|The Story||The Authors|
|He thought recklessly about his antics last night. How could she have left him when he was down? "Aren't people supposed to stay together through thick and thin?", he thought to himself. "Ah fuck it.", he said as he drew out a cigarette, put it to his lips and lit the end drawing in deeply.|
|He'd only been smoking for a few months. He didn't seem to notice that people around him kept further away during conversations. He didn't notice that she complained when he mixed her clothes with hers because she didn't want her clothes to smell like smoke. He hadn't noticed how she used to complain about smokers, but within the last 6 months she hadn't complained about smokers anymore. And then it hit him. Maybe I should stop smoking. That's it! She left me because my breath stank and I smell like smoke all the damn time. He took another look at the cigarette, picked up the phone and began to dial her number.|
|His breath was so bad, not just from smoking, but from the things he ate. Onions, he loved onions, he loved them raw, he loved them yellow, red, green and white. He loved to suck on garlic cloves. When he breathed into the phone you'd think it would melt and leave hot plastic dripping down his arms. When it came to him that his breath might be a problem his mind began to race. Perhaps he could gargle with cologne? He tried eating flowers. He'd seen people put them on their salads. He tested his progress by leaning into people inadvertently while speaking with them, and measuring their reaction. If they recoiled with a supressed frown he knew it wasn't working. It hadn't been working. He decided to try "Mentos-The Freshmaker!" He had bought a case of the the candies at his local wholesaler the last time he went shopping. Unfortunately he had popped too many of the candies down his throat and it left him feeling sick.|
Even though he felt sick, Russell knew he should try to make the call again.
He found a pay phone and dialed the number. He was ready to repent.
To give up smoking for good. He was ready to make amends for the things
he had done previously. He was determined, and struck with a goofy
do-gooder air about himself. The phone began to ring. A mans voice
Russells heart pounded in his chest. Who was this strange man at her house answereing the phone?
"Uhm . . . er, uh . . ."
"Hello again," came that rich baritone, sounding perhaps too patient, too knowing. Russell's heart, did something not unlike knotting up on top of its pounding, making him feel as if his feet were leaving themselves, swirling to switch places but now facing the wrong direction. Finally, words formed, but nearly caught in his throat, and escaped only as a strangled whisper, "Is C-Cath-Cathy . . . there?"
|Noooo said a ghostly voice. W-who w-was that.|
|A man came out of the shadows. He had large hands and a big rectum.|
|This definitely was not his day. Could but the sudden pounding in his skull cease for even a couple moments, he might be able to think a clear thought. He paused one moment, and saw that the big fellow meant no harm. "Stipulate away, big man," he said, and, for good measure, added "I'm at your service." "Also, perhaps . . . has anyone told you, that, uh . . . you seem not to be wearing trousers of any sort. Is that, er, hmmm, uh, intentional?"|
|The big man nodded, then stopped nodding quite suddenly, reminding Russell of a habit of his grandmother's, and said, "You must forget about Cathy?" His voice was much higher pitched than Russell expected from one his size. The other unexpected element of the man's speech, which baffled him to the point of paralyzing response, or even acknowledgment of it even happening, was that the man's voice left not his mouth, but that gaping, pinkish-purple rectum.|
|When Russell was finally awakened by his mistress, Heidi, he realized that the recurring dream must be discussed with his psychiatrist. He had always had a fascination with the colors pink and purple but never in relation to rectums. He swore not to let it get the best of him.|
|Later that day, Russell realized that Heidi was actually a hermaphrodite.|
|The great illusion under which he had harboured, these twenty-or-so some odd years of his life, was in one frightenly sudden series of revelations exploded. He had read James Redfield's new age pulp semi-thriller, *The Celestine Prophecy, some time back, and found it laughably quaint and poorly written; although he had read it on the strength of both Heidi's and Cathy's recommendations (they had both sworn by it, and done so separately, not knowing each that the other had also so highly lauded it), but now he began to wonder. It was only after he had decided to make a major trans- formation in his lifestyle, and therefore, himself, that this sequence of stunningly unusual high shock-value pieces of information had shattered his pretofore epitome-of-normalcy, nothing-ever-strange, life.|
|"I TO HAD A RUN IN WITH THE GRAET CELESTINE PROPHECY. MY MOTHER AND HER POSSY OF SPRITUALY INLIGHTEND HAVENITES(HAVEN IS A NEW AGE RESORT) SOLOMLY SWORE BY IT. ALLTHE WHILE COMPLEATLY OBLIVEOUS TO THE FACT THAT THEY WHERE BEHAVING LIKE A BUNCH OF RELIGOUS FINATICS. NOW BEFOR I GO ANY FERTHER I MUST IDMIT MY SHAME AND CONFESS THAT TO WAS ONCE A DEVOT FOLLOWER OF THE CELCESTEIN CRUTCH BUT I UNLIKE THE MASSES OF FEBBLE MINDS OUT THERE. REALIZED IN THE NICK OF TIME THAT SPRITUAL INLGHTENMENT IS NOT SOME THING THAT CAN BE BOUGHT OR SOLD OR EVEN BORROWED SO I JUMPED OFF THE SPRITUALY BAND WAGON. AS FOR ANSWERS TO THE MEANING OF LIFE I DESIDED 42 WOULD HAVE TO SERFICE PLEASE ICSCUES MY SPELLING I LEARNT BY PHONICS."|
