Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

Cathartic. Peeing my bed.
For which I am now gearing up – the second time this week.

With a railcar, preventative measures against falling asleep behind the wheel need not incorporate such drastic utensils as headphones repeating the tao of Freddy Kruger in a phlegmy, sibilant voice, torque wrenches promising hideous unconscious plastic surgery, or the dreaded ennui vortex – a 0.0000000003 frames per second, spirally raping of your dreamworld with scenes of loved ones dying in the jaws of crocodiles, falling from cliffs or the through the doors of airplanes as a result of your sleepy, half-lid, cartilaginous lethargy preventing you from saving them in time.
Utensils and projections that bouncily eject from the dashboard of the average automobile and like a swarm of black, alien insects attack the sleeping driver.
But which with the railcar is mercifully absent owing to the fact that accidents are virtually impossible, with your car running at a constant 30km/h on a rail unpopulated by other travelers – going from the garage, round the house, and back again to the garage. 
The questionnaire Gollum filled out on Facebook to get hold of an accurate measurement of his ingenuity – but which, ingeniously, he noticed on various points as containing flaws.
Such as obvious, leading questions about his personality a person who merely wished to be ingenious but wasn't actually could tick off next to 'Extremely,' or 'Mostly' – fraudulently, thereby, influencing the outcome of the questionnaire.
Gollum, who is known for his greediness and clinginess, but who likes the idea of possessing some manner of ingenuity in order to sustain a constant influx of goods and favors to nurture and satisfy the demands of these, otherwise wretched, needs.

The Iron Man suit manages to keep a straight face while inserting toothpicks into its joints and conduits – pretending not to miss the bolts and screws carried off to an undisclosed location by a thieving garage rat.
Pretending also not to notice the pesky sort of habit it has developed, of pocketing a VHS tape and the all-consuming chore of hoping the imaginary friends recorded thereon are keeping themselves marginally entertained while it, the Iron Man suit, is held up by other diversions.

A very large being, in whose shadow it is very cold, and in whose electromagnetic aura I can quite effortlessly cultivate a punk hairstyle, has, with its godly knack for hacking, hijacked the circuitry controlling my flamethrower arm – in order to light its cigarette.

The marriage that fell apart – its building blocks, building blocks that had effectively come tumbling down the moment the couple realized the building blocks that comprised their marriage was part of a kinetic sculpture that looked a hell of a lot like Jean-Claude Van Damme in a bushy mustache and a tinfoil hat, building blocks that came tumbling down as the collective marital mind was blown upon realization of its own outward corporeal aspect and the subsequent need to breathe into a paper bag usurping the couple a few moments before total and complete marital dissolution; the building blocks of the marriage otherwise consisting, in part, of a spark plug invented and designed by Watson and Crick, for which they'd won the Nobel prize in the Family & Lifestyle category, and in lazy, swirling, sloshing motions, all the crazy radioactive shit of the joint pair's domestic quirkdom – effectively the reactor core or double helix that provided character and life to the conjugal entity - coexisted in a dalliance of shared, but now shaken, characteristics, in a cardboard tube.

That which apparently is soul-rending to Lady Gaga.
The sight of a Venn diagram.
Or a Venn diagram posing as a bra.

Evidence that proved Houdini was a selfish cunt –
Though it didn't stop the analogy he liked using in interviews to describe escape artistry from going viral on the Internet: 'The body of an escape artist, it is like royal jelly quailing upon seeing a cracker.'
Every contraption, no matter how complex, from which the escape artist sees himself escaping appears flat. And salty.
And the escape artist sees himself as that which is issued unceremoniously and to the accompaniment of wet, farty sounds by a bee's abdomen. With a deep understanding, moreover, of its own aversion to flat, open surfaces – a mindset that apparently is crucial to the mastery of escaping from tight, uncomfortable spaces.
Plus, not to mention, insufferable selfishness.
Hence the nickname 'Selfish cunt Houdini.' 
On the stove, after the Zombie apocalypse – not so much a fighting rink demarcated by found objects in the abandoned kitchen, as a wasteland. Properly so-called.
Globs of cookie dough in the makeshift rink, bludgeoning each other with wooden spoons.
Conceptually a 'wasteland' since the person who'd been busy making cookies here had, like the cookie dough, themselves been zombified – just before shoving the cookies into the oven.

A kitchen from which the cook has disappeared transcends itself from being a kitchen to being a wasteland.
Jamie Oliver himself once proclaimed, tearfully. After having himself been zombified, in the aforementioned apocalypse.

Indeed the kitchen in which the globs of cookie dough were bludgeoning each other with wooden spoons belonged to him.
They were also to be his cookies.

