Hello, Office of the Demiurge. No, he’s not in right now. He’s out creating the world. This is his secretary. Is there anything I could help you with? That’s right. Uh huh. Well, what do you think? Of course he’s going to make sofas. And they’ll be good ones, very good ones. Like so much of his other furniture and trees and machines and landforms that he’s created. Yup. He’s gonna make those too. Yup, and in many, many different colours. Shapes as well, yes. Nope, he doesn’t give a crap about how they’ll make you feel. All he wants is for you to want one. And to know it’s there, exactly. What’s that? Nope. He disagrees that there may be some intangible connection between beings and their items. It’s all strictly about your material goods, ma’am. That’s right, strictly about the material world. Nope, he doesn’t think that’s shallow. And neither do I. Who the gives a ladybug about your soul. Or even if you have one. Alternate plains of existence? Spirit worlds? Okay just calm down. Listen, my boss is out there eon in and son out working his butt off making the world. Creating things. Tangible things, get it? Not some spiritual voodoo mumbo jumbo that doesn’t do anything or serve any purpose. A bucket has a function. Your aura does not. Hey, just you listen, he works hard to create actual stuff for you. For everyone. For the universe. So you can’t just sit here and tell me he’s missing the big picture. He painted the big picture and hung it on the wall. It’s real not just some frickin’ abstraction that you have to peer into via hokey prayers and cheesy meditations. Tangible. Concrete. Bona fide. Substantial. For real. Got it? It’s not hard to understand. Literally, knock on wood. See? Exactly. Now compare that to sitting there making monkeyman bowel movement noises with your mouth guiding your breath down into your non-existent soul hole. Again, exactly, I don’t know either. No one does. So stop being such a sobersides and get up and get out there and start living in that material world that was so thoughtfully created for you. Are we clear here? Uh huh, great then, good to hear. Is there anything else I can help you with? No? Well. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day. B’bye.
Sally really was a ruined poet, a symbolizing idealizing soul who inherited too many problems. And did she ever make a point of laying it on thick to the rest of us. But don’t take my word for it, see for yourself. I’ll let her work speak for itself. So to begin, check this out:
“Soul of slabidinous jelly
Odious as the rankest crud nugget
Mother, oh Mother of mine.
Dearest Mother, GET YER FINGER OUTTA THERE!“
Are you kidding me? That’d give Joyce himself a bad case of the Double Dublin Gastric Spastics.
And take this prime example right here:
“Bowdlerize my cunt
You thief you thief you thief
Of (brown) bagged lunches.
Take my crackers and cheese
And P and B and J
And off with you
To suffer my doctrinaire piss curtains.“
Jeepers, what’s with the brackets? More pointedly, what’s with all that malarkey outside them?
“Fly! Skyflyer! Fly!
Fly high in the sky!
Set cruise control to maximum zest
And shatter the impossible truth.
Pull up! Skyflyer! Pull up!
Take it to the limit
And push! Beyond!
Because there is no fucking envelope.“
Fun fact, Skyflyer was Sally’s nickname in high-school. Self decreed.
Fun fact #2, that poem stinks.
Here’s another choice cut:
Seriously though, it’s like mental stool softener. Mixed with actual stool softener. And curare.
Just to be fair, and to give a sufficient representation of Sally’s oeuvre, I’ll leave you with one final piece of bardic wisdom:
“Our Heavenly Father Sol hung limp like a flaccid cock as the ring that had held it so engorged for so long that was the orbiting molten planet called Mercury having slipped off to travel on in adfinitum ad infinitum in a serious kiss off to gravity and meanwhile as a veiny dawn dragged itself over the horizon here on earth drops of moist sun like stale semen made life and death and whatever it is in between sticky and hot and there were no cold showers that day I tell you.”
Yup, that girl Sally sure is a maroon. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure her out. But you know how it is with all those mysterious ways your wonders to perform be. Am I right? Me neither.
Never send to ask for whom the frankfurter cooks. It cooks for me.
As we held our kabobs to cook in the futile heat of the ignis fatuus
The full moon cast its light like a silver anus over the swamp.
