The sub-moronic ramblings of a semi-functioning illiterate

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Interview With…Famine

HE: We continue our interviews with the mysterious Horseman known as Famine. Good morning, Famine. How was your trip to Earth?

FAMINE: You assume I left, ha, that’s… that’s funny.  I haven’t gotten away from Earth in what seems like eons.  Just when I think I might get away, some jack-hole gets me involved in another bunch of crap that I can’t delegate out and I can’t pass on higher up the chain.  Story of my fucking life… uh, death… existence.

***

HE: What confounds you most about mortals?

FAMINE: Toy dogs.  Fucking ‘Toy’ dog breeds.  The women and gay guys carrying these things around are the same ones freaking out and jumping up on chairs when they see rats and mice.  What the hell, man?  And cocaine.  Why the hell would anyone want to do ANYTHING faster and with more sweating?

***

HE: Where is your favorite place to reap?

FAMINE: Depends, easiest or most fun?  Easiest: L.A.  Just ask a broad if she’s expecting or if she just had a baby, *BAM*, job is done for you!  Not only will she stop eating, she’ll puke up Thanksgiving dinner from three years ago!  Most fun?  Suburbs of Atlanta.  Have you ever watched a 350 pound guy looking at a plate of ribs or chicken and waffles and suddenly realize he isn’t hungry?  Funny as shit!  They get mad.  Rumplestiltskin mad.  I could do that all day!

***

HE: If you were mortal, what job would you want to have?

FAMINE: Sales associate at Abercrombie. Every time some skinny bitch walked out of the dressing room I could say, “Uhm, Honey, you want me to get you the next size up?” I think I could be pretty happy with that.

***

 
HE: Has a mortal ever escaped you?

FAMINE: Victoria Beckham.  But the game ain’t over yet.

***

HE: What’s the most negative aspect of wearing a meat suit?

FAMINE: Grooming.  I mean, the showering, the cleaning, the de-stinking.  Really a lot of work.

***

 
HE: Is it hard working for God?

FAMINE: A boss is a boss is a boss, you know?  They give you bottom lines and you’re just supposed to run with them.  My budget barely not-feeds the westernized world!  Don’t get me started on trying to juggle maternity leave rotations for those slutty Succubi!

***

 
HE: Is Lucifer as bad as they say?

FAMINE: No.  We get each other.  He’s got a job to do, he’s got to get it done on time and under budget just like the rest of us.

***

 
HE: What do you have to say about the Mayans?

FAMINE: Fucking nutty.  I mean, I like a good party, but, to quote a well known space cowboy, “Eating people alive? Where’s that get fun?”

***
HE: Your dream date is?

FAMINE: Tina Majorino.  Freaking adorable, I love her.  She’d finally notice me, in the bushes, with the camera and be all like, “Hey! Are you the one sending me those letters? You wanna hit the Olive Garden with me?”.  And I’d be like, “Olive Garden?  Really?”.  And there would be this split second of us looking at each other and we’d both screech out “UNLIMITED BREAD STICKS, SUCKER!”  It would be awesome, you know?  Magic…

***

HE: Beatles or Elvis?

FAMINE: Uhg.  Uhm, Elvis, if I had to choose.  If I got to pick, Cheap Trick.  I’ll take Elvis because Zander kicked ass on Don’t Be Cruel.  Why always Beatles or Elvis? Beatles or Stones?  What about The Clash or Abba?  Iron Maiden or Prince?

***

HE: Favorite sports team?

FAMINE: The Eagles.

***

 
HE: Where do you see yourself in five years?

FAMINE: Probably doing the same fucking job, but with a three and a half percent increase in pay, those cheap mother-fuckers…

***

 
HE: What would mortals be most surprised to learn about you?

FAMINE: Hmm.  Not sure… Oh!  Okay, I got one!  No one ever believes me, but I had nothing to do with Karen Carpenter.  Seriously, that was all just fucked up psyche and shit.  Hell, do you have any idea what I went through over that?  Jesus loved her.  I swear, that’s the reason I haven’t even been considered for a promotion!  Hell! I was sending her fruitcakes and candy grams just to save my own ass!  And I do I ever get the credit for Mama Cass?

