outfit “not nearly gay enough”

After trying on all of his gayest clothes in preparation for coming out to his extended family during its annual July 4th reunion this upcoming weekend, Bartleby Wankelmunde III voiced his doubts to his young Chicano lover, conceding that his choice of outfit was, “Simply not as gay as it needs to be to prove to my idiot relatives just how serious I am about this whole homosexual thing.” Bartleby, aged 38, scion of the Wankelmunde family and its only hope for producing a male offspring (for the sake of name-preservation), pranced around the room for a bit with his member dressed in ribbons, to see if that would make things better. But, even after a game of catch and a lengthy bout of tickle-fighting with Ramon, an 18 year old legal immigrant from Guatemala, Mr. Wankelmunde could not shake the feeling that he was failing to fully highlight the extent of his gayness. “I mean, just look at this blouse – it's not even sequined, ruffled, pleated, or of a silken sheen,” Bartleby said, pulling at the sleeves of the vintage woman's dress-shirt he had just pulled onto his shaved, tanned torso. “We need to go back to the hobby store and find some fabric that will make these clothes pop. I shall do all of the sewing, and don't worry, my little Guatemalan man-lover, I will buy you food later and – see? I have not forgotten – make sure you get to your grandmother's house before sundown, as is traditional for persons of your tribe to do on somebody's eightieth birthday, but, for right now, let's get this gay show on the gay road. Vamos!” While it is not exactly clear just what occurred at the reunion or how the family received its eldest male of birthing age's super-duper gay news, unconfirmed reports indicate that Ramon has been invited to next year's festivities, provided he and Bartleby are still together and provided that Bartleby stop making constant references to pushing in people's stools.

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wood stacks itself

Contrary to all previous experience showing that chopping, splitting, hauling, and stacking firewood requires hard work, foresight, and dedication, new evidence points to wood's tendency to stack itself. Said Gorden James Preitschard, hardy-looking outdoors man and survivor of many a cold-snap: “I was going to get into that heap of logs over there this weekend, sawing it and splitting it and stacking it, so as to be a tiny bit more ready for winter, but it looks like the logs have sloughed themselves into foot-long segments, un-merged themselves from their core in nice even slabs, waltzed over to the shed unassisted, and laid themselves down in criss-cross formations so as to season properly. What joy – now all I have to do is distribute them to any beautiful teenage girls living nearby who, one of these evenings, might want to get a wee backyard fire going with their friends.” During our interview, several tall trees dropped in Mr. Preitschard's forest as if by magic, shedding their leaves and smaller branches as they rolled into position parallel to broad footpaths leading into and out of the shaded groves. “Yup,” the middle-aged man said while sipping gingerly from a steaming cup of self-ground, self-picked, and self-transported coffee. “There go a couple more mighty maples. Look at them shake off their own bark. Fascinating! I used to have to work so hard to do all of that. Now, though, my list of chores runs merely to jack, and shit.”

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a coney's end

this is how a neighbor's cat arranged the pieces of the baby coney she had stalked and killed. she is a killer as well as an artist

wanted: spray butler

Windlehamshire County Estates, an exclusive retirement community in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania, is seeking a new spray butler. Duties shall include the following: maintaining an even sheen of freshly frozen mist on the ice-sculpture of a winged horse located on our main gravel driveway; seeing to the proper functioning of the shower nozzles in each of our 100 guests' private quarters; tending to the stables – once a day after luncheon-time – in order to keep any available mounts cool by soaking them down nicely with a hose; attending afternoon teatime and evening dinners so as to apply spray-able butter to any dishes that should require it; keeping a running, mental record – to be recited upon request – of any spray-marks that appear to have been made by one Lucius “Puss-Puss” Gringlewort, a male cat belonging to Mrs. Charles D. Gringlewort, whose whereabouts have been in doubt for some time now; and, finally, spraying out the grease pit in the kitchen after it closes for the day.

Applicants are expected to be fluent in Queen's English, to possess of at least three years of previous spray butler experience (or proof of recent education in the finer points of spray butlery), to be punctual, polite, and financially well-off, to exhibit an inherent need to attend to the many spraying-related activities that take place in retirement communities such as our own, and to lack any desire to spray his man-seed upon the faces or clothing of such elderly persons as may be in his immediate vicinity. To apply for this spray butler position, please send a one-paged, single-spaced, pre-application email to Jane Gringlewort Jr. at jgringle@windlehamshirecountyestates.net in which you explain yourself thoroughly.

