Close Encounters of A Preposterous Kind

“Okay, okay…sit down.” As Pumpkinhead sat down at a corner table in the coffee shop, Captain H threw his sandwich on the plastic tray and continued, “How do I communicate with the little green men?”
“Little green men?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey dude, did Jezebel sell you some of that liquid acid? That’s to be taken in small doses, you know. I hope you didn’t slurp that down.”
“Don’t be coy.”
“Coy?” Pumpkinhead picked at his hash browns. “You sure you mean coy?”
“Yeah I mean coy; you know like a wise-ass.” He took another bite of his sandwich.
“A wise-ass is just a wise-ass. If you’re coy, then you’re a bashful, or a shy wise-ass.”
“But you’re still a wise-ass!”
“Only if you use that particular adjective in there, otherwise you’re just a demure person.”
“Stupid?”
“Huh?”
“Stupid….a stupid person. Like, ‘that guy skipping across the street is acting a bit demurely’.”
“Because he’s demure, he’s stupid?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Being demure has nothing to do with stupidity. Did we go to school in the same country?”

2016-07-15-21-25-02

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F.A.G.G. Metal – Invasion Of The Penis Snatchers

It was an enormous mansion lined with wall to wall cocaine users and big-haired, scantily clad sperm dumpsters; it was a party of no less than four-hundred people; the occasion was the long awaited release of the Open Fly debut album, ‘Rock Out with your Cock Out’, and anyone who could show up, did. Most everyone wanted a piece of the Open Fly action, and wanted to be around them because they were indeed, cool. Or so the trend-following record label wanted everyone to believe.

For better or worse, the music scene had really taken shape. If any guy was going to make it in the music business at this point in time, he needed to possess, not only the pelvis and cheek bones of a nineteen-year-old girl, but the shaved legs as well; all stuffed inside tight genitalia-strangling spandex. Another major requirement for being considered relevant in the present music world was exposing a freshly waxed chest, with a full head of hair teased no less than ten inches above the skull, and if you wanted to make it really big, you wore hints of blush, eyeliner, and sometimes lipstick or colored lip-gloss and made puckering kissy faces at the big-titted sperm dumpsters in the audience while you played your guitar solo or bass fill. It didn’t hurt your image to grow your nails long and have them painted up in some effeminate manner either. And, of course, Open Fly lived to be flaming F.A.G.G.’s and were therefore the talk of the town, all the rave, the big cheese, the flavor of the day, in a fashionably gender confused world of what was regrettably now the biggest fad in music – Female-Aspirant Guy Groups; commonly known as F.A.G.G. Metal.

Basically, the scene had shifted from angry restless rebellious youth of the streets fighting for or against a cause; sending a message of hate, love, and a desire for a better planet (accompanied usually with some very interesting and talent-packed songs), what was now, nothing more than a bunch of wealthy, testosterone ridden, beautifully groomed, long-haired, would-be-jock-otherwise, mama’s boys out for nothing more than to penetrate the prettiest and stupidest bitch they could find; And the bait? Nothing more than a nursery rhymed melody sung over a 1-4-5 progression played on a shiny electric guitar, and a line or two of white powder. It was the roaring gay eighties.

Open Fly had just landed a minor contract with an up-and-coming record label. Their music was carefree, la-dee-da, drink-some-beer-and-fuck-some-chicks-in-fast-cars kind of music. It disgusted Mahdakis to no end that these types of bands were what was now being signed and granted small tours with even bigger, more well-known, la-dee-da, drink-some-beer-and-fuck-some-chicks-in-fast-cars kinds of bands. It spoke volumes for what was supposed to be his generation.

But this was no longer his generation. He banished it – along with some of the respect he had for its followers, which were many of the good friends he still had. He was not about to shave his mustache or sell out at any cost, but nor was he taking any immediate opposing action to do anything against it either. Instead, he seemed content in doing nothing with his music for the meantime.

 

Meanwhile… on the other side of town, in the rear parking lot of Barely Bagels, more stupidity was rearing its ugly head, as Frank, Carl, Dakota and Goiter prepared to attend the aforementioned F.A.G.G. Metal party…….

 

“Anybody wanna get going?” Carl said, impatiently.

“Why, you in a hurry for some F.A.G.G. action tonight? Ha-ha.”

Carl punched Goiter on the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Ow!”

“Well he’s got a point, I mean…..they could dress a little more masculine, don’t you think? What’s up with those hair-dos, anyway? Why do chicks dig that? Dakota? Do tell.”