***

That concludes our interview with the Horsemen known as Famine. Tune in tomorrow when we sit down with Creeping Death himself, Pestilence, followed by War on Thursday and a special mystery guest on Friday. We round out the weekend with back to back interviews with the Big Man himself, God on Saturday and a one on one exclusive with Jesus on Sunday. Stay tuned!


And The Super Secret Project Is…

The story behind my Super Secret Project begins like any good story begins; with lobster and beer. Or as they say in Portland, Maine where my good friend and partner in crime Tom Elias lives, “Lobstah and a rack a pounders.”

It was during this fateful drunken weekend spent at his beach house with my best friend Quinn and the infamous HR Nightmare that my latest writing project was born. That project, ladies and gentlemen, is a four novella collaborative series entitled:

REAPERS WITH ISSUES

LOCATION: Earth

YEAR: 2012, mainly

POPULATION: 7 billion Human souls and counting…

From Purgatory –

The Grim Reaper and other three Horsemen of the Apocalypse are stretched to their limits reaping souls, and more drop dead every day.  With his department near the breaking point, Grim requests a team of five thousand Lesser Angels to serve as Deputy Reapers.

To Hell –

Lucifer is faced with overcrowded prisons and work camps.  He petitions the Board for permission to break ground on the 667th level of Hell.

To Heaven –

Gabriel, president of the Board of Archangels, denies both requests, citing budget restrictions.  Grim, determined to get what he wants, goes over the Board to the Office of Heavenly Affairs, otherwise known as God.  God denies Grim’s request but assigns a Heavenly Liaison to assist Grim, a liaison with a singular solution to the issues facing both Grim and Lucifer.

And back again –

The liaison’s name: Jesus.

REAPERS WITH ISSUES is the first in a four book novella series that chronicles the Grim Reaper’s struggles in middle-management. Click on Grim at the end of this post to visit our companion blog to learn more about the authors and the sequels to be released over the next few months. Don’t forget to sign Grim’s “Death Book” before leaving.

***DISCLAIMER***

This series is meant to poke good-natured fun at the topics of Chrisitanity, homosexuality, recreational drug abuse and office politics. If you are at all easily offended, we, the authors, will not be offended if you choose not to read our work. Please do not chuck hate bricks through our windows.

Thank you,

Tom Elias, H.E. Ellis, S. Quinn Shaw, Mikhail Vlakfeld

Please to enjoy the following opening of Reapers With Issues:

REAPERS WITH ISSUES

Death killed time rereading God’s memo while he waited for his dealer to show. Semi-baked, he decided, would be the condition necessary to inform his staff that their department would not be receiving the help they so desperately needed and that someone else, an outsider, would be put in place to oversee their operation. As far as Heaven and the Archangels were concerned, the Horsemen were officially on their own.

There had been a time when Death, Grim to those who knew him, could singlehandedly reap his entire department’s quota of souls and still have time left over to indulge in some high quality herbal recreation. The reality of reaping a population closing in on seven billion left Grim no choice but to seek his recreation locally. It didn’t take long for him to discover that local weed, like local Purgatory, was mediocre at best.

Lack of free time and quality pot were merely symptoms of a larger, growing problem. Reaping while short-staffed had robbed his Horsemen of any kind of life outside of the job, and lately Grim had noticed cracks beginning to show.

Pestilence developed a nasty habit of calling in sick with a new exotic illness at least once a week, and an incident over a cage dancer forced War into court-ordered anger management classes. Only Famine had been able to withstand the pressures of the job, although Grim did notice that he’d been shedding copious amounts of hair lately.

It was on behalf of his Horsemen that Grim requisitioned the Archangel Board to reassign five thousand Angels to his department for Reaping duty. A requisition that Gabriel, Head of the Archangel Board, repeatedly denied. Grim’s decision to go over the Board’s head to the office of Heavenly Affairs yielded nothing but a Heavenly Liaison, and God only knew who the Hell that was.

