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October 20, 2012 · 3:17 pm

How To End A Heartbreaking Scenario Such As This


A Definition of The Other.

The other drags its feet when it walks

The other cooks its eggs in a square pan

The other pretends that it looks like you

The other pretends that it likes you

The other starts its car before fastening its seatbelt

The other uses the steps instead of the elevator

The other goes back for seconds

The other buys in bulk

The other waits until the bathroom is clear before using the urinal

The other prefers the daffodil to the crocus

The other walks naked through the gym

The other asks the gendarme for directions

The other collects knick knacks

The other is lactose intolerant

The other wears layers in summer

The other swims too far offshore during thunderstorms

The other plays with its food

The other finds the other other insufferable

The other makes platform speeches to a bored cat

The other marvels over the complexity of the hand upon awakening

The other covers up its euphemisms with a blue towel

The other makes do with a Rubik’s cube and a ball of twine

The other pulls commuter jets across the sky with its pinky and lands them unharmed in exotic places

The other feeds an apple to an imam’s camel then hides in the desert for a week in fear of retribution

The other is a Formula One driver having a crisis of faith in an imaginary pit-stop

The other is a window washer dangling fifteen stories above an ice cream vendor by a red suspender worn as a joke for his wife

The other is cryogenically frozen then thrown into a mass grave with thousands of other cryogenically frozen people after the “great insurance freeze” of 2095

The other unintentionally eats moths.

The other throws pots on a wheel driven by the power of the collective evil-eye emanating from its detractors

The other turns a harpsichord into a foosball table

The other prefers pie to cake

The other paints itself onto a stretch of canvas between Tombstone Arizona and Des Moines Iowa

The other breeds alpacas   

The other thinks before it speaks but speaks before it realizes it is speaking into a well

The other drops hot air balloons into active volcanoes

The other points at things for others to look at

The other clips coupons

The other French-kisses store mannequins

The other hides in the azalea bush when the mailman comes

The other plays leapfrog

The other records its sneezes for the neighborhood children to listen to at bedtime

The other taxiderms deposed royalty

The other endures criticism

The other builds recursive biodomes in its kitchen

The other fakes its own death

The other compresses the entire week into a single day called Brogenstog 

The other grows a spleen in a Petri dish

The other keeps a giant candy cane in its garage

The other barbeques itself on a barge pulled upstream by a team of pack mules

The other translates Basque into gibberish for the United Nations

The other deflates basketballs at the YMCA

The other rinses before washing

The other feeds itself on jellyfish through a tube in its navel

The other prosecutes turnstile jumpers

The other elects a dachshund mayor

The other sweats honey mustard

The other lauds the mundane through soapbox proclamations

The other uses the alphabet as a weapon

The other transubstantiates Big Macs into “soul food”

The other evaporates itself into a hovering cloud above a company picnic

The other teaches the larval cicadas a dirty limerick to sing upon their entry into the world after a seventeen year incubation

The other turns on a faucet from which flows an endless stream of crisp bacon

The other excels at bear baiting…

The Bear, however, the one that The Other is baiting knows better. In the two millennia of being baited by The Other,  He knows that The Other, whose necks he had methodically and regularly broken like wet twigs moments after their arrival, whose small minds had failed to realize that the paltry rotten carrion and putrid tubers left for him under the old dead oak (meant to entice? Please!) were no match for the glorious flowering abundance of fish and fowl common to the vast pre history of h. sapiens’ venture into the Americas from Asia after the last ice age.

However the bear was in a humorous mood.

“Oh let’s see what we have here!” he said, picking at a fatty mass of bone and sinew. “It must be most delectable given that so many maggots have found it so!” holding his breath, he picked out a slimy onion from the festering mass. “Oh lucky day!” he cried. “I wonder if there are any dogs about. I certainly hope not, as this would spoil the most delectable and unexpected repast of my life!”

The bear pretended at noisy eating. The Other, imagining himself undiscovered as a toddler playing  at peek-a-boo, held back the dogs, relishing for a moment before the inevitable conquest.

“It needs more salt!” the bear howled, spitting out the yellowing goo to the ground .“Unacceptable!”

  “You Sir!  he continued, turning abruptly toward the cowering runt who unknowingly presumed to take his place…”Yes you in the bushes there…with the dogs…THIS is most unacceptable. Have you no sense of decency, no sense of protocol in such matters?!”

The Other, an innocent at a game that only their kind could be innocent, a tender shaver at best, stood petulant and steadfast before this most recent affront.

“Let’s just say“said the bear to the shadow in the thicket. “I’m not impressed.

