Edith P. Buckle and the Beings of Infinite Knowledge


“–And she found them down in the basement there. On the couch–yes, yes, the brand new one they just got–And they were making the fellatio! On each other! Can you believe–that’s what I wanted to know–oh, I know, I told her not to let them move in–and I tell you what I would have done–Me too. Exactly and you know another thing?–You heard that too? I told her that would happen–Uh huh. I said the same thing and–”

There was a buzzing like a million coked-up bees. A light three times greener than the grass on the other side. She looked around. The universe burped–

And snow he sat on a white sphere in a white sphere, her cellphone still to her ear. She blinked and said, “Gladys? Gladys? Are you there? I think I’ve been transported somewhere.”

There was only silence over the phone. She hung up. The sphere she sat on was more comfortable than you would of thought to look at it. The room, lacking any and all corners and any visible source of the soft, white light that filled gave it an apparent impossibility of form, but she could feel how round it was. It seemed logical anyways. She had always imagined that if and when she was transported off somewhere it would be either a sphere or a pyramid. She had told Gladys the same thing and they had both agreed that a sphere was much more preferable to a pyramid. And God forbid some kind of cave.

Edith Buckle,” the voice, disembodied and contralto, said.

“Present,” she said.

“You have been brought to our planetoid, “ in intoned, “at the farthest reach of the KNOWN UNIVERSE.”

“I figured that much,” she said, “so is this for sex experiments or what? Because I will tell you people or whatever you are one thing. This lady’s vagina is exit only, buster!”

“We are not interested in expanding your copulative abilities. Unless that’s something you would be into. No. We are here to share our infinite knowledge of the cosmos.”

“You are, are you. Well, let me tell you–”

“You have no way to comprehend the truth of the nature of space and time, but we shall reveal all to you–“

“Don’t tell me what I do and do not know, mister, I mean, everyone thought that Mirna Davis was the all that and the Sunday service, but I tell you that that is not coffee in that mug she grips in those manicured paws all day long, no siree, she was missus glug glug glug burp burp burp, that’s for sure.”


“And Rita Sutcliffe. She was barfing up her tuna sandwich faster than she could get it in her if you know what I mean, because you now that Richard has loose eyes when it comes to skinny thighs–”

“I do.”

“And Jim and Mary Kelly are not sleeping in the same room let alone the same bed and if you think it’s not because his you-know-what stopped working after she got hooked on the ice cream after her little incident with her boss down at the plant, let me tell you something–”

“Yes. Tell me more. Dish the dirt.”

“Well, you know how Gloria and Ted’s newborn son came out with red hair, while she’s chestnut and he’s tawny. Well, what colour hair do you suppose the new mailman has?”

“You don’t mean–“

“Do I? I’m just saying. And he certainly takes his sweet time sorting their bills and flyers.”

“My goodness. What does Ted think?”

“I can’t say for sure but I know that he’s been spending a lot more time down at the bowling alley.”

“Well, why wouldn’t he?”

“Exactly, I said the same thing. The poor guy, he works his butt off at the landfill to put food on the table and here she is licking stamps with some light in the loafer letter jockey. And how about Petunia Green? She’s on so many pills since Stephen left her that she’s affecting air traffic over the neighbourhood. She’s that high.”

“The poor woman–“

“I know, I know. And guess what? The little Lancaster girl–”

“Mary Anne?”

“Uh huh, well, she’s been moved onto the short bus and it has not been easy on them–”

“I can’t imagine–“

“You and me both, let me tell you–and Lorna Newcombe’s brother is back on their couch after his little run-in with the law.”

“Are you serious? Again?”

“You didn’t hear it here, but he got caught with his hands down his sweatpants outside the elementary school, so–”


“I know, right? She’s going greyer than Gandalf.”

“Of course, who wouldn’t?”

“And Dudley Oswald found a lump–”

“Oh no–“

“And Cathy Andrews has been passing bad cheques–

“I don’t–“

“And Ophelia Stephanos is no longer welcome at the Shady Lane Restaurant–”

“You don’t say–“

“And Harriet Jansen–”

“Are you–“

“I am, and–hey, speaking of everything, what was all this infinite knowledge of the universe you were yammering on about?”

“Well, let me tell you–“




The big book of f’n wisdom (3rd edition)

Rupe looked up from the page, staring off into space.

Mama, that’s some head spinning shit, he thought, who writes this stuff?

He looked at the book’s spine. Thornelius Lumberbottom. Some weird ethnic with too much education and not enough wood in the shed, Rupe thought, I guess that’s how you get deep alright.

He turned his gaze back to the thick, musty tome. Picked a passage at random–

Yeh, ye musteth let the stink weed dry before ye puteth it in the pipe packer to be packeth in thee bowl for ye to smoke. That’s only commonest of sense, ye dumbass, so get ye head out of ye bowels and get ye in the game. It be started soonest enough, am I right? Yeh, I be.  Toketh hard.