Unable to make sense of God’s decree, Grim stuffed the memo back into his pocket as he scoped out his surroundings which were, at the moment, in the alleyway behind his office building and the home of the Office of Human Death (OHD for short).

Talk about shitting where you eat, Grim thought to himself as he checked for souls milling about. The last thing he needed was for word to get out that the once great Reaper of Death had been reduced to buying sub-par pot behind his office building in the lamest ‘burb of the Universe.

Paranoia getting the better of him, he walked to the end of the alleyway which emptied into Purgatory’s corporate district, a massive office complex comprised of row after row of generic steel buildings, each one an exact replica of the one that came before.

Finding no one, Grim laughed to himself. Total waste of time, he thought. He couldn’t remember the last time anything bad happened in Purgatory. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time anything good did, either.

Just the same, Grim thought it best to cloak himself in a human disguise, namely the dead body that until an hour ago belonged to the organic hemp farmer that was his latest reaping assignment. “Meat suits,” as the Horsemen liked to call them, were a necessary evil now that the Archangel Board cut the OHD’s travel expense budget, forcing Grim and his staff to reap by bus instead of horse. All it took was one bad road trip on a bus bound for Newark to make him rethink wearing his cloak while on assignment. Mortals, he discovered, were a lot faster and stronger than they looked.

Grim listened as the clock tower in Purgatory Square chimed one o’clock. Pedro, his dealer, was late. Out of both time and patience, Grim walked back to the rear entrance of the OHD just as the door swung open.

“Jesus Christ, Pedro!” Grim shouted. “Scare me to death why don’t you?”

Pedro stepped out into the alleyway, his eyes darting up and down the length of it. “How’d I scare you?” Pedro asked. “You’re the one in the Jesus suit.”

“Jesus? Really?” Grim asked as he smoothed down the late farmer’s long, sandy locks. “I kinda thought he looked like Clapton.”

“Clapton or not that’s some scary shit, man,” Pedro said, looking Grim up and down. “Someone said they saw Jesus walking around here this morning. You know he’d tell my Pops if he caught me dealing again. My old man believes every word that fool says.”

Though he may have been known throughout the Universe as Saint Peter Junior, “Pedro” earned a reputation in underground circles as the prime procurer of black market merchandise. It didn’t hurt that having a Father who manned the Gates of Heaven gave him access to all the best incoming contraband.

“I don’t know what to tell you, kid. Apostles die hard. Now are we going to do this thing or not?” Grim asked, hoping to get back to work before he was missed.

Pedro stepped away from Grim, eying him suspiciously. “First tell me why you’re wearin’ a mortal in Bland Land. You ain’t reaping.”

Grim pointed to his chest and said, “Lungs.”

“Ah…makes sense,” Pedro said, relieved.

Lungs and pockets were two of the three attachments Grim thought made wearing a mortal’s meat suit bearable. The third attachment he hoped to utilize later on that night.

“Are you serious about Jesus being here in Purgatory?” Grim asked, peering over his shoulder. “Because he is the last person I need to deal with right now.”

“Hey man, all I know is what I heard,” Pedro said. “Why? You gonna kick his ass? Let me know now and I’ll give you odds.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had enough run-ins with Skippy Christ to last an eternity,” Grim said, remembering a certain spring day two-thousand years ago that didn’t end well for either of them.

“Skippy Christ,” Pedro chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that one.” Once he was sure they were alone Pedro opened his robe, pulled out a baggie and handed it to Grim. “This stuff’s fresh from Mexico. Lucky for you my old man doesn’t shake down nuns. Mother Superior came in loaded.”

“I guess this is my lucky day after all,” Grim said as he dug the farmer’s wallet out of his back pocket. “How much for the bag?”

“For you? One-fifty. Cash.”

“One-fifty?” Grim asked as he thumbed through the thin wallet. “What can I get for…sixty-five dollars and a condom?”

“Sixty-five’ll get ya’ an ounce.”

“An ounce? That’s it? You do know I’m Death, right?” Grim punctuated his question by slashing the air with an invisible scythe.

Pedro laughed. “Yeah, you keep swinging,” he said. “Everyone knows you work a pen better than a blade now a days.”