 The weary bear who was called Paul, stepped forward sinking his great paw into the wiry mass of thistle and honeysuckle  to draw the Other by out its ear

 “Paul is not impressed”. He reiterated

friendly joke,ambles off with him arm in arm toward a crook in the creek where the salmon routinely flounder on the smooth rocks. “Easy pickins’” says the bear. “Good times” says the other. The bear pulls two salmon out of the creek as if plucking daisies out of damp summer soil. “Better clear these rocks”, he says after placing the flopping catch beside the Other. “If they don’t come up this way next year, that’ll be the end of this particular route.”

The other was impressed by the bear’s blithe pragmatic compassion

“They live, I live…Simple as that.”

The bear pulled a mass of sticks and stones enough downstream to allow a half dozen or so salmon to dart another two miles upstream toward their happy mating grounds.

The bear and the other ate in silence, and for the Other it was a most welcome silence, free from the absurd and mundane attributes mentioned above. Had he really barbequed himself on that barge? Had he really taught those innocent cicadas this limerick?

I keep buzzing and buzzing around

From my loins a most wondrous sound

I come out of the hole

Then god bless my soul

Back into the mound I am bound        

Yes. He had taught them that. Yes he had barbequed himself on a barge, grown a spleen in a petri dish, turned a harpsichord into a foosball table, and dropped hot air balloons into an active volcano. But what of it? It all seemed so empty now sitting beside his new friend, his new triumph…

The other catches fish with talking bears…

Sure it was true, another feather in an inestimable hat, “The other catches fish with talking bears” but a general exhaustion and the sting of having been cryogenically frozen and then routinely thrown into a mass grave in 2095 made him doubt the point of the whole thing. Whatever was still ahead, or behind, he couldn’t tell anymore.

A cool autumn breeze and a full stomach curled up into the Other’s head while the bear, singing “down in the valley”, expertly made a bed of ferns and soft branches under a rocky overhang. The other crawled in and slept as never before…The bear, with the other’s head snoring in his lap worried…

After catching fish with a talking bear, the other becomes a bear.

That was next

The bear knew this one all too well. If this Other was to become him, he would have to become another Other. The next Other on the list. He knew all the Others that the Other had been, what they had done and where they had come from. He himself had voted the dachshund mayor and kept the giant candy cane in his garage, he himself had taught the seventeen year cicadas a prenatal limerick:

Dumb insects all say it’s a sham

But I am what I am what I am

With my tiny ol’ brain

I’ve no room to complain  

A clam is a clam is a clam

It was clear that this “other”, soundly drooling in his giant bear lap, was the superior poet. The bear respected yet resented it especially after having working so hard on the poem’s meter only to ultimately fail on the matter of its content, only to be discouraged by that vague and ghostly entourage of Uber-Otherlings tisk tisking at his final draft before reluctantly sending him forth to his current beardom. Had he ever not been a bear? Certainly, Could he remember not having been a bear? Unclear.

The bear’s life had been good… good for the most part merely out of habit for the last two thousand years. In that time, he had mysteriously remained at the same stage of enviable middle-aged health and sexual viability, so who was he to complain?  Despite the endless march of death that he had been forced to watch in all this time… the mates who had come and gone, the long dead beloved children whose names and chronologies had dried layer upon layer on the decaying palimpsest of his memory,  he had wanted to remain as the bear forever. Had he simply been afraid to move on?

The other woke from the thunderous laughter.

The bear, holding the other’s head sweetly in his paws, realized that this time, unlike the hundreds of other times he had painlessly broken the other’s hideously ambitious neck, that the bottleneck to progress had to end. His selfishness suddenly embarrassed him to his core. What had he been afraid of?  And who did he think he was? Was this new other any different than the other others over the millennia? No. This other was as vain, arrogant and ridiculous as the ones before him, as indeed as the bear himself had been before becoming the bear. 


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Dear Mr. Porcupine, I sincerely regret that I will not be able to

Attend your party this week-end for I had previously promised

Mr. Opossum That I would accompany him to the G rated

Picture show now playing in our local movie house as you may

know but I wish your gathering the greatest of successes

at least equal to the many other fine parties that you have

given that I have had the great fortune to have attended I still

have your Neil Sedaka album that I liked very much and that

I will return to you upon our next meeting I will send my birth-day

Present to you via our mutual acquaintance Mr. Raccoon

Who I am told will be attending your birth-day party he is

A fine fellow and I shall from him glean the details of the

Festivities to come. Again my deepest apologies to you

And any others who shall miss my presence but we all know

how Mr. Opossum can be sometimes and I did not have

the heart to break my promise to him to accompany him to

the picture show I am a man of my word and although

I certainly prefer the company of you and those other

Astute gentlemen I would be unworthy of your friendship

If I were to be an Indian giver with my word as you know………….