The game must be played by ye and all. For it be the game calleth life. Maximum to the mosteth. Winner take all. No do overs. Stampeth, stampeth, no eraseth.

Rupe filled ahead a few pages–

So then, when ye need to hit ye olde time sexxe shoppe to get ye some of that sweet olde time sexxe for ye nuts must need yeh a sweet busting as ye I can tell don’t have ye nuts been busted for yeh some long time like since ye got drunk on foul mead and olde time rotgut wine and made sweet olde time sexxe to that sweet olde nag in the stable of the vicar. Yeh what a time that was. And be ye I mean me. Yeh, I be the nastieth…

Rupe wondered if they sold rotgut wine at the Jolly-J Liquor Shop. 

Sweat Factor 65

CP02KVuGeezum, them geezers sure do put up a fight. I can’t blame ’em though, I’d do the same gobslobbin’ thing. Get on my dug-nut of a high horse and just charge into the muck and mold soaked fray. But the problem always is that I don’t need them fogies fightin’ the doodle-diggin’ good fight when I’m just tryin’ finish my SENSIBLE BREAKFAST! Egg white omelette with some lightly sauteed shallots, spinach and feta salad, freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, gluten-fucking-free ancient-fucking-grains toast lightly coated with almond butter, a piece of cantaloupe. All I ask is that before you and your silver-haired freedom fighters start hootin’ and hollerin’ and blastin’ off your pork-piggin’ saed-off shotguns, give me a moment to DIGEST THIS DOG CRAP! Some underpaid, over-worked, tattooed joy-boy toiled hard in a grease-stained, stainless-steel laden pit of culinary despair to make sure my egg-white omelette was done JUST RIGHT! And you have the nerve and the labia lips to bust in here and RAMPAGE?! C’mon, grumpy grammy, just let’s chill. Have a sip. Take a breath. Relax. And understand, the revolution is all cool. I dig it. All of it. But it’ll just have to wait until  after noon. A’ight?

The Min’ds Eye got pin’k eye.


68747470733a2f2f36372e6d656469612e74756d626c722e636f6d2f39313463666336376435373530356338386133613862353030396665646232662f74756d626c725f6f3162777a7744785a4831726f6d7639636f315f313238302e6a7067Here’s a verse I saw writ above a urinal in gentlemen’s entertainment establishment:

Put your finger in. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Again. Do that fancy little dance you do when the deejay goes, gobbledy goobledy. Look, it’s a bird. No, it’s death. Flying south for the winter. Miami, USA.

It’s hard to keep it together with all that visual realist haiku mumbo jumbo bullcrud messing with our minds and spirits, you feel?

Whatever happened to the limerick?

You know the one about the mono-erotic guy with the huge freaking wang. Now that’s art. That beams in like a laser on the emotional spittoon that is my soul and just lets loose with a thick, horking loogie.



I got a sick case of the synesthesia, real bad like


My moon roof woofed some misty thunder and it set off an exploding stink eye something fierce. Small wonder the bus driver had to pull over and open the the doors and all the windows ’cause this crazy old maid’s fudgy foot streaked off into a mad fit of giggler’s ear that toned an oily kid down with banger’s knee and up and out with a heckuva neck puffering that had this cat with surly eyebrows finger bangin’ his nipple tits sending a wicked lemon flash to his nose pump. And with all that humidity to boot. Sheesh Lou-eesh.

Man, what a morning that was.

One for the books.

Gashdongit! I think the ninjas stole the fudge!


“Shh, Jake,” Larry whispered, “you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Jake asked back.

“That whisperin’ in the night.”

“What whisperin’s that?”

“Ominous like. I think it’s the sound of silent death,” Larry said.

“How’d you hear it then? Ain’t it silent? As the name implies?” Said Jake.

“What are you on about, man?”

“I mean, silent death means just that. SILENT. If you heard it whispering in the night like you’re sayin’ then wouldn’t it be whispering death?”

“Whispering death?” Larry exclaimed, “Are you buzzed out? That ain’t what anything would be called anywhere I heard of ever. No one says whisperin’ death. What would it be like all swishy-swishy-swishy-poof you’re dead? Ga-ack, that’s a sick twist.”

There was a long, chubby, contemplative moment between them, then Larry said, “How the hell did you get in my sleeping bag anyways?”



It’s more than just a pickle, Pete, it’s the Universe

monekysonraft1Floating with an infinitely casual attitude through the vast black velvet brine of space the little cuke made its way. From here to there and everywhere. Just being its own dill self, jamming with the cosmos. “Heylo, Supernova, what blows?” “What’s tricks, Space Moon?” “Looks like a gooder you’ve got going on there, Planet of Sexual Maniacs.” Traversing the megacosm, letting it all hang out, Polski Ogorski style, this pickle is now and then and future forever. A trans-galactic sweet and sour sandwich snacker. Man, is that pickle some kind of inspiration out there in the Ocean of Emptiness. This gherkin is the void’s dream. Shine on, cornichon, shine on.