“Is that so?” Grim asked, knowing all too well it was.

“Oh yeah it is,” Pedro snickered. “Hey, I got an idea- how ‘bout you write me up? Oh man, I can see it now, ‘Dear God, Pedro wouldn’t cut me a deal on weed, the stingy pendejo. Kisses, Death.’” Pedro doubled over laughing while Grim stood there and seethed.

“Just give me the ounce and shut your piehole,” Grim said, finally.

Struggling to catch his breath, Pedro handed Grim the entire bag. “Throw in the rubber and the bag’s yours. I’m heading down to Lucifer’s club tonight. I’ll put it to good use.”

Grim’s eyes flew open wide. “Are you shitting me? Lucifer’s got a club now?”

“Hell yeah, he does,” Pedro answered.

“Of course…” Grim said in a sigh.

Ever since God in his infinite wisdom promoted Gabriel to President of the Archangel Board, Grim’s budget had been sent to Hell, literally. While he and his Horsemen had to make due with meat suits and bus passes; Lucifer and his crew of demons enjoyed a new office complex with an onsite gym and spa, and apparently now, a club.

Nepotism ad infinitum.

“Hey man, you should come check it out,” Pedro said as pocketed the condom. “Music sucks but the women are hot. Bring a rubber or your pecker’ll burn like Hell for a week.” Pedro dug deep under his robe and scratched.

Grim opened the bag and inhaled. “Kid, if this shit smokes up as good as it smells I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well let’s find out,” Pedro said as he pulled out a lighter and let Grim sample the merchandise.

Grim took a hit and quickly put his lungs to work. In no time the smoke made its way to his brain, filling cracks that had become chasms created by supervisors with agendas and employees with complaints and a Universe dependent on him to hold shit together. Grim took another hit and released the stress of his middle-management Hell along with the sweet smoke he blew out in a slow, steady stream from his lungs. For one perfect moment, Death was happy.

A snapping sound by his ear pulled him back to reality.

“Hey, wake up. You’re vibrating,” Pedro said, pointing to Grim’s hip.

Grim reached down to his pager and saw that he had a message from his secretary. His absence had been noted. Grim paid Pedro in cash as promised, making a mental note to start reaping in more affluent neighborhoods in the future. “Let me know the next time you get another haul like this one,” Grim said, regaining focus.

“Hey no problem. I’ll even cut you a deal if you hook me up with your secretary. That is one fine lookin’ chica.”

“Fran? Sorry kid, but you’re not her type.”

Pedro rubbed his ample belly and asked, “Oh yeah? What’s her type, then?”

Grim stepped through the door and said, “Bony,” just as it closed behind him.

Another urgent page from Fran rolled in as Grim tore down the vacant hallway that led to his basement office. Stopping at the janitor’s closet, Grim pulled the memo from his pocket and then removed his meat suit, swapping it with the cloak he’d stashed there earlier.

Officially in uniform, Grim took a minute to compose himself before he opened the door to his office. Though he knew for a fact he was in Purgatory, Grim couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to open the door to Hell.

 


Happy Blogiversary To Me!

TODAY IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY BLOG! TO COMMEMORATE THIS AUSPICIOUS OCCASION I HAVE DECIDED TO RERUN MY VERY FIRST BLOG POST.

PLEASE TO ENJOY…

So yeah, I wrote a book.

I must have been high when I wrote it because there’s no other explanation I can give for my 120,000 word upper YA novel where the only noun I used more than “boner” was “blood.” It goes without saying that I’m self-published. I didn’t even try to submit it traditionally. Can you just imagine the poor agent who gets my query letter?

“My novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT is complete at 120,000 words and is the first in a series of five books that for some reason I’ve decided to write out-of-order. Each one is told from the point of view of a teenage male protagonist who has exactly zero supernatural powers (unless you consider perpetual erections a superpower). Oh, and it also has Spanish subtitles.”

Yeah.

