On Sleep. Snort. Fuck.
http://sleepsnortfuck.blogspot.com/
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
New Material
The Take Down to be in Sleep.Snort.Fuck. this week. Stay tuned for a link!
It's actually older material. Does that make me a liar?
It's actually older material. Does that make me a liar?
Friday, March 19, 2010
The Lions of the Kalahari
There is a picture above the urinal at Boondocks entitled: ROAR: the Lions of the Kalahari.
The photo is of a Lion walking through a field. In the background there are antelopes sipping water from a shallow lake. The Lion is staring off into the distance, casually, and calculated, like a model. You immediately wonder why he isn’t focused on the antelopes behind him. One can only assume he is well fed and can pass up such opportunities.
It’s hard to tell if it is a photo or a painting, actually. It might be a hybrid. The lion looks real. But the rest looks like pastels. It was likely created in the 1980’s. And it’s the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a portable at an elementary school along side diagrams about the temperature at which water boils and the life span of fungi.
I noticed once that the picture is in a frame with no glass. I asked my friend Dagan who worked at Boondocks if he knew why. He thought it was hilarious that I noticed the missing glass. Then he told me the story of the Lions of the Kalahari.
One night a group of guys came in for drinks. They’d been on the water all afternoon fishing, having several drinks. It was one of the guys fortieth birthday. At one point the Birthday Boy puked a little, a small handful, onto his shirt. Dagan decided the he was cut off, done. He then followed the Birthday Boy as he staggered to the washroom. He had a tough time finding his zipper. He started peeing and it was going everywhere: the floor, the walls, himself. He was teetering back and forth. Suddenly, his rocking motion got the better of him, he went too far forward, and he face planted the Lions of the Kalahari, breaking the glass, making a ten-inch incision across his forehead. Then he fell straight down and removed all of his front teeth on the lip of the urinal.
His pants were around his ankle, he was covered in blood and piss, he’d thrown up on himself, and his front teeth were hanging out with the urinal cake. It all happened in a split second.
Dagan helped the guy get his pants on and wiped up the blood. He put the teeth in the Birthday Boy’s pocket. Then he escorted the man back out to the bar where his friends, laughing hysterically, insisted on more drinks. This was not going to happen, so the party decided to leave. As the Birthday Boy walked out the front door of Boondocks he tripped over a can of cigarette butts and rode the steps down to the pavement with his face, removing all the skin from his ear and left cheek.
I avoid the urinal now at Boondocks. I use the toilet instead. And I sit. I avoid the Lions of the Kalahari at all costs; I refuse eye contact. The Lions have seen things, hold secrets. They are vexing and could cast spells. And above all, they represent bad luck.
When I leave I look at the mirror and admire my full set of teeth.
The photo is of a Lion walking through a field. In the background there are antelopes sipping water from a shallow lake. The Lion is staring off into the distance, casually, and calculated, like a model. You immediately wonder why he isn’t focused on the antelopes behind him. One can only assume he is well fed and can pass up such opportunities.
It’s hard to tell if it is a photo or a painting, actually. It might be a hybrid. The lion looks real. But the rest looks like pastels. It was likely created in the 1980’s. And it’s the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a portable at an elementary school along side diagrams about the temperature at which water boils and the life span of fungi.
I noticed once that the picture is in a frame with no glass. I asked my friend Dagan who worked at Boondocks if he knew why. He thought it was hilarious that I noticed the missing glass. Then he told me the story of the Lions of the Kalahari.
One night a group of guys came in for drinks. They’d been on the water all afternoon fishing, having several drinks. It was one of the guys fortieth birthday. At one point the Birthday Boy puked a little, a small handful, onto his shirt. Dagan decided the he was cut off, done. He then followed the Birthday Boy as he staggered to the washroom. He had a tough time finding his zipper. He started peeing and it was going everywhere: the floor, the walls, himself. He was teetering back and forth. Suddenly, his rocking motion got the better of him, he went too far forward, and he face planted the Lions of the Kalahari, breaking the glass, making a ten-inch incision across his forehead. Then he fell straight down and removed all of his front teeth on the lip of the urinal.