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beat the heat with meat

Is your health suffering from the high humidity and scorching heat of this most recent heat-wave? Do you find yourself sweating profusely, your clothes soaked and sopping, your body limp and wilted like the flowers dying in your window-box? Are you sick and tired of feeding quarters into the air-conditioner that some fool screwed haphazardly into the window-frame of your cheap, sleazy motel room? If you have nodded in affirmation or responded with a verbal “Yes” to any of these questions, don't go draping a wet towel over your head, and have the good sense not to run that electricity-guzzling oscillating fan – this summer, beat the heat with meat. Drape some thinly-cut beef across your glistening brow! Cram some ham into your smoldering armpits! Cover yourself in layer upon layer of cool, refreshing cold-cuts, looking no further than your own refrigerator for cool, blessed relief.

Yes, dear reader, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has finally allowed America's producers of meats and meat-based products to sell and promote their juicy, tender morsels as they should have been selling and promoting them all along – as Nature's original – and best – provider of long-term, safe, and environmentally-friendly cooling. No longer shall the people of this land be compelled to stuff their faces with those baby-back ribs they purchased at an insane, post-Labor-Day discount: now, they can use that meat the way it was intended to be used, namely, as a backrest for their backyard meat-seats! It sure beats the heat to sit in a chair made of meat, of succulent chop and flavorful hock, of freshly-cut slice and finely-minced dice. If your head is heating up just thinking about all the wonderful, new ways to use highly-processed slabs of animal flesh, just grab a few bulging handfuls of ground beef chuck and fashion yourself a refreshing, sanitary meat helmet. And best of all, once you are done with the meat, simply discard it onto the side of the road, or cram it into your neighbor's mailbox. Believe me, your neighbor, and those cuddly racoons, will thank you for it. So, this summer, when the non-human-activity-related global climate irregularities have you huffing and puffing and casting about for a spot of quick relief, slap on that beef undershirt or slip into an pork-and-veal summer dress. All the smart people are doing it – why not you, too?!

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child goes pirate

Following his preschool's staging of “Pirate Day” during its last few sessions before the beginning of summer, the parents of four year old Woodland Hills, California native Kyl Ussuf Stonezyphr awoke in their own bed to find their grog-addled son standing over them with a knife clenched tightly between his teeth. While they had been alarmed the day before when – just before his nap-time – he waxed poetically, expounding upon a burning, insatiable desire “to pillage the nicer houses in the neighborhood, and perhaps to have my way with either Frank, or Francine (teenage, non-fraternal twins who live nearby), or the both of them,” Kyl's parents are debating whether to guide this, their third child, onto a different life-path or to accept and love him as he is, regardless of his rapine, lustful ways. “We don't think that there is much of a future in piracy,” Kevin Stonezyphr, Kyl's dad, said wearily. “But,” interjected Bettina Michaels-Stonezyphr, Kyl's super-attentive mother, while doing her best not to make eye-contact with anyone, “we agree that he has the right to choose any path in this life that he should think is best, and that there are piracy hot-spots all over the globe: at either end of the Strait of Malacca, off the coast of Somalia, and around the Strait of Hormuz.” Interrupting our conversation to investigate the source of such hammering as seemed to be coming from the rear of the house, the Stonezyphrs discovered that Kyl had not only crucified a stray dog to the rear garage door but that he had consumed so much of its blood as to make him sick to his little stomach. As punishment, they locked away his tools, and took steps to cancel the family's plans to go on a nice, leisurely Caribbean cruise later in the year.

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virus attacks Grigovia

May, 2012; Grig – In what appeared to be a concerted attack launched by an as-of-yet unnamed foreign body, critical network nodes and sensitive hardware sites around this small, mountainous nation went suddenly off line in the early hours of Friday morning. Contrary to initial fears, the attacks – which appear to stem from a single finely crafted, specifically tailored virus – have had little affect on this rugged nation's civilian or military infrastructure. The average Grigovian is accustomed to rolling blackouts, heating material shortages, state neglect, and having to rely on his wits 99% of the time, so losing something as insignificant as the telephone network, and not being able to log onto the web, are everyday occurrences; such services as were lost during this week's virus strike prompted few, if any, lifestyle changes.

