Beef McGee: Ascension of a God sweatpants, coiled around my loins, coating my flesh in fashion, and I ooze my way into the salons and saloons of America, letting the unbelievers see just what it is they’re missing. And their tears are proof that my leggings are important, that they contain the potential to change the world, that within the confines of my reptilian tear-aways I am the most powerful entity in the known universe. I see the looks on the faces of the elders, those who fought in the wars, to bring freedom and glee to the world and to wrest control of the portal of fashion from the forces of banality and evil and to prop it open and let out the glory and energy of gorgeous trousers. Pull up your pants and sing:
And as the melody lifts me up, I rise above the masses to assume my place upon the iron throne of virtue, the benevolent leader of the sweltering many, the Lord of all absorbable fabrics who is the one and true inspiration for humanity for infinity!


The Boy with One Nostril

maxresdefaultThe battle went down, as history tells us in its myriad forms around fires and at bars and in books and on the teevee, went down hard and slimy in the rough and tumble rock and dust of the untamed frontier. He eased into the canyon, his horse sauntering like Southern Dandy at a box social, into the steep-sided hallway in the Earth’s crust with the coincidental name of ‘Booger’s Bluff’. Coincidence you say? Heck yeah, it sure was. And also pretty freaking apropos. Because, BANDITOS! Wait, banditos? But this was Wyoming–BANDITS! Flying down the shale, guns a blazing. The kid, off his horse, face up, sighting down his honker at the dirty ruffians making mean with bullets and cusswords. As bullets sliced through the air around him, cracking into the shale and puffing up the dust, he took a deep breath, felt the pressure build inside like a the boiler in an Iron Horse, his heart slowed down like a cowhand with a day off on 3-X whiskey. And now with a hork that was the answer to the question of what is hell itself, he blew a booger. Blew a booger like it was The Cowboy on the Cross come back after three long days from the Big Saloon in the Sky to smite them heathen outlaws like so much holy mucus and gooey fury. Three of the brigands dropped right off, dead and slimy and never to be missed, because even though guys like these had mothers for sure not a woman in the universe would be proud to call them their son. The other three, seeing their compadres felled by the mighty Farmer Joe, held up fast and while it slowed them out of the kill zone, gravity had her way and they tumbled from their mounts, careening down the steep ravine head under foot man and horse and all. They crashed to the bottom of the canyon, smashed to crap in a mass of of arms and fetlocks and saddles and pain. Moaning and fighting for breath and too stunned to curse and then the three of them all at the same time looking up to see the kid standing over them, hands on his hips, hat pushed back, his nose like a blunderbuss set point blank into their ugly, ugly faces.
“Y’all done heard of me?” The Kid said.
One of the bandits managed a nod, “Yer the Booger Boy.”
The kid nodded, never liking the name but it was apt so he never fought it, besides–
“Just making sure,” he said, “‘Cause I want you let ’em know down there in the Hell or whatever it is you turds end up in that they better be making a heckuva lot more space for the likes of you oppungers ’cause me and my snot gun here ain’t setting on stoppin’ anytime soon.”
He took a breath. The men screamed. He blew his nose. And for a moment there was a tiny bit more justice in the world. A tiny bit.

Sasquatch in The City


A woolly beast in the shadows of the night, perusing the delicacies of the trash can buffet they call the back alley. This thing, this wild thing, cannot find shoes that fit because its feet are so damn large. But it smooths to the sounds of the urban wasteland, as the jazz floats from the basement liquor bars and ricochets off the concrete mountains, these mighty structures like phallic gods that scream at the thing you are home now you are here now you belong now you have arrived go fuck yourself and it has come so far from the mystic mountains where there are the woods and the trees and leaves of green and beavers of brown. There is no brook to drink from here only the gutter where stinkwater flows to the sewers that sit like maws in asphalt. These are its caves now, reeking tunnels that lie beneath the metropolitan behemoth that towers over the creature that towers over humanity that towers over suprahumanity for this hairy beast with the massive feet is not human no it is above and between a man and a god and a wild and shaggy thing that feasts on the raw flesh of the city its rats and cats and hobos alike and when the red and blue lights of authority scream at it in the gloom and it answers back it howls a sound like a dying angel might at its realisation of its own demise. This is a sad situation. This is the Sasquatch. This is the Yeti. This is the Big Foot. This is the city.

Diphthong Sing-a-Long

2017-New-Elephant-Thong-Men-s-G-String-Thong-Novelty-Sexy-Penis-Pouch-Funny-Underwear-FashionThinging my thing, wearing my thong, thinging along with thing-a-long thong, thing-a-ling, thong-a-long, thinging along with my favourite thong, strings so thin up the crack of my ass, then I broke the string, cause I had bad gas, thing all night, thing all day, thing a thong, thing this way, thing at the moon, thong so tight, thing-a-ling the thong of light, things for supper and breakfast too, thing thing thong I thing for you, ain’t got tanlines on my cheeks cause my thongs so thin, covers my balls so they don’t get burned, cause the suns so bright it like flaming worms, crawling through the dirt of life, thing thongs in darkest light, the worms are friends to birds and fish, like the thong to my thick, tube so smooth cause my tube is smooth, thickness things the thong-a-dong, my thing is thick and thong is long, thuper duper thuper thude, long live my thuper tube!

Lone Wolf with pony tail

I’m a Lone Wolf and I need a hair-do to match because when it is on and I am in it my hair had better look good so I went to the cuttist and said, “I’m a Lone Wolf and I need a hair-do to match.” She said, “I can dig it, baby, ’cause when it’s on and you’re in it you’ve gotta look good.” And I said, “And that’s why I came to you.” And she said, “I can dig that, too, because you’re a Lone Wolf.” And I said, “That I am.” And she sat me down in that chair and ran those fingers through my chocolate locks, and she nodded her head, and pulled my beautiful hair back behind my head and put a rubber band around it and said, “done.” And I looked in the mirror. And it was a pony tail. PONY TAIL! And a single tear with the emotional weight of billion newlyweds slid down my cheek and I jumped out of the chair and howled, “LONE WOLF!”
Because that’s what I am. And that pony tail was the last piece of the puzzle that when it was finished was a gorgeous portrait of a beautiful renegade that was me, because I am a Lone Wolf and then later that night I went to the club with my sick new hair-do and I hit the dance floor and the d.j. turned off the music and the spot light blazed on me and all eyes were on me including but not limited to the people in the VIP and I laid it on the line:
bones and sticks
can’t hurt me none
like a name
yelled in the heat of the war
hot piss and urine
used by the soldiers
to make soup
because they don’t got no hot water
and at night in dreams
making love to rampagers that
dance in the legislature
don’t look at me like that
because it’s no me
no, it’s

Yeah, I said my poem and the crowd at the club went nuts. And while I know my lyrical slamdown was dope, let’s not throw any shade on the sweetness of my pony tail. Because I’m a Lone Wolf. But you can call me “Eddy Bone.”