“Not all chicks dig it Floyd; me for one. I think they’re a bunch of poseur idiots. But if you must know, most of the other girls like it because it’s upbeat rock-n-roll that keeps things light and fluffy and doesn’t bring you down, or remind you of everything that’s wrong with your life…and the world.”

“Huh-huh, you mean like Mahdakis’s shit.” Frank Slate shook his head. “Good cripes. I love the guy, don’t get me wrong, but Jesus Christ, stick a fork in me when the song’s over, will ya?”

“I can never tell when his songs are over.”

“Yeah,” Frank continued, “sometimes I think the whole concert is just one long-winded song. And I’ll be damned if I ever know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about.”

“It’s called theater, dummy.” Dakota took a drag from her cigarette and blew it in his face. “But I guess a simpleton like you wouldn’t understand.”

Frank grinned, knowing she was only teasing. “Huh-huh-huh, you’re a nasty lil’ cunt, ain’t cha?”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa,” Carl screamed at him, “Easy!”

“I’m just kiddin’. Heck, I roadie for the guy, you know.”

“So you’d think you’d know more about what’s going on with him than you do,” Floyd said.

“Yeah, but I don’t.”

“And therein lies the genius that is Frank Slate. Ha-ha-ha!” Goiter laughed all by himself.

“So basically, F.A.G.G. metal is music that doesn’t burden your brain with any strenuous thinking,” Carl summed up.

“And that’s why so many people like it, and the radio plays it all the time,” Dakota agreed. “It’s ear candy for simple people with limited artistic capacity…

“Of which, there are many.”

“…people who hate having to think, and can only handle simple melodies running through their head.” She took another drag and exhaled as Frank earnestly absorbed what she said. “I mean you might as well play nursery rhymes on the radio.”

“The radio, I-I can’t even listen to it anymore, it’s so full of that F.A.G.G. Metal shit. Fuckin’ disgusting,” Carl hawked a big yellow loogy on the ground.

“You know what Mahdakis says?” Frank asked, trying to remember the conversation.

“This ought to be good.”

“He says that the government’s in cahoots with all these big companies that buy up radio stations and play uh…..what does he call it…..Mind Numbing….yeah, mind numbing music that’s meant to keep the American population…us….ignorant and distracted from what’s really going on. He says, that uh…..that these…these same companies also buy up music rights from older deadbeat artists…”

“Deadbeat?”

“…and uh….what do they do….they uh….yeah, since they now have the royal rights…”

“….Royal rights?”

“They were knighted,” Dakota whispered sarcastically.

“… they make the stations that they bought up, play these same songs over and over again, which makes them rich because the more people hear something, Mahdakis says, the more they want to hear it again because they know it’s safe and………they like uh….status quo, or whatever word he used; and that it will be the same for F.A.G.G. Metal years down the road, you know, because it’s a simple friendly kind of harmless music that brain-dead folks and their nice little children, although I think he said mindless children, will probably like years later. He says it’s all some sort of a…..a net to catch the most American fish at one time, or something like that, I think.”

A long hush of abysmal silence followed as everyone stared at each other, wondering if Frank was done. Floyd shook his head and broke the silence. “I’m not sure what’s worse, Mahdakis and his conspiracy theories, or Frank explaining them.”

Goiter laughed, “Makes it sound twice as insane as it already is.”

“And trust me,” Carl lit up a smoke and said, “neither one of them needs any help sounding insane.”

“Ha-ha!”

Frank turned and walked towards the car. “Fuck it. I like the radio…and F.A.G.G. Metal.”

“Me too, Frank,” Goiter said. “I’m right behind ya pal.”

“Hey-hey-hey, none of that. Just ’cause we’re goin’ to a F.A.G.G. Metal party together doesn’t give you the right to fuck me in the ass.”

“Then what exactly does?” Dakota asked.

Carl rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Can we just please get the fuck out of here already?”

“Yeah, alright,” Frank conceded, “let’s go meet up with our F.A.G.G. Metal friends and suck some F.A.G.G. dick all night long…..Mmm.”

Floyd stared at Frank. “Jesus Christ, Frank. Sometimes I wonder if you even know what the hell you’re saying.”

“Everyone hop in.” Frank got in his car and started it up. “C’mon, let’s go!”

