Brown Neon: from the diary of Tad Friend “bubbling”

put on my mood pants and hit the lo-orbital dance clubs for a night of the freeky deeky. been so lonely for so long even just the possibility of talking to a strange woman gives me the crotch sweats. not to mention the other body sweats. i don’t know how to talk to people anymore on that level that strangers talk to each other at. how are you? what’s your name? you come here often? do people even talk like that anymore. the chat ’em up function on my unit is throwing a crudload of wild and whacky new jargon at me like: farnfunky, woodle this (or woodle that), put on the crud, crud it, get cruddy, cruddin’, chunky cruddy, crud chunker, hard crud, etc. seems to me that we’ve entered the crud generation. amazing that you spend all that time as part of the underground drug culture and you end up with little or no social skills. just another head in a cube. talking lines about lines. now i’ve gotta figure out how to get my head back in the game. went shopping and bought a new electrified vest, got a-steve to do my hair like you see on those guys on the feeds who make everyone so crazy. like champ used to. i’ve really fallen pretty far. used to walk on red carpets. the one in my apartment is brown. Like crud.

The Pudding Proof Prophet

Buddy, listen–sorry, I’d call you mister but I can’t honestly do so with any sense of common decency because you’re an abject object sitting like a dump lump on top of the pile of life and all you’ve managed to accomplish so far is a loose floppy ipse dixit puff of unintelligible boom bah about you and aliens and the past and present future where the kneejerks and nutjacks are running the show from a cluster of micro moons they built in the outer reaches of the solar system on which they are waging a trans-dimensional Cold War with three different civilizations across the Nth dimension in which humankind is like some kind of mysterious stranger that rolls into town and proceeds to knock the chips off everyone’s shoulders including the sheriff’s wife who you also make long, hot, wet, manically orgasm-filled love to while the sheriff is out with a bunch of hired goons shaking down local farmers for protection money which is apparently actually some knew form of reliant, pliant, and powerful form of energy that also makes a hell of a potent aphrodisiac that goes by the human name of Squeeze and sells quite well across the solar system but not as well as it does as a fuel source for which it is referred to as weird gas and has really levelled the field in terms of the exploration and colonization and exploitation of alien planets upon which some humans have thrived and in others not so much but all in all we’re in not a bad spot universe-wise as compared to some dumbshit extraterrestrial wannabes floating around out there through the vastness of space with whatever it is they call a finger up whatever it is they call a nose. If I wanted cancer I’d have a harder time getting it eating a plate of asbestos with a side of stress but with you, buddy, I can definitely feel some carcinogenic vibes but I have to say as I sit here listening to you and listening to you and listening to you I have to say, buddy, that instead of cancer…Well buddy, I’ll tell you what you gave me instead of cancer…Mister, you’ve given me hope.

The Madcap Satrap

“Bake me a cookie as big as the moon!

So that it may blot out the sun!

And I’ll nibble upon it!

Bit by bit!

Crumb by crumb!

It’ll be epic!

Of course the Emperor gets his piece, too!

That goes without saying!

My liege!

By the way!

Make sure there’s plenty of chocolate chips in there!

I want enough to go around!

Is the Emperor allergic to nuts?!

I cannot imagine so!

He’s the Emperor after all!

My liege!


I don’t care what it costs!

I’m made of money!




I can’t wait!

For my sweet cookie in the sky!

Oh shit!

That’s right!

While you’re all at it!

Dig me a lake of milk!

So your ruler can dip his biscuit!”

The Mouthstipated MC

I got lyrical spastic obstipation

wicked bad rhyme spit inflammation

Of the mouth

The tongue

And the holy throat

Words won’t move

Through the epiglote

That ain’t the term

But it’s tough to speak

Seems I’m suffering

From sticky teeth

I’m all bunged up

Deep in my maw

And I can’t squeeze out

The poetry, y’all

Lingual paralysis

Got me dumb

I so need a word

That rhymes

With bum…

T’ain’t the season, y’all!

“Yeah! Ya wanna know what I think, ya shiver me timbers stink ass boat?!”

The rosy-cheeked red-capped long white bearded man stared way too hard at the barely moustached teen.

The teen shook his head.

The old man shook his back.

“I don’t care if ya don’t wanna hear ‘cause yer gonna hear it, ya dirty stinkin’ flyboy penis wannabe, ‘cause yer gonna.”

He spat down at his feet. A thick line of urine coloured phlegm nestled itself on his beard like a horrendous icicle.

“All ya gallant derringer-do pieces of shit sittin’ all up in yer crystal fart bravado booths on the top of donkey crap mountain are the problem. People gotta believe the sickness, ya low-bellied banana squirrel, that ya make them think ain’t there. Ya make ‘em think it don’t exist. That it ain’t real. But it does! But it is! I know. I fuckin’ know it, ya assless mouth carrot, I know it exists ‘cause I see it everyday everywhere all over all the time.”

He took a generous sip of his gallon jug of table sherry.

“I have magic goggles at my place up north and through them I can see the sickness so fuckin’ well, ya itchy Yuletide STD. It’s a fuckin’ pandemic.”

He lensed one blood-stained eye at the teen.

The teen blinked.

The fat man reared back as best his fat self could. Which was somewhat.

“Ya think I’m stupid?! Ya think I’m dumb?! Well, how ‘bout I come in there and give ya a holly jolly serious dose of humbuggery, huh? How ‘bout ol’ Santa Thick And Veiny Claus cums down yer chimney? Huh? How’d you like that? Ya Ichibod Crane headless outhouse toilet mouth. Huh? What d’ya say?”

The teen swallowed.

The jolly old elf hit the table sherry once more. Then again. And a long one after that.

“I’m a magic motherfucker, Waldo, who always knows right where ya fuckin’ are.”

The teen repressed the itch on his cheek.

The old man adjusted the sack slung over his shoulder.

“Naughty or nice, ya Tiny Tim Easter Bunny Jack o’Lantern Oscar Winning piss guzzler, I ain’t givin’ ya no lump of coal this year, no.”

He leaned in close to the bullet proof glass.

“Ya wanna know what yer gettin’?”

The teen took a breath and shrugged.

“Yeah well, just ‘cause ya been such a excellent version of a asshole and all this year—

I’m givin’ ya cancer!”

He breathed hard, his whole fat face gone beyond red, like it was a maniacal bowl of psychotic cherries.


The teen sighed.

“Sir, this isn’t Disneyland. It’s a car wash. And regardless, I still can’t break a hundred. Like I said before, read the sticker on the window. Now, please have a nice day.”