’ll never find a belt.

Aunt Cheryl: You’re still young, Boy. Boy: Well, how long will I be young for?

Aunt Cheryl: Until you don’t want to blow the spider off the mirror.

Boy: That’s a ton.

Aunt Cheryl: Sure as hell is. Now quit all that fussin’. You go get one of the Devil’s eggs off that tree and chew it up real good. You’ll feel better.

Boy: But, why will the Devil’s egg make me feel any different?

Aunt Cheryl: Because the Devil puts his medicine in the yellow part. Now hush, chew it up.

Boy: Allkay.

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Boy walks over to the Devil’s egg tree and picks one. He bites it and smacks loudly.

Boy: Wooooo, I do feel a lil’ better. Thanks, Devil.

Aunt Cheryl: He can’t hear you right now, Boy. [She cackles.]

Boy: Oh. Aunt Cheryl: You wanna feel a bunch better?

Aunt Cheryl jiggles her arm skin. Wind chimes and bells sound. Boy walks over and plays with Aunt Cheryl’s arm skin very joyously for 30 seconds.

Boy: Feels good, feels good, ahh!

Aunt Cheryl: I know what you need, my lil’ bath biscuit. [She smacks and giggles.]

Boy: Do you think my perfect belt finds me, or I find it?

Oboe music begins.

Aunt Cheryl: Well, Boy, you know when you walk to someplace so remote you think that no person has ever stood in that spot? There are no roads anywhere around, and it took you over two days to walk there. The feeling of nature overtakes you and you have a feeling that you are the first person in the history of the world to ever have stood on that exact spot of the Earth. You sit down on the ground to revel in your accomplishment. [Oboe stops] Then you see a beer can.

Boy: So it’s closer than I think?

Aunt Cheryl: I don’t know that junk!

Long silence.

Boy: Maybe the sky would know?

Aunt Cheryl: You could waste your time asking it.

Boy: But the sky told me once that my teeth could smell the weather.

Aunt Cheryl: Well, go let your silly teeth sniff up a thunderstorm. Aunt Cheryl needs some Aunt Cheryl time. Now get!

Boy walks off. Aunt Cheryl plays with her own arm skin for 45 seconds. Thunder claps and wind chimes sound.

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Boy: [Yelling] Aunt Cheryl, Aunt Cheryl!

Aunt Cheryl is startled while playing with her own arm skin and screams.

Suddenly, Boy comes running back onstage, frantic, and hugs Aunt Cheryl.

Boy: The sky was rude.

Aunt Cheryl: Welp. I told you.

Boy: It’s just so big, it seems like it would be nice.

Aunt Cheryl: Boy, the sky is way too big to be trusted.

Boy: Well, my teeth said that the sky knows every time I eat breakfast.

Aunt Cheryl: [Screaming] The sky don’t know squat! I know what you need.

Aunt Cheryl shakes her arm skin at him agressively. Wind chimes and bells sound. Boy plays with Aunt Cheryl’s arm skin for 30 seconds.

Boy: That’s it, feels good, feels good, ahh!

Aunt Cheryl: I know, my perky little pillbug. [She smacks and giggles.]

Thunder sounds.

Boy: Aunt Cheryl, do you think that when it rains, God is crying or peeing?

Aunt Cheryl: Prolly a lil’ of both.

Boy: Well, I wonder if God would mind if I cried on top of my pee.

Aunt Cheryl: No, no, no, no, no! He hates it when you mix those things.

Silence.

Boy: Oh. But, how do you know when it is time to learn a lesson?

Aunt Cheryl: When it burns when you think.

Boy: Well, I’m bready.

Aunt Cheryl: Allsright. You sure you’re bready?

Boy: Yep. I’m bready.

Aunt Cheryl: It’s a legend from the old country: Good things happen—once you stop being a dumbass.

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Boy: The old country is smart.

Aunt Cheryl: It sure is. Have you learned your lesson, Boy? Boy: Pretty much.

Boy walks over and starts caressing Aunt Cheryl’s arm skin. During the embrace, Boy wheels Aunt Cheryl offstage.

Boy comes back. He does a tap-dancing, machete-sharpening musical number for two minutes, then goes offstage. The lights go out.

Lights come back on. Boy wheels Aunt Cheryl back onstage, and she has a thin, bandaged and bloodied arm. Boy has a new skin-colored belt, with the word “LESSON” written on the back of the belt.

