Love, Sex, Dreams, and a quick note

Love is the plant that weeps in the corner of an office that’s crowded with cubes.
Sex is the pot of money labeled “nature fund” on the desk of the secretary.
Dreams are the emptiness that fills that pot, and hope is the loose change in the worker’s pocket.

Just a quick note — Does it mean it’s shit when I pull it out of my ass? Even if I don’t have to wipe?

“Every Night”

“H-hello,” he muttered, under his breath. Salivation dripped from his lip corners. “I’m h-here for the job application.”

“Hokey dokey,” the innkeeper said. Hands twitched rhythmically before his blood-stained apron. “Sign here, welcome to my inn. It’s called Meat Palace.”

“You serve a lot of meat h-here?” the applicant whispered beneath spit-stained whiskers. “I like to eat meat.”

The innkeeper nodded, kicked back a chair, and begged the man have a seat. “Won’t you tell me about yourself? I do like to hear of people. You know, on the outside.”

“The outside? What do you mean?”

“Well, I haven’t left the Meat Palace in twenty some years.” The innkeeper leaned forward, grinned, and twisted the point of a knife into the wooden table. “I don’t like to leave.”

“Why not? It’s actually quite nice in most places. H-hector’s square is cool place. There’s a statue and a fountain.”

The innkeeper slid his chair back and frowned. He stood and coughed into his bloody, meaty fist. The fist slammed on the table and a shout of, “WANT TO EAT SOME DINNER?!” rang out.

“I like dinner.”

“You’ll have to fetch things for me. Feed my horses, and those of my guests. Your room and board are of course covered by me, and you’ll receive ten silvers a month.”


The innkeeper sat down and gradually thought over his plans. “The basement will have to be cleaned.” His eyes became dark and bored holes into the rotted wooden table. “Every night.” The blade slipped off its tip and split a line. “Every night.”

Jenkins! Get in Here!

Jenkins sat in his cube, staring at the clock staring into his eyes, wondering what happened with the time once it was spent up and used. It was probably thrown out for another universe or version of him to do with it what all entities will do: Waste it.

“Jenkins!” his boss shouted. Jenkins couldn’t see his boss with his eye, but saw him with his mind, with his read face and sweaty forehead. “Is that report ready, yet?!”

“No,” Jenkins replied, staring at the clock and twiddling a pen between his fingers. “I, uh, still have a couple changes to make.”

“What?! What fucking changes?!” His boss pounded on the cube wall, but still failed to present himself visually. “My ass is on the line here! That means….that YOUR ass is…” Time passed, and his boss seemed to become unsure of himself. The normally booming voice now sputtered and hesitated. “…on the line, too. Okay? Got that?”

“Okay, but. I think, like, we could work together. On like, the report? Maybe.”

“May…maybe! May is…that’s, uh, that’s okay. Yeah, okay.”


the bingman is hate

Jim Bean was never a bad guy.

He was a bingman. Do you know what a bingman is?

A bingman is is a person who likes to eat pie. What is a person who likes to eat pie?

A person who likes to eat pie is a bingman is and Jim Bean is a bingman is is a person who likes to eat pie.

Where do you stand on this issue? What is the issue? The issue is the bingman is. What to do with him? Shall we put him in the corner? Have his friends get all together, and talk about him as he sits in his cage? They can all discuss how sad it is that he must live there, forsaken as he is by the people of his society.

Oh! Oh! Then we may gather his enemies, everyone whom he has hated most throughout his life, everyone who has wronged him in some way, and get all of them together and have them point and laugh at the bingman is in his cage. They can eat pie, too. That might really put him in his own, desperate place where even the evil spirits refuse to roam.

Who are the evil spirits? They are the ones who the ones that the bingman is hates hates the most. Who does the bingman is hate hate the most? The bingman is hate hates the evil spirits the most because the bingman is hate does not like pie. In fact, he likes to watch pie burn in his back yard on a pile of small twigs, intertwined with poison ivy and hate.

Then he goes inside, back to his corner, back to the wall, back to that same dreary place that he knows as his sad, lonely home. The spiders and the dust shall crawl over his skin, until the museum curators thousands of years from now study his mummified form.