Hope everyone is having a wondrous season of thankfulness. One thing I am thankful for is multiplication. It is so dang incredibly useful!

If you love to multiply (and you know who you are), then tell a friend! Tell your kids. And your kids’ kids. And your kids’ kid’s teachers. Shoot, tell their principal. Tell your mailman. Tell someone. Anyone. And while you’re at it throw down a few stars!

p.s. Wishing everyone all the best on this special day!!

There comes a time in the history of all great blogs (is this really a blog? oh god, somebody shoot me in the face already) when new posts and original material must be outsourced to those more competent than the original blogger. I mean, bloggee. Wait a second… how does that work?

Let’s see… If I’m a blogger, that means I’m the one blogging you, and if I’m the blogee, that means you’re the one blogging me… except in this case, Cools is the one blogging… so she’s the blogger… which makes all of us bloggees.

I’m glad we straightened that out. Enjoy!

Life through the Eyes of Dill by Colleen Hoover

Hey! I have this idea. I should text Colleen! Shit! Wait, where’s my phone? Pretty sure it was under my bong last night. Fuck! Where’s my bong? Pretty sure it was under that chick last night. FUCK! Where’s the chick? Oh, yeah. She’s under me. Let me roll over.

(Rolls over.)

Dill: “Hey, chick. You seen my bong?”

Chick: “Yeah. Let me roll over.”

(Chick rolls over.)

Chick: “Here’s your bong, Dill.”

Dill: “Hey, bong. You seen my phone? I need to text Colleen. I got this great idea.”

Bong: (Silence)

Dill: “Bong? Hello?”

Bong: (Silence)

Chick: “I don’t think bongs can hear you.”

Dill: “Fuck. How the fuck am I supposed to find my phone?”

Chick: “You could call it.”

Dill: “Good idea.”

(Picks up phone)

Dill: “I don’t remember my number.”

Chick: “Yeah…me neither.”

Bong: (Silence)

Dill: “Maybe my neighbor knows.”

(Goes across hall and beats on the door.)

Neighbor: “Hey, Dill. Lose your bong again?”

Dill: “Yeah. But I found it. Now I can’t find my phone. Do you know my number so I can call it?”

Neighbor: “Yeah. But your phone’s in your hand.”

(Dill looks at phone)

Dill: “I know. I need this phone to call my….OOOOH! Fuuuck, dude!”

(Goes back across hall)

Dill: “My phone was in my hand the whole time, chick!”

Chick: “So you called your phone?”

Dill: “Nah, man! I didn’t need to. It was in my hand. See?”

(holds phone up to chick)

Chick: “So you don’t need to call it? Because I don’t know your number.”

Dill: “Well then how am I gonna text Colleen?”

Bong: “Jesus Fucking Christ.”

ability to

count to five plus two is all

you need to write hai

“They’ve breached the Pentagon, Sir.”
“Let them have it. Those bozos knew the risk.”
“Sir?”
“I am Commander in Chief now. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Say it.”
“You are Commander in Chief now, Sir.”
“That’s better. Now, ready the torpedoes!”
“We don’t have any torpedoes, Sir.”
“Well, ready something. Ready me a strawberry daiquiri.”
“A strawberry daiquiri, Sir? Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“A good idea! At a time like this?”
“Perhaps you should address the protestors, Sir.”
“You mean those guys outside?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“You are their President now, Sir.”
“Oh, please! Most of them don’t even speak English. And the ones that do… don’t hardly listen.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Can’t we just arrest some of them?”
“The jails are full, Sir.”
“What about the schools? The schools are empty. Can’t we use those?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“How did things get so fucked up all of the sudden?”
“It seemed a rather gradual change to me, Sir.”
“These protestors – I suppose they’re armed?”
“It is their right to bear arms, Sir.”
“Not when it’s my ass on the line! Unless…”
“Unless what, Sir?”
“Think any of them will be voting for President this time around?”
“No, Sir. The majority of them do not vote.”
“Ever?”
“No, Sir. The majority does not ever vote.”
“Well, thank heavens for that.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How angry can they be if they didn’t even vote?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“In any case, this daiquiri is very good. You can really taste the strawberry.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Have I ever told you about my first strawberry daiquiri, Clark?”
“No, Sir.”
“Her name was Mary.”
“Sir?”
“She was breathtaking. She had the softest eyes.”
“And the daiquiri, sir?”
“It was superb.”
“Excellent, Sir.”
“A little sour afterward perhaps, but she had the softest eyes.”
“I see, Sir.”
“I don’t imagine that you do, Clark.”
“Sir?”
“Her eyes… they were remarkably soft.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You know what, Clark?”
“What, Sir?”
“Life used to be so simple.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What do you think those protestors really want?”
“They have yet to state their demands formally, Sir.”
“And we’ve given them money?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“What else could they possibly … ?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“No matter what happens, I will be blamed for it.”
“Yes, Sir. Permission to speak freely, Sir?”
“Absolutely.”
“When I was a boy, we had this dog.”
“Was he a big dog?”
“No, Sir. He was a medium-sized dog.”
“We had a huge son-of-a-bitch.”
“Yes, Sir. One day our dog was out hunting and got his nose scratched by a badger. Then he got real sick.”
“What happened next?”
“We shot him.”
“What on earth for?”
“Because of the rabies.”
“You’re certain it was rabies?”
“What else could it have been?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was just sick.”
“Having no dog is better than having a dog with the rabies, Sir.”
“I imagine so.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve never had a dog with the rabies before.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What the hell am I going to do about these protestors?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
–