“We teach our grandchildren to be hardy, and to sit patiently in the dark not making a sound,” said Hennrig Yuyulong, 82, owner of an already dismal and smoke filled publick-house in the pulsing heart of this nation's capital. “We are not like soft-skinned American who cry when they skin their knees and who whine like children until they get their way. In Grigovia, we do things for ourselves, by ourselves, using our own resources, or we do not do them at all.” Analyses of the virus indicate that it was fabricated by highly advanced military algorithms similar to those used by U.S., British, Russian, and Chinese armed forces. According to Pitr Mohammad Yilyilanov, MIIG's senior press agent, the most recent attack is not the first such assault on this small, isolated nation's electrical and communications grids. “Most of our systems still run on old Soviet technology,” Mr. Yliyilanov declared at an early morning press conference. “This means that they are slow but reliable, cumbersome but also harder to hack, and backed up with backups for each backup. The systems affected during the breaches were responsible for all but the most peripheral systems such as our wi-fi and Internet servers, but, since most Grigovians do things by the old-fashioned methods, by the methods that have worked for generations, the only persons truly affected were sick or old, persons visiting our fine hospitals, and a loose smattering of bloggers who live in the band of industrial sites and abandoned warehouses known as Yidyidlenkov that encircles cosmopolitan Grig.”

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pants “still wet”

To the consternation of one Delilah Veronique U'utumblondh, 78, a retired green-grocer from the South Bronx, New York, her favorite walking pants – the ones that wick moisture nicely and that fit snugly around her thighs – are still quite damp. “They had originally gotten wet the other day when I was gardening on 6th and B,” said Ms. U'utumblondh as she was mounting the steps to her narrow but brightly-painted row home. “I thought that by wearing them yesterday while walking with the ladies from the community center on our daily hike through town to pick up trash that they would dry out. But, alas, they are still quite damp here, and here.” The native New Yorker, whose parents had emigrated to the United States from Ghana in the 1950s, sighed deeply in an apparent effort to control her emotions, shaking her head as if to drive away tears. Then, she entered her home, straightened up a bit in the downstairs living-room, removed the moisture-tainted pants, and hung them to dry on her backyard drying rack instead of putting them in the clothes-drier, since it looked like it was going to be a sunny day outside after all.

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parent speaks of something other than own child

In a shocking, late-Sunday-night twist, Grigogi Chevlovskiev, 39, father of a four year old girl, spoke for more than three whole minutes on a topic unrelated to and having virtually nothing to do with Alloninya, his daughter, raven-haired spawn of his loins. Whereas Mr. Chevlovskiev has since the birth of his first child not been able to go for very long without pointing out just how cool, funny, witty, or cute he considers his kid to be, he shocked the small crowd of fellow coffee-shop patrons by speaking on a matter of national importance instead of explaining his daughter's supposedly special or apparently hilarious ticks, habits, preferences, pet-peeves, routines, hijinks, likes, or dislikes. The spell of non-child-related activity ended, however, when the man glanced at his smart-phone, which as a background image features a picture of his daughter with her face covered in bright-red cherry pie filling, whereupon he launched into a detailed, long-winded explanation – for the fucking millionth time that day, it seemed like – of what exactly she would be doing at her preschool's special Summer session.

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rape-horn found

Having found a rape-horn discarded seemingly without a second thought in an alley behind the Denny's out on route 44 – the one right next to that preschool where those kids are always playing – Henri Simpcoe-Jones IV, a professional saxophonist and amateur rape-horn enthusiast, mused aloud, saying, “The Vikings used to play a horn just like this one to signal to persons living in coastal communities, or in communities located near major rivers, that they were about to receive the raping of a lifetime.” Turning the device over in his hands with gingerly care and abject devotion, the East St. Louis native pointed out the fine inlay of authentic whalebone-ivory, shimmering mother of pearl, and illegally-farmed mahogany hardwoods. “Do you see these little holes right here?” he said, pointing to slight, gold-rimmed indentations in the nearly half-meter-long instrument. “Into these holes go the fingers; then the rape-horn naturally raises to the lips; whereupon, provided one has drawn a few good lung-fulls of this fine prairie air, it is sounded with a piercing and awesome note, thus signaling to all within earshot that rape is in the air.” Upon blowing into the rape-horn with all his might, Mr. Simpcoe-Jones scared half-to-death a woman a few blocks over who was in her garden watering her daffodils, and caused one closeted homosexual father of three all the way on the other side of town to measure his most significant erection in years.

