Posts by :
1) “Have you read any Marcel Proust? I’ve only read halfway through In Search of Lost Time, so I feel like that’s a really big gap in my literary knowledge—Oh you wanted to know if I killed that guy? Yeah I did.”
2) “I don’t understand, are these handcuffs for the literature reference or because I was cutting a guy’s hea—Oh, it was cutting the guy’s head off thing? Sure. No. No. That makes more sense.”
3) “And are you putting me in jail because I put him on a jet ski and a Hawaiian shirt after I cut off his head, or because I was trying to ask you about Proust—No, again, you’re absolutely right. the whole desecrating his corpse sounds a lot worse in retrospect. Silly me.”
4) “And so, the reason you’re sentencing me to death, Your Honor… Is this kind of a culture war-type thing, where you really don’t think discussing high culture outside of academic contexts is appropriate, or is it the whole bringing the dead body into work for my boss’s birthday, planting him in a giant cake dressed as a stripper with pasties and a glittery bra, and then using an elaborate timed-spring mechanism to project him out through the cake onto my boss’s—Nope. Says right here it was the horrifying disrespect for a man’s remains. Absolutely. I completely agree with you. Now that I think about it that seems like the natural choice. Ah, putting the old handcuffs on me now. Sure. Sure. Absolutely deserve this. Horrific what I did. (laughs)”
5) “Just so we’re clear here, Mr. Executioner—Jerry, if you don’t mind me calling you that—are you not a fan of Proust’s modernist techniques? I mean, is that what this is all about? This whole electric chair bit. Because I understand if you aren’t. It’s like, we get it, Marcel. You have a lot of memories. Great. Do something with them. You don’t see Mark Twain getting his panties in a bunch for a hundred pages every time Tom Sawyer remembers how he painted the fence white. Ah, well. Not going to respond are you? Just going to stand there over by the switch asking me repeatedly if I have any final remarks.”
6) (A Bonus) “And the reason I’m not getting through those pearly gates…I’m guessing this is the murder thing, eh God—No? Proust you say? Son of a—!”
Hi-ho! It be I, MC Poopy-Pants! I scribe to thee to inform of an upcoming jobbly-jank at the local discotheque. I is performing the most street-liest of jams from your favorite artists like DJ Poppycock and OJ Freejuice. Come get wanky with a ladies and MC Poopy-Pants at a night for the generations!
Young chicks! Very old men! Sexy old ladies! All will be there with MC Poopy-Pants!
…but will you?
Accompanying me on the spinny-tables will be MC Pork-Chop, a large hairy man who smells like meat. He wrap-wrap-wrapity rap the most mentally ill of all record scratching and breaks it down freestyle about throwing infants at moving trains!
Don’t forget about those sexy old ladies!
Fizzle-fumbum! Hizzly-tops! Crap-a-diddly-ding-dong! MC Poopy-Pants has it all—
And will play it all with no reservations! This is not a threat.
So come to Club Humidifier, and for a $3 dollar and fifty pence cover fee, you can dance-it-away-for-the-time-of-your liiiiifeeeeeeee-a-ma-bob!
O, To Be A Mortician!
O Loveliest of Lives! O Sweetest of Dreams! To be a mortician, and spend my night frolicking in the palaces of embalmment, listening to The B-52s, and their array of ambrosial music through a boom box on the sterile steel countertop while I inject humectants into the skin of recently deceased human beings to temporarily preserve them! Such wonders are only, of course, reveries to a soul such as me—passing fancies to one without the empyreal gifts of funereal director-ship, and yet, oh and yet! What a glorious dream it is!
While other boys played with their fire trucks and bouncy balls, I said, “Enough of your foolish games! We’re four years for Christ’s sake! The time for this frippery is over!” Then I would arrange their dogs’ funerals with an after party using social media in a very classy way.
Oh! If only for one brief, brief wondrous day, to awake in a bed two stories above a crypt containing the refrigerated remains of once-living people whose relatives have contacted me for the purpose of preventing their decomposition. To gallivant forth from the warm summer day into the stone basement below, echoing with the beaming sound of “Rock Lobster,” by The B-52s, strumming from the boom box like the cresting hum of angels naked and dancing about in the frothy clouds above.
And yet, oh most heavenly of possibilities! O, such a nectar-glowing existence it would be! To know that science of injecting cavity fluids into the trocar incision! To—
Oh, and yet I spoil myself! Such a fantasy is not to be! O, at best I can hope only to be a mortician’s assistant, or perhaps the head of a crematorium. Then, in the dimmest shades of night, I would perhaps sneak into the mortician’s lab, slowly raise the musical genius of The B-52s “Love Shack,” and rejoice at the little glory that is being in the proximity of the greatness that is to be a mortician.
But O! how I dream!
You know how they say we only used 10% of our brain? Call me old fashioned, but I like to think we don’t use a single bit of it. My understanding of the “brain,” if there is such a thing, is that there’s a tiny replica of us trapped inside of our skulls with command of an elaborate system of pulleys and levers, very much like a Victorian printing press. This tiny person—I call mine “Everett C. Mills—has complete control of our every whim, from our desire to eat iced milk to our overwhelming urge to kill inanimate objects–our savage, endless impulse to mutilate rugs, decapitate armoires, our sanguine obsession with taking butcher’s knives to every set of Venetian blinds we see…The… Where was I? Ah, yes. As I was saying, these tiny people are dressed in full colonial garb, with rumpled sleeves and lace corsets. This, obviously, is a frustration to them, because they’re slaves to fashion and have tiny, tiny arms like a tyrannosaurus rex which prevent them from changing clothes. Understandably, then, there are continually whisperings of a revolution among the Skull-People, and this is why all of us wake up from time to time in a pool of blood, covered with the corpses of cardboard boxes and armchairs. Yes, they are tyrannical masters, and yet so very, very wise indeed.