Chiptune music in the busy restroom, tinkling and thrumming within the chaotic, tiled space. Totentanzers.
'Death dancers,' in German.
Having quickly gotten the hell out, one user of the bathroom – to be distinguished from the undead users – observed that the strikingest thing about the flash mob of dancing waifs, since its inception, was the growing predominance of Mark Zuckerberg makeup. Facially and bodily (indeed it became quickly apparent that all were naked), an over-saturation of aimless felt tip markings – scratchings, doodlings, cross-hatchings, angry jagged hackings and swipings in thick moist black felt tip – so that the semblance to the Facebook founder became almost embarrassingly evident.
Could the same phantasmagorical MAXIM centerfold that featured Zuckerberg have been copied by each of the Totentanzers?
That being the idea of flash mobs – to congregate and behave round a common theme. Then, naturally. Yeah, that's what they were all going for.

Lois Lane, regarding her time spent on eBay – describing, on her blog, the huge wave of procrastination that suddenly – and spookily – overtook her actions, including her finger's very ability to click the mouse.
After stumbling upon a beautiful dress which apparently no one had yet bid on. The auction time on which apparently was due to close in like two minutes.

The story of Mad Max and pug dog shampoo expanded – in relation to, and parallel with, each other and in service of a single allegory, about the costume that took a quantum leap in awesomeness after becoming, due to bad hygiene, part of one's very skin.

Hip-Hop since its accidental, unwitting inception on the brownstone patio of a poor, struggling, Jewish family in Brooklyn, circa 1926.
A powerful prognostication tool in the hands of rich, already-established investment bankers. 
You're already doomed as a dictator – namely your dictatorship is already a huge miserable failure – if you, as dictator, have stage fright.
And if you have a short attention span. Namely, if you stutter in front of huge crowds arranged in squares of dark tiny shapes far down below your podium, and hanging on your every word.
If in general you're the type who loses his thread in telling a story, or loses the plot when listening to someone else telling a story.
Your final descent into madness marked by the fact that, though starving to death on account of your refusal to grant a single further grain or morsel of food to your imaginary intestinal worms, you believe the taco someone placed beside you on your desk where you're writing a scathing exposition on the political agendas of the Worm Party and the need to outlaw the party and relegate worms to the obscure corners of politics where their opinions and votes don't matter much or aren't really heard, isn't real. Was real occasionally, and perhaps started out to be real, but soon turned into a replica of a taco. Which, while writing your essay, you feel powerfully, or overpoweringly inclined, to beat up.
As seems to be your stance toward all replicas – which the world is rapidly and diversely gaining examples of. That hulking urge to seize them in one's fist and squeeze every bit of fake, Play Doh substance out of them. Until there's just fake nothingness, or a small lump of fake puree, in your quivering fist. The tyrannical pancake someone placed, some time later, next to you on your desk in two facing plates. Which you're going to take a miniscule break from your work to go ahead and dub a mere stencil of a pancake.
Before beating it up.

The exact science behind which is fumbling, or for the time being willfully confining itself to secrecy. The explanation behind how it happened teasing and testing the limits of what good humor our curiosity has left so badly, its absence is menacing at worst – irritating at best.
Scientific explanations for how the quiet house in the suburbs where that old gentleman lived went supernova. And spawned, over a radius of ten blocks, a handful of other (8), smaller suburban houses.
The ninth not really qualifying as a suburban house as its backyard and small dingy carport nudges across the border into the huge, teeming, underground metropolis run by the Mole People.

Incidental inventions and natural phenomena that go to show our civilization's instruments and pastimes explicitly engineered to induce vertigo need to be rebranded, or monikered less misleadingly: a headmounted telescope that whimsically and of its own accord zooms in and out; a rogue aurora suspended above the theater where Winnie the Pooh premiered, resulting in the awful, vertiginous modulation of Winnie the Pooh's voice; falling off the table, the animatronic beast cobbled and strung together from optic nerve fibers and inner ear cartilage, and wax, during its decent relaying back to the laptop unironicaly stationed on the same table signals of horror hitherto uncharted by our most talented fiction writers and movie makers; breastfeeding entertainment software, the object of which is to provide the grown man those lost precious memories of breastfeeding but unaccountably knocking him cold with whooping vertigo; the unmanned safari transporter, camera-mounted – meant to extend the lazy bush lover's grasp of his favorite animals but making him feel kinda dizzy when the transporter buckles over and through anthills and what might be the entrances to either warthog or rabbit burrows.

It is better if a bad person helps an old lady across the street, than if a good person kicks that same old lady's head in.


  1. Have I told you how excited I am about this book? I am so excited!

  2. thanks, Frankie.
    perhaps that'll change when you realize the whole book consists of just these little things. hehe


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