On the good side, if you’re like me and are just a little too into music, motorcycles and all around badassery this is the book for you. If you’re not, I’m sure Jodi Picoult’s got a blog somewhere. You can find the opening to chapter one at the top of the page under the tab GOA REVIEWS and you can find my book on line at:

SMASHWORDS

AMAZON


Screw You Gmail

You know you are suffering from writer’s block when you opt to spend twenty minutes sending and resending the same email to yourself over and over just to see how fucked up you can get the email ads to appear on your screen. I forced myself to stop at ten replies. So if my Super Secret Project sucks, you all know that I have Gmail to blame. Too damn distracting.


What Does Happy Taste Like?

I woke up this morning to a typical hangover text sent from my best friend, Quin. As usual, there came with it an attached picture that made her laugh at 3am the night before. I will share that pic/text with you all now:

This is a Carvel Ice Cream cake with the caption “It’s What Happy Tastes Like!” Quin, ever the existentialist, begged to ask the question, “What does happiness taste like? Wouldn’t it taste different for different people?” Then she went on to describe her taste of happy, and it looked something like this:

You see, Quin’s “Happy” tastes remarkably like Jared Padalecki. So that got me thinking, what would MY happiness taste like? I can think of quite a few men that I’d like to see wrapped in an ice cream loincloth. But I guess when it comes right down to it, my “Happy” would taste like this:

So, what does YOUR happy taste like?


Paramour

Valentine’s Day marks the release of  PARAMOUR – a new art and prose book penned by friend and fellow blogger, Jonathan Borden. I’ve been intrigued by JB’s raw writing style and fearless approach to topics that are at times both heartfelt and gut wrenching for him to share. He is an artist, poet and musician extraordinaire who has only just begun to show the world his rich, creative soul.

Please to enjoy, PARAMOUR.

SOMETIMES THE ONLY WAY TO COME CLEAN IS TO GET FILTHY

Halifax, N.S .— February 5, 2012  — From the backyard of a church, scandalous poet Jonathan Borden invokes the sacrilegious and opens his new book of porn with a prayer. “Paramour” is part memoir, part smut, and part exorcism, so it is fitting that its first page features the Act of Contrition as a self-described disclaimer. A prayer said by Catholics when making Confession, Borden has chosen it to set the pace for his well-crafted “one-handed book”—one-handed, because your hand will be, uh, preoccupied as the other turns the pages. It is a term once used by the Marquis de Sade to describe his own works and one which Borden gleefully prefers to describe his.

“Paramour” is a glossy art book, tightly-crafted and generous in its use of space and colour. Featuring contemporary gay porn images with revealing personal ads, hustlers’ rates, and quotations superimposed on each, there are thick sections of terse, biting prose vignettes in between, detailing Borden’s extensive and debauched sexual history. There are 175 of these micro-stories, one for each of the guys Borden has been with, and each themed with a type of personality he has encountered along the way. To top it off, each vignette weighs in at exactly 69 words—the entendre is to die for. An experimental short film called “Blue Movie”, directed by Stewart Delo, accompanies the daring project and explores the blurred boundary between sense and sensuality.

“It’s about moving on,” says Borden of the edgy release, “I was trying to fill a void in those days and I tried to do that by sleeping my way across town; this project is my way of waking up.” For Borden, “Paramour” is an opportunity to encourage freedom of speech through its testing of boundaries and sexual liberation through its explicit and openly assertive content, while exorcising his own hang-ups. “All of my heroes are sexually-outspoken, so I think I should be, too,” he says, insisting the book and film are not simply shock pieces. “‘Paramour’ is an urban ‘Kama Sutra’, but what I’m teaching is more than just a hot set of positions for pleasure, I’m teaching people to be comfortable. I’m sharing, not bragging.”

Borden, also a freelance graphic artist, took the time to design the finished product, sure to be pleasing to readers’ eyes. His bold, punk aesthetic suits the catharsis of the collection perfectly. Expect to be shocked, appalled, enthralled, and to encounter the ribald. The book is being released electronically in five parts through Borden’s website, WHORRIBLE, premiering on St. Valentine’s Day this year. “Blue Movie” will be released this spring through video-sharing website Vimeo.

“Get filthy.”