 

 © 2013  Mark Rogers

Benevolence & Betrayal (Book III)

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Pumpkinhead’s Theory of Anti-Prosperity

Pumpkinhead spun around at the foot of the bed to face his older brother, Mahdakis, “So here’s how it works; every Friday at the end of the month, you go up to NYU.”
“The one in New York?”
“The same.”
“But what if the last day of the month doesn’t fall on a Friday?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just go on the last Friday of every month!”
“How long are you going to be locked in this asylum?”
“Not much longer so you’ll probably only be doing this one time. But you gotta unload the shit for me.”
“Cool.”
“You’ll go to the Rubin dorm or Rubin Hall; something like that. It’s on Fifth Ave. Ask for Black Tom. He knows to look out for you. He’s really cool and mellow.”
“And black?”
“And black. Now, he’s gonna sell you the shit. You’re going to buy a pound of bud. Make sure it’s good bud and not shake. Black Tom won’t jerk you around and he usually gets nice stuff, but just make sure.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Not bud? Then don’t buy.”
“Alright. So far so good.”
“You’ll need about twelve hundred dollars.”
“Say what? Where the fuck am I going to get that kind of money?”
“Jesus Christ! Calm the fuck down, man. Don’t you have a job or something?”
“Yeah, I got a job, but my money’s pretty much tied up.”
“Well un-fuckin’ tie it because you have to understand that while twelve-hundred may sound like a lot, you’ll be selling ounces at two-hundred dollars!”
“So wait…..a pound, right?
“Right.”
“And there’s …uh….sixteen ounces in a pound?”
“Last time I checked.”
“So that’s thirty-two hundred dollars?”
“Yeah man, like a two-thousand dollar profit if you don’t use any yourself. You have the capacity to make even more by selling it in small nickel and dime quantities.”
“You must be rolling in the dough by now.”
“Not really man, I got the car payments and the insurance…”
“That’s it though. You got nothing else. Where’s all your money?”
“It’s rough man because we spend twelve or fifteen hundred on a pound sometimes and then end up selling just about the same amount. We break even more times than not.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. You should be making an extra two thousand or so off each deal.”
“Right. But then we need to set aside twelve more for the next buy.”
“So you should have two thousand in your hand.”
“Black Tom and I smoke a lot of it.”
“You smoke all your profits?”
“Basically.”
Mahdakis stood staring at his brother in disbelief, “What’s the matter with you, man? You were always so good with money.”
“I am good with money. I’m just not good with pot.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey man, stop raggin’ on me dude. It pays for itself and the gas to get to and from places, man.”
“So you and Black Tom smoke a half pound in a month? You smoke half your investment?”
“Easily.”
“What if you bought twice as much? Two pounds instead of one?”
“What good would that do?”
“Then you’d be able to have another pound and a half while still having the other half pound for recreation.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because it’s two pounds instead of one.”
“But we smoke up half of it.”
“Right.”
“Half of two pounds is one pound. We’d be smoking an entire pound instead of just half.”
“But you wouldn’t have to!”
“Sure we would!”
“Why?”
“Because we smoke half. That’s how it goes!”
“But don’t smoke half!”
“But that’s what we do! You said so yourself. If we didn’t smoke half then we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. All buying two pounds is gonna do is create more for us to smoke and generate more of a profit loss!”

 © 2013  Mark Rogers

Benevolence & Betrayal (Book III)

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Click here for more inane drivel and lascivious behavior – brought to you exclusively by The B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Chronicles™

Close Encounters Of An Absurd Kind

“Okay, okay…sit down.” As Pumpkinhead sat down at a corner table in the coffee shop, Captain H threw his sandwich on the plastic tray and continued, “How do I communicate with the little green men?”
“Little green men?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey dude, did Jezebel sell you some of that liquid acid? That’s to be taken in small doses, you know. I hope you didn’t slurp that down.”
“Don’t be coy.”
“Coy?” Pumpkinhead picked at his hash browns. “You sure you mean coy?”
“Yeah I mean coy; you know like a wise-ass.” He took another bite of his sandwich.
“A wise-ass is just a wise-ass. If you’re coy, then you’re a bashful, or a shy wise-ass.”
“But you’re still a wise-ass!”
“Only if you use that particular adjective in there, otherwise you’re just a demure person.”
“Stupid?”
“Huh?”
“Stupid….a stupid person. Like, ‘that guy skipping across the street is acting a bit demurely’.”
“Because he’s demure, he’s stupid?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Being demure has nothing to do with stupidity. Did we go to school in the same country?”

2016-07-15-21-25-02

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Hand Jive

“He needs a job.”
“But, he has no skills.”
“Maybe he could  give hand jobs down at the bus depot.”
“It’s steady work.”
“I hear it’s pretty much up and down.”
“It’s something he’d enjoy.”
“What kind of man would want a hand job from Pock? What kind of twisted malcontents are we dealing with out there?” Continue reading