His pants were around his ankle, he was covered in blood and piss, he’d thrown up on himself, and his front teeth were hanging out with the urinal cake. It all happened in a split second.
Dagan helped the guy get his pants on and wiped up the blood. He put the teeth in the Birthday Boy’s pocket. Then he escorted the man back out to the bar where his friends, laughing hysterically, insisted on more drinks. This was not going to happen, so the party decided to leave. As the Birthday Boy walked out the front door of Boondocks he tripped over a can of cigarette butts and rode the steps down to the pavement with his face, removing all the skin from his ear and left cheek.
I avoid the urinal now at Boondocks. I use the toilet instead. And I sit. I avoid the Lions of the Kalahari at all costs; I refuse eye contact. The Lions have seen things, hold secrets. They are vexing and could cast spells. And above all, they represent bad luck.
When I leave I look at the mirror and admire my full set of teeth.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Stacey and the Three Drunks
Written on request for MM many moons ago.
Once upon a time in a nursery rhyme there were three drunks. One was an Older Drunk and one was a Younger Drunk and one was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
They’d all gone a-stumblin’ and a-bumblin’ into the woods- and oooooh they were drinking- when along came a girl who was not even thirty, but walked like she was twenty, with matted down, deliciously curly hair- and a Mickey of Southern Comfort in a two-litre bottle of Pepsi in one of her hands. Her name was Stacey and up upon the door she went!
[Knock, knock, knock]
But no one was there. And she didn't care that no one was there. So she walked right in and got fucking right fucked up!
Home came those three drunks!
"Someone's been drinking my gin," said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Someone's been drinking my rum," said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Where’s the rum, where’s the gin, Oliver, Oliver, the night has just begin," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
"Someone’s been puking on my lawn chair," said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Someone's been puking in my Chevy on blocks around the side of the house," said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Chaaaaaaaaair, Cheeeeeeeeeevy, Chhhaaeeeevvvvvy," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
"Someone's been rustling up the sheets in my bed," said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Someone's fucking puked in my bed…fuck…Christ,” said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Fuck, dudes, there’s a fucking chick sleeping in my bed," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
Just then Stacey woke up, saw the shit she was up against, and got the fuck out of there.
"Where’s my kiss,” said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Damn, she was a fine thang, dang-it,” said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Bee bop a ree bah," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
So ends the story of Stacey and the Three Drunks.
Once upon a time in a nursery rhyme there were three drunks. One was an Older Drunk and one was a Younger Drunk and one was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
They’d all gone a-stumblin’ and a-bumblin’ into the woods- and oooooh they were drinking- when along came a girl who was not even thirty, but walked like she was twenty, with matted down, deliciously curly hair- and a Mickey of Southern Comfort in a two-litre bottle of Pepsi in one of her hands. Her name was Stacey and up upon the door she went!
[Knock, knock, knock]
But no one was there. And she didn't care that no one was there. So she walked right in and got fucking right fucked up!
Home came those three drunks!
"Someone's been drinking my gin," said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Someone's been drinking my rum," said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Where’s the rum, where’s the gin, Oliver, Oliver, the night has just begin," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
"Someone’s been puking on my lawn chair," said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Someone's been puking in my Chevy on blocks around the side of the house," said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Chaaaaaaaaair, Cheeeeeeeeeevy, Chhhaaeeeevvvvvy," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
"Someone's been rustling up the sheets in my bed," said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Someone's fucking puked in my bed…fuck…Christ,” said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Fuck, dudes, there’s a fucking chick sleeping in my bed," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
Just then Stacey woke up, saw the shit she was up against, and got the fuck out of there.
"Where’s my kiss,” said the Older Drunk, said the Older Drunk.
"Damn, she was a fine thang, dang-it,” said the Younger Drunk, said the Younger Drunk.
"Bee bop a ree bah," said the one who was a Wee Bit Drunker than the rest.
So ends the story of Stacey and the Three Drunks.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
New Piece
On the Bus with Jesus to be in the next issue of The Writer's Block. Stay tuned for a link. I know you're all waiting. All of you.
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