Dark shadows. Deep. Like Simon Peter as in his molasses and pancakes.
The night grew heavy like someone’s too good bad idea for bacon wrapped jalopeno poppers.
Put some Mortadella in there.
O, how much is too much of a good thing?
Like a sermon that has gone seven hours too long.
All the best bits have been masticated and swallowed.
And now it is only gristle.
That need be chewed and chewed and chewed.
O, lest it choke the life right out of you.
And soiled plates of paper.
Some barbecue that one.
Too bad no one told the holy man on his holy mountain.
And so as the ululations of the gathered grey skinned hags floated
Amongest the savory scents of grilled meat
And boss sounds of southern fried guitar rock.
It became like a marinade most foul applied far, far too late
In the game.
O, who brushes it on after the chops are already grilled?
Not even sweetest Jesus.
O, what next?
Mosquitoes joined the lamentations
Joined the soulless journey
Joined the grand inevitable.
Tell me not for even as the question was asked we knew the answer.
Put some beans on it.
Still some barbecue.
Cold meat and hot coals and a spiced rub
Made by the maker for the carver to sleep soundly at night
Knowing his cuts die well in a good place.
Juices running from within like wine from the stomach of a gutted drunk pig.
O, how one wonders how the heck it got into the vino.
Did the fella touched by God forget to latch the pen?
Or did the angry spirits of the night give it wings?
Did they coerce the fat thing into the cellar?
Did they unstopper the Nebuchadnezzar?
Did they give it a bowl of olives?
O, spirits, sure you are angry. But do you need to be so frigging mischievous?
Ye, good question.
And the woman wailed on.
The mosquitoes feasted.
The children stared up and wondered about the cosmos.
And the men?
They grilled on.
And the night.
O, the night.
Turned its back on the sunrise.
The rhythm of the night came down hard last night.
Like a goddamn soulful atomic hammer.
Gave me the night passions real bad and heavy like.
Had me on the toilet well past the midnight hour, deep beneath the unblinking silver eye of the moon.
Moving my bowels to the nocturnal music like a bowl of spiritual chowder on a ship of flesh at sea on an ocean of emotion.
Each drop of melody splishy splashing on my body like God’s Golden Rain, moistening my skin to a resplendent musical sheen.
Bee deep bee dee beep.
That soulful sweet sound of toe-tapping rippa tippa all up inside the brown canal.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.
Like the mailbox that fell in love with the glove compartment.
Their forbidden love had eyebrows raised all over town.
But just like the rhythm of the night they took their tomy doored container passions and stoked them sweetly in the shadows until, like a cannon in a coal mine, they blew the roof off the thunder barrier.
Boom boom boom beep deep doom doom.
Love licks erotic songs like the infinite tongue in the sky.
And that taste you’re hearing? That’s the smoke of love.
Whiff woofer whomper whomp.
Listen, lists are the best. A list of the best. In an order. The best order. They’ve been arranged, by someone in the know aka A MOTHERFUCKING AUTHORITY, so you don’t have to. All you have to do is peruse down it from the TOP to the BOTTOM. And bingo bango you’ve got yourself some sweet ranked knowledge that will put you on the road to the ladder to the big list in the pie in the sky. The following are the 7 best top 10 lists in the world as determined by the International Consortium of Lists and Rankings:
—Top ten haunted lighthouses
—Top 10 sex positions in the world
—Top ten most expensive burgers
—Top ten dumb words for vagina
—Top ten schools for women’s golf
—Ten best tips for buying roller skate wheels
—Ten tips to grow teen facial hair faster
Okay, spoiler alert: WE’VE GOT SOME TAKEAWAYS HERE! The only way to do your best is to read the best. The TEN BEST. Because eleven doesn’t cut the mustard. It doesn’t even part it’s hair. So you have to absolutely ensure you have a list of ten things that mean more to you and them and us and all than anything else. TEN. 10. X. Not one more, not one less. Ten. Got it? Got it? Got it? Good. So if you can narrow that list down to seven you are in list heaven, baby. ‘Cause Yahweh hisself cums clouds of hot, thick virgins when she reads a sweet Fuckin’ A list of 7 pieces of steaming awesome shit. And when the arch-duke of the cosmos wants to bullet point the 7 best of the 7 best of the ultimate 7 whatever in order of MOST FUCKING IMPORTANT you gotta believe he/she/DannyTrejo is checking the top 7 lists of best lists of ten most important things and making sure their/its/MargaretAtwood’s list is ON NUCLEAR FUCKING POINT. And, most important of all, you must ensure that you absolutely just do your perfect best to make it bank not dank, cause its rank won’t stank if it don’t wank blanks, dig? Y’all better, chum, cause in this new modern now of an age if your list list ain’t on the list list you’re done like Gandhi in Pakistan. So tug hard and rub fast and let fly those g-spot streams of creamy lists. Society is depending on you.
