Come and see the freaks!

Choosing to be a human

is the

worst

decision one can

ever

make.

We take ourselves

far too seriously.

Delusions

of somehow holding dominion over

anything—

We don’t even hold dominion over

ourselves

Teeth whitening,

Laser freckle removal,

Asshole bleaching.

This desire to conform

to some standard of

acceptability

is just such a drag.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

scuttling across the floors of the sea.

Without a care in the world

and no standard adherence.

Night or day?

Doesn’t matter

I have nowhere to be

but where the ocean

takes me.

Then again,

that would mean I

lose out on

my front row seat to

the freak show.

Rules of the Walkway

Rules of the Walkway

Excuse me,
Charles Bro-kowski,
but we are living in a society
here.

Notice how the
cars
drive

on the right hand side?

Everybody does this
because otherwise
people would run into
each other.
Like you did to me.
Walking
down
these
stairs.

I know how hard it is
to both think and prop
your HGH-enhanced thorax
upon your spindly legs,
so I'll give you a tip:

Look in front of you.
Are people flowing
in the same direction as you?

No?

You're in the wrong lane.
Move to your right.

What are you, new here?

Can I get a glass of
oh, 
what's that stuff called again?

It falls from the sky,
but also comes 
from the ground.
Boats float in it 
fish swim in it. 

Water? 
You sure that's what it's called? 
Uhhh
not that I don't trust you, 
but I'm going to look that up. 

Applebee's

What

do you mean

you're out of meatballs?

You have meat.

You have balls. 

Get in the kitchen

and shape that meat into balls.

Pour some cheese sauce on it

and charge me $15. 

Holograms

If you're going to resurrect stars from our past, have the decency to go all out. Dig up Johnny Cash. Boil his preserved remains until the tender meat falls off the bone like a medium rare prime rib and make a stew from the broth. Strip the flesh off of a pig and zip-tie it onto the cleaned bones and tattoo a "13" on his fucking neck. Cram that Japanese voice-simulating robot into his face. Hammer hooks into his wrists, attach strings, and make him dance like a marionette.

Plastic Bags

Fuck you plastic bags

With your crinkly noises

Swishing

Swoshing

Down the street. 

With your boa constrictor handles

Tightening

Tearing

Into the flesh of my arm. 

With your membrane thin walls

Ripping

Returning

My produce to the dirt below. 

A Letter to the Ghost of Billy Mays

To: The Ghost of Billy Mays

I am dissatisfied with my Big City Slider Station. It seared my mouth-watering Billy Burgers to perfection, but it just can’t outperform my frying pan. You see, my kids, they love The Three Stooges. When somebody comes to the door, I answer and say, “Hey chowderhead!” and wallop their skull with a frying pan. While the non-stick heavy-duty construction of your burger press provides more splatter, it doesn’t make the noise that the kids have come to expect. They prefer the ringing chimes of the frying pan as it takes its toll on the missionary’s head.

From: Drunk and Dissatisfied

--

Jeffery Shellenbarger