Boy: Feels good, feels good…

Boy runs around the stage and the audience.

Aunt Cheryl: Hey Boy, Boy listen. I wanted to teach you another lesson. Now listen very carefully, it is a lesson from the older country. It is really good luck if you’re climbing up a ladder and you smell something bad. It’s a chicken bug. The chicken bug is getting dressed up for a pageant, that…

Boy: SHHHHH! With his newfound, 12-inch-long finger, Boy shushes her.

Ending music and the lights go black.

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O n Va m p i r e s

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This is a version of a conversation, which turned into a zine, which turned into a play, which was performed in the autumn of 2003 by Andy Rihn and John King.

Two young men, Leopold and Bertram, sit in a breakfast nook drinking beer. It is early evening. They have just witnessed a flying pigeon impale itself onto the top of a wrought-iron fence and die.

Leopold: I told you, I am not a vampire.

Bertram: If you say, “I am not a vampire,” it means you are a vampire.

Leopold: But I mean it when I say, “I am not a vampire.”

Bertram: You are a vampire, and you can never change that. You ain’t gonna suck blood or nothing, it’s just that you are a vampire.

Leopold: So, if someone confesses they are not a vampire, they’re still a vampire?

Bertram: Yep. You can’t unvampire yourself, it’s just the way you are.

Leopold: Hold on. How did all this come up?

Bertram: You were admitting how all the stuff that you were saying, about that bird dying, made you sound like a vampire.

Leopold: Oh, yeah, but I am not a vampire.

Bertram: No, it is because you are the shit out of a vampire.

Leopold: Why won’t you believe the fact that I am not a vampire?

Bertram: Because you were born a vampire, and your obsession with yourself is just starting to shine through.

Leopold: Fuck that, I am not a vampire.

Bertram: Only a vampire would say that.

Leopold: Man, I told you, I am not a fucking vampire.

Bertram: Only a vampire is concerned about being, or not being, a vampire.

Leopold: Well, perhaps acknowledging that I am a vampire is the beginning of a method of recovery.

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Bertram: No, because you start telling other people about vampires to gain acceptance in an attempt to justify your arrogance.

Leopold: Well, you and I are talking about vampires, does that mean you are one, too?

Bertram: No, it’s because you brought up the fact that you are a vampire.

Leopold: Wait, I was telling you about how that pigeon killed itself on the same day I was wearing all black and had eaten goat. I didn’t mean I was really a vampire, it just seemed like a vampiric day altogether.

Bertram: Did it remind you about how impatient death can be?

Leopold: No, it wasn’t the death, it was the combination of all those things.

Bertram: That’s because death isn’t beautiful to vampires. They just care about the overall feeling of life and how it affects them. They don’t notice the world around them unless it is tragic.

Leopold: All I know is that pigeon was giving me some kind of sign. It let me watch it impale itself so I could learn something about my future Bertram: I bet it felt just like wiping lotion on a wound.

Leopold: Fuck you. If I’m a vampire, you’re a fucking vampire.

Bertram: I’m a werewolf.

Leopold: You wouldn’t say you were a werewolf unless you were one.

Bertram: I am a werewolf. Werewolves are honest about that shit.

Leopold looks at Bertram in disbelief Bertram: We don’t have time to fuck around, because we are gonna die soon.

Leopold: So, you are a werewolf? How is that different from being a vampire?

Bertram: A werewolf will fuck the shit outta you and run away. A vampire will fuck you real hard, but stay around to fuck you over.

Leopold thinks quietly Leopold: Damn.

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Bertram: Everyone is born either a vampire or a werewolf, and they accept it or run away from it.

Leopold: What the hell? Every person in the world is one or the other?

Bertram: Yep, you are either a narcissistic, asshole vampire or a shallow, full-of-shit werewolf.

Leopold: That sucks. Are you happy being a werewolf?

Bertram: That’s hard to say. People think that how they are is the best way to be. Even if they hate themselves.

Leopold: That was a yes or no question.

Bertram: I know, werewolves are confidently vague about things.

Leopold: That is a shitty answer, werewolf.

Bertram: That’s true, we are also pretty big liars. Wanna go get some more beer?

Leopold: Yeah, but I ain’t got no money.

Bertram: I’ll buy that shit.

Leopold: Deal.

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