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Of The Many Problems Associated With This Obtuse Object Which Is The Most Untenable?

connect the dots from the original source


NOW it makes sense!

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Why I Hate My Hermit Crab

I don’t have time for a real pet but I sort of wanted one for some reason so I got a hermit crab. Pet Circus sold them for five bucks a shot plus one buck more to buy a bigger shell for them to move into when they got too big for the one they were in, which the guy at Pet Circus said would be in about four to six weeks. In about five weeks the old shell was empty and the new one had him in it. He looked too small for it but I guess it gave him room to grow in. he was someone to talk to since the venus fly trap died and since he didn’t talk back which was great and which was also great about the venus fly trap too, but then I asked him about his new shell just to be nice and after that he wouldn’t shut the fuck up even when I was trying to sleep or jerk off in the bathtub. All I said was how’s the new shell…


Ex-squeeze me?

Perfect choice. I couldn’t have done better myself, even in the wild.

It’s just a shell I got for a dollar, don’t get all faggy on me… “In the wild…” Jesus. Go listen to NPR or something.

Excellent recommendation. Have you a radio?

Have I a what?!

A radio. 84.7 FM I believe. The post war serialists programme is on. This week features a retrospective of Milton Babbitt’s middle period works.

I don’t listen to that shit.

Quite right quite right. Serializing pitch-class is one thing, but serializing dynamics, rhythm, register and instrumentation is another fish altogether and one I would neither want to catch nor eat (as it were)

Shut up. I just was asking about the new shell.  just to be nice.

Well about that. Hmmm. You seemed to have inadvertently stumbled upon an artifact of the tesseract variety.

The tesser…

Yes. Four dimensional space, which is, how shall I say…most accommodating.

OK Einstein WTF?

Really! All I’m saying is that I have an all angle access to the refrigerator from my bed, my toilet, my barcalounger and Japanese garden simultaneously. It’s quite simple.

I got a retarded hermit crab. That’s what’ simple.  Shut the fuck up and let me sleep.

Regarding  sleep! I’m watching myself do it right now! Tomorrow or yesterday, how cozy I look! How refreshing to see the sleeping me watching the awake me watching the asleep me!

I wish I could sleep, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

I understand completely. Your problem is that you are trying to imagine a hyper-imbedded three dimensional cube….

Fuck you

…rotating along eight distinct point locations…


Where actually all points within a given three dimensional object rotate relative to each other…


The nekker cube is merely a simplified illust………………………………………

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Another Unfortunate Encounter

Her hair was up in a proper bun as we played inspirational hymns on the lowery organ after supper

She…A Methodist

Me…A Lutheran

Meaning…never the twains shall meet

Meaning my pee-pee and her wing-wang shall remain in opposition to the other for all time and that,

Which can be construed as : I will never insert my pee-pee pole into her girly-hole which infers that,

My thingamabob shall eternally remain a conspicuously absent subject in regards to dirty talk. per,

A preemptive conclusion which causes me to state that, as preternaturally “functional” as my unmentionable unit is in regard to the explicitly moist object begging for it on the bed that,

The Methodist doctrine contains but does not infer certain,

Doctrines that,

The Methodist doctrine contains and the Lutheran rejection of communion in regards to,

There are doctrines that prohibit the… the Methodist and the Lutheran are…that,

The body of Christ

Christ the body! And the mouth! Reference: (alabaster compx; supreme ct ruling 1982)

Ivory opaque alabaster Lutheran dirty bad. caveat that,

Methodist dirty bad go bye bye hole…, in that,

The mommy will be sad that,

I gotta go to work now..don’t cry. Oh Jesus! I’m not saying I won’t call you it’s just that,

You’re a Lutheran and I’m a….,

Don’t throw that at me…I’m just saying…………….

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An Unfortunate Beginning, Middle, And End That Culminates In A Possible Rebirth Of Previous Structure.