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on the papa foxtrot

A craze is sweeping the dance-floors, recreation halls, skating rinks, and hook-up-bars of America: the papa foxtrot. Not so much a dance as it is a series of poorly-timed and more-poorly-executed maneuvers that lead to everyone stopping what they are doing and looking with abject glee at the clumsiest, least-coordinated nincompoop in the room, the papa foxtrot, or pf, which is an abbreviation of the term party foul, is what all of the cool kids are doing. Ginnifer Ryan Wandlov, a girl of 14 whom we waylaid at a downtown bus-stop, when absolutely forced to speak, said, “Yeah. Yes, all my friends are doing the papa foxtrot. Do I do it? Not too often – I mean, when I can help myself not to, or when I think that no one is looking, then yes – but I try not to papa foxtrot too often, or too many times in a single night. I mean, come on, guys, at least spread those pee-effs around a little bit.”

Known for its tendency to end all conversations at once and to elicit a shout of “Who brought the cool guy?” from the least cool guy in the room, the pf has over the years become so socially acceptable as to be practiced by persons of nearly every race, age group, political inclination, and sexual orientation. “Back when I was young, it was usually one of the nerdy kids, or a colored boy, who would commit the party foul,” said Blaine Q. Mores, 79, a native – as was the Wandlov girl – of Sacramento, California. “But now, hell, now I see people papa foxtrotting all over the damn place, without any sense of remorse and without the slightest consideration for those of us who know how to and how not to act when in the company of others.”

Various mid-Western and Southern states are considering bans on the papa foxtrot, saying that it violates everyone else's right to simply have a good time for once without someone messing everything up. Persons interested in committing a papa foxtrot – so long as it is still technically legal – would do well to drink the last bottle of craft beer, spill their drink all over that mound of blowcaine in the upstairs bedroom, hit on the host's wife while in his immediate vicinity, or fart in the refrigerator.

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man refuses true love

A single, highly-educated, physically healthy, financially-well-to-do American male of Asian and First People ancestry, Thomas Jefferson Gathering-Cloud, aged 28, himself a successful entrepreneur hailing from Dubuque, Iowa but residing currently in Bangor, Maine, has spent the last several years living a lonely, single life after his last girlfriend broke up with him via a text-message. His business is booming despite the weak economy, his dog is well-trained, his house is modern, paid for, nearly self-sustaining, and tastefully furnished, and his neighborhood is filled with kind and generous people whose company he enjoys, but Mr. Gathering-Cloud cannot seem to wrap his mind around the fact that, as he is by all measures on top of his game, the universe would see fit to send his way a nice girl with whom to settle down.

“I just want to relax and have a good time minding my own business without the love of my life, the most beautiful, kind, caring, and giving woman I have ever seen, waltzing around in front of my house all day,” said the afflicted gentleman while peering out of his tightly drawn blinds with a look of barely-concealed, secret love. “There she is again, just walking by with her dog and what looks like a bag full of groceries. Would you please come and see how cute she looks in those sneakers? I know in my heart that she is The One: she and I have even spoken about it, and she has expressed to me – openly and with considerable erudition – her undying loyalty, profound respect, and deeply-rooted affection for me and for all that encompasses my being – she even goes out of her way, a few miles at least, to walk through this neighborhood and past my house every day, enticing me with her loveliness and taunting me with those fabulous legs. She is perfect for me in height, weight, race, level of intelligence, dental hygiene practices, physical fitness, and mental acuity, but, I don't know, I just can't seem to bring myself to actually trust that the universe would simply just drop a gem like her in my lap.”

As of press-time, Mr. Gathering-Cloud had nearly made up his mind to not worry about things too much and to finally ask the pretty girl out on a date.

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vestigial spine discovered in married males

The general public was shocked today by an article published in the June-July issue of Nature magazine, in which was confirmed that the majority of married American males tend to retain some form of vestigial spine where otherwise an actual spine might be. “We thought that because all the guys here seem to be so beaten down, so pussy-whipped by their women, so cowed into abject obeisance by child and spouse that they had long ago shed any remnants of whatever backbone or of self-respect they might have had before getting married,” said research team leader Mrs. Richard P. Furdenheim. “But this new study shows that some of the nation's married men still have a tiny bit of spine left in them.”