|MY BUT WHAT CAN I ADD TO SUCH ART? BUT SOMETHING THAT IS NOT MINE I CAN ADD. I DIDN'T WRITE IT BUT I DON'T THINK IT'S COPYRIGHTED SO READ AWAY AND CONTINUE YOUR OWN STORY TO WHATEVER LENGTH YOU SHOULD CHOOSE. THE O.J. SIMPSON TRIAL BY DR. SEUS: I did not kill my lovely wife....I did not do it with a knife....I did not bonk her on the head... I did not know that she was dead...I stayed at home that fateful night... I took a cab then took a flight...The bag I had was not for me...My bag! My bag! You leave it be!!! When I came home I had a gash..I cut my hand on broken glass...Broken glass did cause that gash...I have nothing, nothing to hide...My friend he took me for a ride..DID YOU TAKE THIS PERSON'S LIFE??? DID YOU DO IT WITH A KNIFE??? I did not do it with a knife....I did not, could not kill my wife...DID YOU HIT HER FROM ABOVE??? DID YOU DROP THIS BLOODY GLOVE??? I did not hit her from above.. I cannot even where that glove.. I did not do it with a knife... I did not, could not kill my wife...I did not do this awful crime... I could not, would not anytime....And now I'm free, I can return..To my home for which I yearn... And to my family whom I love...Hey! Now I'm free- GIVE MR BACK MY GLOVE!!!|
|Russel, having realized that Heidi's insistence that it was all a dream was in fact part of an elaborate conspiracy, created in whole by the trilateral commission, decided that perhaps another cigarette was his only recourse. Lighting the smoke and inhaling deeply he felt an almost erotic satisfaction. "To smoke is to truly be alive," he said to himself with a clarity heretofore unknown to him. The birth of a new existence had begun for Russel, one which had began with the disturbing yet existential and zen-like dream of Dr Seuss reciting a tale of O'J's trial.|
|His new existence was that of one more mutagenized. The eros in his satisfaction had a masochistic origin, as he could feel the nicotine in the smoke betraying his health as he increased the intracellular concentration of the nucleotide analog with every puff of smoke. It was as if he were hammering apart his DNA with a molecular chisel, and he rejoiced in the doing.|
|"huh huh,... smoking's cool!", he mused.|
|"yeah... heh heh"|
|heh heh yeah said the girl as she walked down the street. Why I guess we'll never know...|
|.....why the world goes round and round, and it will not stop; just because I like to wear mismatched shoes.|
|I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. I am Buddha. All I want is a can of Spam Lite.|
|Russell shook his head, wondering, "Is it the smoke?" Songs playing through his mind, dissociative delusions that he was but a character in a story of which he himself were the author, barbaric yawps echoing down the corridors of his woe-begotten brain. "Or, is it memorex?" He smiled grimly, knowing full well what a poor joke his mind had offered up in the solitude. But he knew he wasn't especially creative, even if he was becoming insane. So quickly it was happening. He had known people, one day, seemingly perfectly normal, the next day racing up and a flight of stairs, refusing to get off at any floors because of the massive holes, the victim of an acute nervous breakdown. He had always assumed that their apparent normalcy was only an appearance; that he, in his generally unobservant way of going through life, just hadn't noticed whatever telling hints would have told him the friend or person was on the verge. But now, now, he wondered if they had, in fact, been just as typical as the next "normal," because he was sure he was quite normal the other day, and yet, clearly he no longer was normal, at least no longer normal in his mind. And yet, weren't people who knew they were insane actually sane? So, what was it?|
|He glanced at the words floating through his mind and lazily picked through them. Clearly, he was sane, insane, creative, uninspired, chosen, hunted. He knew this to be a fact, and yet he had no proof. He had no proof of his insanity. He no telling facts, no supportive graphs, no supportive jock straps, nothing. Nothing to clue him in to anything anymore. Just a long line of apparently unconnected words that floated through his mind, dust motes in the quickly fading sunbeams of his so-called sanity.|
|A knock sounded on the door. He opened up the closet and revealed,...nothing. Surprised, he went to the front door. Standing on his front stoop was his therepist, a smoke clenched between her teeth. "Russel, we've got to talk." she muttered, shouldering past him into the squalor.|
|She stood fidgeting by the phone in the kitchen, shifting from foot to foot. "Does this thing work?" "Try it and see, Doc." She lifted the handpiece and put it to her ear. Russel eyed her cautiously, his hand reaching slowly toward the bulge in his belt. A tinny voice spoke from the phone, "Get out of there, knees rotten bun!" "Huh..." She began. But it was too late. From beneath his grimy undershirt Russel produced the one thing she feared most.|
|Once again, Russel was packing onions and dwelling in his closet. This was bad. It was a sign; a sign that he was slipping downward, toward an unseemly state she, and moreso, he, had worked, and worked hard, at overcoming. Worse, it was a skinned onion. And yet . . . and yet, the look in his eyes was not the dull, vacant elsewhereness that had so characterized them in the time before. "You're wondering, 'Why the onion?' aren't you?" "Now that you mention it, Russel, yes," she said, and something like hope danced in her heart.|
|I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. I am Buddha. All I want is a can of Spam Lite. I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. I am Buddha. All I want is a can of Spam Lite.|
|I am a man who thinks he is Dumbo the elephant. All I want is to fly.|
|I am a man who thinks he is Dumbo the elephant. All I want is to fly. Someone else write something in Dr. Seuss I am a man who thinks he is Dumbo the elephant. All I want is to fly. Someone else write something in Dr. Seuss|
|I am a man who thinks he is Thor, the god of thunder, all I want to do is leave the mental institution..|
|and go to the world of the potato people where the king tater rules.|
|The king wears a brown coat which is drycleanable and has many pockets.|