Don’t you ever get sick and tired of doing that thing you always do?…No, like in your baby years meaning now…Listen, I’m serious. Aren’t you sick of it already? C’mon guy, you’re three years old already…Oh, gimme a break, you’re just doing that thing I hate by not doing it… Ok, quit spazing out on me lame-ass and don’t drool on my slacks. Jesus. What the fuck are you waving at? Look! You’re doing it now! Look at yourself! Right now!…Embarrassing me in front of… No!… You are! Don’t try to bullshit me goddammit…. Oh oh oh there it is. Shit on you motherfucker! Don’t even try to make me laugh. Ok make me laugh because that’s all you’re good at…Right right right. Fine. But you’re still doing it. No!…Right now! Yes… Fuck you Yes… right now. No, that’s not what I’m talking about…No, that’s something else altogether. Yeah Spaz, that’s another thing you do but that’s not what I’m talking about. You’re fucking ten years old already so dump the diaper in the shitter and get on with it man. Move it. Get on with life I mean! Just fucking do it! No really! Position yourself! On the can!… What the fuck is wrong with you? No no no! Bullshit! Look around, is there anything else that looks like a toilet in the room…No, so…Aim like a champion, kid…Oh no no no, whadaya gotta go miss the shitter for? Not there you lousy fuck, that’s where your mother…goddamn her all to hell and the dry-wall that won’t take if you keep holding it up like that! Gimme! Just hold it there while I nail it to the slats. Sixteen and useless…Jesus, I can’t nail ‘em while you hold ‘em like that, lean into the goddamn thing. Oh Jesus Fucking Christ, you’re as worthless as a Mexican on a green card cruise! Gimme that! I’ll do it myself! Why don’t you just go drop out with your fucking friend Leo, and while you’re at it, try sucking his dick while you’re at it. I’m kiddin’ ok? You’re a gimp not a faggott ok? Just cause your mother is a…, you fucking incontinent bastard!… That hurt!..Woahhhh now hombre don’t give me that shit, that wheelchair ramp is perfectly good…I built it myself goddammit! If you could just keep that colostomy bag on the hook like I…Goddammit! Well fuck me! Oh look! Jackson Motherfucking Pollack just painted the rec-room floor fag brown… Christ that’s foul!… Don’t change the subject asshole. I built that ramp just right, just for you …Uhn uhn, that was your fault you fuck! Do you ever empty that thing? Go into the house and get some Lysol and a fucking rag!… What did you say to me motherfucker?!  No there’s not a ramp into the goddamn house…Why? Cause you live out here asshole. I should put you away like Monica said so she and me can fuck in peace without the sound of you up in the attic dragging yourself to the john every goddamn hour… I know…I know you don’t live in the attic anymore, but Monica is the sensitive type. No… No… fuck you, she has five dogs and seven cats that sleep in her bed and they all are coming to live here  after you have been relegated to the state…Yeah it’s a big word for me but chomp on this son, I’ll still get your “care package” checks from the government after you’re gone…What’s that? Really? Really. I’d like to see you try. you’d like that wouldn’t you? A pretty nurse to come and change your fucking turd bag every fifteen minutes. I could arrange that if I had a job and you drew in more Medicare or social security, but when I say “gone” I mean gone like that thing where he went looking for his watch that the sponge-bath lady took but that he didn’t care enough about to mention. Plus the exhausted intern with spaghetti sauce on his scrubs that checked on him before the end of his shift without asking about the painful cist under his swollen eyelid. The nurse had noticed it and washed it a little, but afterward he’d had to use his purple crumpled fist to push out the cool clear liquid onto the flat pillow that lay under his head. This is where he was, at thirty-two in a place that he would probably never leave. At least the room was clean, and the flies on the outside couldn’t come inside through the window that had been closed on the morning of the amputation of his left leg just beneath the knee. That afternoon, he snapped a mid-lumbar vertebrae confirming it with a withered right hand that was subsequentially amputated the following day during the same surgical session that the entirety of his spine was fused into a single rigid serpentine arc.

His dangling dislocated lower jaw was just about to request the terminal morphine drip due to all incurables, until, at the last possible moment, he discovered that he might actually be getting better…..

This optimistic turn made no sense to him. Why was it that his lolling tongue had magically found purchase atop the roof of his mouth just in time to stop him from initiating the terminal drip that would end his life and quietly ask the night nurse for a glass of water? Why did the stumps of his amputated hand and foot began to sprout fresh cinqular digits from the ends of their scabbed nubs, and his atrophied muscles plump out to fill the empty bags of skin they had once occupied? Why did his fused spine disambiguate itself from its cemented destiny to reassert itself? To him it had seemed a mere tickle. To the others, an insane perplexity that had them buzzing in and out of his room by the score.

The next day he sat up in bed. On the following day after that, he punched the night nurse who had taken his watch. He flexed in front of the bathroom mirror. An urge to kill overtook him….

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