Hi ladies, my name is Lazer Guy and I’m looking for a lady who is interested in a guy who is made out of lazers. I have a tight beam body and I can go from zero to the speed of light in a very fast time. I have pin point accuracy, but I can spread myself out and do all sorts of intricate movements. And I can very easily touch the sky and beyond because I am a lazer guy. I’m interested in a lady who is not necessarily a lazer herself but who wouldn’t be turned off by a lazer guy like me. I also like movies and dining out and travel. I am interested in a woman who may be interested in the same things. Like travel. Do you enjoy travelling? Because I do, so why don’t we connect. Because I am a lazer guy I can travel very quickly and accurately between places. Just point me and beam me and I travel there very fast at the speed of light and if you are interested in a guy who can do that why don’t we get together and see what happens? Perhaps we could meet for dinner and get to know each other? My favourite food is Italian. Specifically linguini. Mmm. So good. The noodles remind me of lazers which is what I am made from. You could say I’m a lazer noodle guy. Haha. I also love comedy and to laugh. I’m interested in a lady who loves to laugh. My favourite type of comedy is jokes. Specifically ones about lazers. My favourite joke is why did the lazer cross the road? Because he was pointed in that direction and then energized! Haha. Get it? Because lazers are concentrated beams of light and when aimed and energized they beam out in that specific direction. I also, love movies. My favourite movie is “Runaway” starring Tom Selleck. It features some amazing special effects and is definitely Tom Selleck’s best acting performance. Where was his Oscar? Was he robbed? I think so better call the police station and report it. Haha. I’m interested in a lady who would be interested in enjoying movies like this one. Because I am a alazer guy I can very accurately point out different things on the screen with the accuracy of a lazer. If this is something you as a lady would be interested in perhaps we could get together and watch the movie? It’s so good. Because I am a lazer guy I really identify with this movie because there are lazers in it. I’m not sure if they are lazer guy lazers or just regular lazers but I still enjoying seeing a good lazer scene in a movie. I am interested in a lady who would be interested in seeing a movie that has a good lazer scene in it like in the movie “Runaway” or even just a normal-style movie like “Laser Mission“. I hope to hear from you.
Most gentle dirtbags, unite thee with those myriad other pieces of shit that grease the gutters of this fair world. Stinking up the place with their foul and noxious windy thoughts, their dumb ideas and sweet, sweet ignorance.
Take the soiled masses in your filthy arms and hold them tightly to you, warming their stupid brows with sullied kisses and your bad breath.
They are you, sleazewad, and you are they.
One and all.
Sick and disgusting and as stupid as a stripped screw.
Open the pigpen you call a heart and let in the dung-like love of all the other skidwipes and turdchews that are stinking up the place.
Bathe and be bathed in the undivided and unanimous adulation of the countless scores of downtrodden chunks of living manure that defile the universe and make it that much tougher to simply get around.
Rejoice, oh tender greaseball, and be merry and all that corny jazz, coadunating with all the other dipsticks like a toxic swamp full of love and filth and blighted vermin.
Hands held high, hearts joined, buttholes puckered, raise high the roof beam of the universe and shoot the sloppy moon and bask in the eternal glow of stupid stinkery that we all are.