Chirac Mumbles in French About Riots

"Bully! Bully!" said acclaimed author Mike Emil. "I hate the French! I dunno why Morrison went there in the first place--Woke up this morning and got my self a beer! Arrrgh!"
- posted by Anonymous @ 11/06/2005 10:04:00 PM 0 comments

 
Scat and Sprockets, A New Low For Writing

Mike Emil spoke forthright about his latest literary creation recently under the influence of alcohol, of course. He had this to say: “I’m getting to old fer this shit.”

Here is an excerpt from this newest creation by the author of ‘Killing Antz the Fun Way’—

SCAT & SPROCKETS Vol. 1 Chapter 3 Exhuding My Dream
“There was this brown mutagen. It was perfect. It was just what I needed to sculpt my master piece. I was in awe of it suddenly.
There it was plain to see among the rusty metal cogs, my eureka ever lasting, ever replenishing. Like mud bricks; what built the tower of Babel. I was vexed. I was fabulous. I was thrilled like I’d never been before except maybe when I’d been screaming on top of a garbage bin in Seattle back in ’99 and these kids all came up and started cheering around me and dancing. I didn’t like that they lit my bin on fire, but I guess that’s a statement or somethin’. It kinda killed my mood until the belly dancers turned up. Hey! Fire and belly dance chicks. Ain’t this country great?
But mud. That’s the name of this too. Fresh and oozing. Steaming too! The most natural kinda mud. Sorta homegrown, ya know? That would make my wall of infamy. That would be my Jericho, my Houston, my Japan Jeddo. Everything was falling to place…. My means to my end of perfect creation all falling from the bowels of the world. All equal; all pungent—All perfect! I found scat!

Ahh—Revelation! Speaking in tongues for so long when the answer was right before my eyes—and nose. The greatest building block—not marble, not stone! Damn me for my shortsightedness. It was all fodder. All that was and that is, so how best to express my shining star then to dig in with both me hands! I did ya know? That very night under that very nominal moon. I squatted. I heaved and contorted till my full bowels released there prize. I’d eaten a very rare steak in hopes of making the best thick congeal there could be. I’d later wish I’d eaten a good pound of blue cheese, but hindsight and foresight, ya know! It was all ready, sixteen hours of digestion put to good artist use. Hors’derves—E Pluribus Umum in art. The best—The greatest. This was it what my art long of collecting fossilized ferns in slate coal had come to. I was on the road—to the commode. But I couldn’t waste my precious brown matter. There were bricks to be made—Yes bricks! Dried in the sun they would make edifice after edifice, statue begetting statue.
At that moment I was so pleased with myself where I squat that I farted.
Ohh—What a fart!
A bold loud and noxious one. Ohh, it was what my whole whole life was tumultuously coming up to.
My bowels erupted to my delight.
In that moment I exchanged my ‘walk on part in the war’ for a lead roll my scat foundations that would change the world—Or so I thought in that whole Fruedian movement.
“Reeds,” I cried hoping not to lose the moment of my moment. “I need reeds to bind it. And cheese to bind me!” That’s when I spotted them, red and rusty and speaking to me in their dusty silence.
“Come shit on us,” they said. Yes, they spoke to me those metal bastards. And me forgetting my wine coolers and my Tabasco sauce could not be blamed, for they were in need of me and my wilely art.
“Heed us,” it called to me in metallic coolness and rustic pain.
I could not say for sure if it were my sheer maddness or my good looks that spurred this conversation onward.
I looked for some grass to wipe my ass with.
Finding a nice big tuft of it I ground my cheeks over it with much pleasure. I’d be using these dry weeds in my first bricks! They’d already been set in motion of the great Scat Plan I’d now begun to develop in my now cleared mind, lucid and ready to begin making more diamonds.
And all the while the metal hunks kept jabbering at me. They bothered me at first. Calling me to soil them.
Part of me wanted to soil them to steam them with my mighty colon.
0hh—But that took away from the magnificent plan forming in my reptilian brain and pancreas—Ohh sprockets—you meaty chucks of metal!
What need of you my well pondered dookie? I asked.
I asked again
It HAD called to me. I'd heard it! We had to mingle NOW!
- posted by Anonymous @ 11/06/2005 09:54:00 PM 0 comments