How to root your Kindle Fire HD tablet. Enough said.

A brightness upon me as I float thru the night,
Having given my all, now I’m flooded with light.

Darkness surrounds, yet has lost all it’s fright,
What once was unknown is shown to be right.

To be free of the bad and embrace of the good,
While living this life like I always have should.

Nothing is older than the feeling which burned,
Deep in my heart and where endless it yearned.

Up in your head: good, bad, different, or worse.
To know all these words tell the story, the curse.

And then say them aloud to yourself in the dark,
Rekindles the fire, which brings back the spark.

The giraffe in his cage, the trolls down below,
And turtles keep moving, no matter how slow.

Through canyons, deserts, things most bizarre,
Up over the peaks, that had once seemed so far.

Freed from the cage, know why the bird sings,
Nothing but love and the joy which that brings.

There’s been a dream, that once I wrote down,
You can read on my face, the tears of a clown.

The road full of promise, it stretches for miles,
It twists and it bends and the journey beguiles.

No need for a map, I know where I’m headed,
Where nothing is owed, deserved or expected.

I’ll scream til I die, convulse, fuss and fidget.
I’m frightened by those who never can see it.

Too many words… decide…
 

 

p.s. I don’t know much about Faulker (see footnote)

footnote: I mean I know he’s an author… thinking to myself,
“why didn’t I just go to wikipedia in the first place? Google is
so useless…”… waiting for it to load… ah! William Cuthbert
(Cuthbert!! Why did his parents hate him so??) Faulkner, BORN:
September 25, 1897 (two weeks from tuesday! how should I
celebrate? I have absolutely zero qualms about celebrating the
births of others… I find that there are always plenty of
birthdays to go around… nearly one for every day…) DIED:
July 6, 1962 (that’s so sad) … skipping … skipping … holy
shit, how come I know NOTHING about Faulkner ? … can I sue my
school? can I sue my parents? … american from mississippi
… nobel … Yoknapatawpha County (ROFL! that name is amazing
… is that like his Lake Wobegon?) … published at 22 years old
… relatively unknown until 52 years old … nobel … couple
pulitzers … skipping … early life … skipped 2nd grade
(wow!) repeated 11th grade (boo!) dropped out without graduating
(oh no!) … wrote only poetry as an adolescent (me too!) …
first novel around 28 years old … ole miss in 1919 … dropped
out (oh no!, wait, how the f**k did he go to college if he
never graduated highschool… if he took an equivalency test, we
need to know about it, goddamn lazy azz wikipedia, geez!) …
phillip stone … james joyce … he was 5’5″ … so the army
wouldn’t take him (oh that’s just mean! come on army, he could
still like wear a little monkey suit and bang on a drum, that
would totally build morale, you know, to like have a mascot) …
changed his name from Falkner to Faulkner (so that’s why I’m
always spelling it wrong! what a weirdo. who does that?
change your name to Superman or something cool… Metta World Lit…
how many people gonna get that joke? zero? … it’s a
keeper… Metta World Lit, LOL) … rejected by his publisher
at 30 years old … massive re-edit by his agent … then
published … gross! … later, before sitting down to write The
Sound and the Fury (how could I never have ever heard of that
book? it’s not like I went to school in alabama, or mississippi,
although in this case, Fa(u)lkner is probably one thing all
the hicks from mississippi know all about, damn!) … “One day I
seemed to shut the door between me and all publisher’s addresses
and book lists. I said to myself, Now I can write.” … atta-baby,
Faulky boy! I believe in you! … sold out and went to
Hollywood (BOO!)… sloppy seconds in the wife game …
alcoholic … lot of affairs (oh! gotta put The Wintering on my ‘to
read’ list… i bet he wintered her good) … another affair in
sweden (woot, woot! those chicks are hot) while he was picking