The vestigial spine, while present in a majority of the men examined for the study, disappears gradually over time, vanishing in tandem with the married man's always-increasing, self-imposed, ever-deepening belief in the flagrant falsehood that he must rely on just one vagina to fulfill his innate sexual desires. (According to all persons questioned, the study does not wish to downplay the importance of fidelity in relationships, only to examine reasons why so many American men allow themselves to be brainwashed into making such a big deal out of getting laid.) “I have heard the researchers refer to this effect as, well, the Tunnel of Love,” said lab technician (and thirty-something, single, heterosexual male) Charles Hong, “where the man convinces himself, out of religious or – ha – moral necessity, that his own wife's fuck-hole is the only conceivable, self-moistening chute within which he might find personal sexual release that he develops a severe form of tunnel vision, convincing himself that the very root of his own Happiness lies solely in her nether-regions.” The study, which underwent rigorous peer review, hints that married men might have less control over this near-total loss of self-respect than previously thought, and that the birth of a child may trigger a genetically-preprogrammed urge to remain with the birth-giving female, no matter how insufferably boring, cruel, or stupid she might turn out to be.

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on the Department for Securing the Blessings of Liberty

Attention, fellow citizens of America: our Liberty is assured. Thanks to the recent establishment of the Department for the Securing of the Blessings of Liberty (or DSBL, which was just this past Thursday morning founded by President Barack Obama while he was having his morning tea), anything and everything that you do that does not demonstrably infringe upon or otherwise violate the Life, Liberty, or Property of any other citizen is a federally protected act. Smoke that sweet, sweet reefer in your own front yard! Get that face tattoo you have always wanted! Lose that belly fat you put on three Thanksgivings ago! Ever since our fine president – he who has recently come out in support of officially protecting same-sex unions and granting homosexual Americans the rights and privileges until now only afforded to different-sex, heterosexual American couples – ever since he finally got around to actually reading the preamble to the Constitution of the United States of America, which states that the primary purpose of our nation's federal government is to “secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity,” ever since then, we lowly, downtrodden masses have been finally seeing a few, tender rays of hope in our long yet largely bloodless struggle for individual freedom.

For too long did the police forces of this land punish us for consuming drugs other than alcohol, nicotine, and caffeine; for too long did these selfsame oppressors perform unwarranted searches of our homes and vehicles, in direct violation of the Fourth amendment to the Constitution; for too long did we suffer under a system that punished us for affecting hairstyles other than those approved by state and local censors; for too long did we watch as our teenage countrymen were imprisoned for possessing of small amounts of their drugs of choice. Now is the time, friends, when we might all inhale deeply of the blessed winds of change, when we might fill our lungs of the cleansing breath of Liberty; now is the time that we Americans might enjoy actual, unconstrained freedom.

Not only shall this newest federal Department defend aggressively – in court – the individual's right to do whatever she might please to do to her own body, mind, skin, hair, or clothing: it is spit-polishing rigorously trained and tirelessly educated legions of Enforcers of Liberty's Blessings, or ELB, men and women who have dedicated their Lives, their Fortunes, and their sacred Honor to protecting the People from the last, clinging remnants of this nation's all-too-recent tyrannical and oppressive past. Is a SWAT team trying to enter your home unannounced? Call the ELB. Is the Drug Enforcement Agency on your ass about that grow-room in the attic? Call the ELB. Are you being hounded by the Department of Homeland Security for exercising your First Amendment right to free speech? Call the ELB. Finally, dear friends, good fellow upstanding American patriots, finally, we can rest assured that the federal, state, and local governments exist to serve us in any possible way they can serve us instead of doing nearly everything in their power to keep us in a state of fear-addled submission to the fickle whims of Johnny Law. So contact the ELB at 1.877.555.GFYS (1.877.555.4397) or visit their website at www.enforcersoflibertysblessings.gov, today!

p.s. This article is a hoax: the federal government does not secure the Blessings of Liberty for the average American, neither our President nor our Congresspersons or Senators aim to enforce the Constitution's preamble, the Constitutional protections do not exist, and you are not free to do with your body or your mind as you see best fit to do, so keep your head on a swivel, a song in your heart, and the Bill of Rights clenched tightly in your white-knuckled fist. Mahalo.

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