up the nobel, it lasted four years, lol!, wait a minute, if he was
having an affair with Joan Williams from 1949-1953, how was he
also having an affair with Else Jonsson, the swede, from 1950-
1953… are you allowed to do that? and Else Jonsson was the
widow of Thorsten Jonsson who… wait for it… is the one who
was responsible for getting Faulkner the nobel prize in the first
place!! oh, you dirty dog, you!!) … 13 novels … his
prodigious output was mainly driven by an obscure writer’s need
for money … “Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if
he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get
the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool
to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people
learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good
enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how
much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.” …
couldn’t have said it better myself, faulkster … lots of short
stories … turns out his nobel was for “his powerful and
artistically unique contribution to the modern American novel”
… that sounds about right … he got his nobel the same time
that Bertrand Russell did (how the f**k do I know SO much about
Bertrand Russell when I know SO little about Willie Faulkner???
THAT IS SO MADDENING!!! how does that even happen, seriously???)
… stream of conciousness (good for him!) … brain injuries
(horse riding … don’t do it!) … dead at 64.77 years of age
… rip freaky faulky faulk … you will be remembered … for
you have been catalogued … for eternity … in a p.s. …
please don’t yell at me … i was kidding, don’t you see? … if
you’ve made it this far, I tip my hat to thee … this was just a
writing exercise for me … and frankly… it’s not that funny…
bye for now… i’ve got to pee.

Chicago Teachers Go on Strike, City Tries to Occupy 350,000 Kids


p.s. Striking teachers have no class.

So, I’ve been working on some writing projects lately, and kind of ignoring the old (new) blog. Bad Kenny! Anyway, I thought I’d share something I worked on yesterday… it’s a paragraph. Hope you like it.

Abigail laughed. She was a smart girl, and while her sense of humor was positively something to write home about, at length and in proper prose, with a new fountain pen and a wax seal and stamp, it was her laugh that was far and away her best quality – like the song of drunken angels, great choruses, cherubs and demons alike, belting out three-way harmonies in rounds, round after round after round, until well beyond the time that, by any mortal standard, they are decidedly perfectly drunk, indeed much too drunk to sing, yet still they find themselves unaware of the truth that stalks them, the reality of the next moment, the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, they might have had a little too much to drink; so they are allowed to remain, in her voice, yes, but most of all in her laugh, in that momentarily magically blissful place, a space filled with singing, ghosts drunk and slurring, in a comfortable lodging nestled somewhere, hidden away, in the vast emptiness that buffers heaven from hell.

 
p.s. Originally, the paragraph was just going to read: “Abigail laughed. She laughed like a whore.”

p.p.s. Okay, that was a joke.

p.p.p.s. But the whole story is intended for Young Adults (and Older Adults who still read Young Adult stories) and I think I may have gotten a bit carried away.

p.p.p.p.s. That part is no joke.

This is my poem about sarcasm.

I almost forgot that I am supposed to be using this website for shameless self-promotion, not for profligate self-demotion. So, here a children’s book I wrote:

Do you notice the *glaring* error on the cover?

If so, just leave a comment explaining what it is, and I will send you a free copy. It’s a $2.99 value.

LOL!

 
I read a newpaper today. An actual, physical newspaper. My hands got all dirty.

It was disgusting.