Possession. Obsession. Recession.
By jon | December 21, 2008
Craig Ehlo stared into his glass and confiscated his future. Half full? Half empty? Or just Totally Messed Up? For as long as he could remember he had been rattling around these cruddy streets like a nickel in a piggy bank’s butt.
Craig was a Made Man. He knew the Wall Street Game like a woodland creature somehow knows not to eat it’s own poop. Buy high, sell high, loosen the knot thing on you’re tie, and wait for the domino’s to fall. While all those other jokers on Wall Street were playing hop scotch, Craig was playing Domino Rally. And thusly he had made his fortune; a fortune so big that if I told you how big it was, you would flop around on the floor and have a Caesar.
But their were things that money could not buy. A wife. A family. Ruddy, rubbernecked children playing their Gameboys by the flaccid warmpth of the fire place. Electronic silverware. These were appliances that none man dare beholden, only bequeath.
“Theirs no answer at the bottom of this glass of this thing which I’m drinking,” Craig realized. He looked up. The club was extemporaneous. Suits, ties, fancy dresses. People laughing and eating cheeses. A scene straight out of “Blank Check.” And yet, Craig felt instead like Kurt Russell in “Breakdown.” He was Furious. He messed up his hair. He looked like a Beatle.
He stood up, gave his glass to the waiter’d, and spilled out into the street like a Big Gulp in the tiny hands of a clumsy child. “Taxi!” he screamed. “Hailcab!” He climbed into the waiting taxi and road home. The Manhatten lights echoed through the window and across his face. He looked like a Paula Abdul record. His only solaces were the firm, artrock strains of Papa Roach flowing through the stereo:
Theres no money theres no possession only
Obsession I dont need that shit
Take my money take my possession take my obsession
I dont need that shit
Because everything is nothing
And emptiness isnt everything
This reality is really just a fucked up dream
With the flesh and the blood that you call your soul
Flip it inside out its a big black hole
Take your money burn it up like an asteroid
Possession though youre never gonna feel the void
Take it away and learn your best lesson
The heart the soul the life the passion
And before he knew it, this Wall Street Warrior was home. He got out, handed his coat and tie to the Maitre’Door, and took the Penthouse elevator to his Penthouse.
His Penthouse was as elegant as Leandor Barbosa in a dinner jacket. From the walls hung pictures and paintings and Japanese stuff. “Look at this. Possession, obsession. Big black hole sun, won’t you come, and wash away the rain.” The song was stuck in his gut like a Spear of Destiny.
He sat down at his computer and checked the Stocks. Up, as always. He looked at the charts. Vertical as the snowboarding monkey from Most Valuable Primate 2: Most Vertical Primate.
Craig Ehlo grinned a grin of Menace. He picked up the phone. “Yes. I would like to sell one billion shares of Googlecom. Outsider trading? No. I would like to insider trade it this time. I know it’s against protocol! Just sell those freaking Googlecoms or your fired.”
And with that, he blew the economy into Kingdom Kong.
Topics: By: Jon | No Comments »
The Way of the Gun.
By jon | May 23, 2008
Jonothon Voit chased the mutt down and threw him against an old getto wall 105 times. The uncough man had done enough evil deeds to make a minister barf. It was a Dark Night in the Land of the Hard, and this night, Jonothon Voit stirred the stew. This freaking creep was a pea or carrot.
The creep lay on his butt like Tony Parker after a Fool’s Elbow from the likes of Rambis. He prayed his precious prayer’s to Jesus and God; however; neither lendt an ear. Waiting for dearth.
Jonothon Voit took out the gun from his manifold. The creep shuttered.
“You know how a gun works?”
The creep was confused, because it was wierd to have conversation right now.
“Well let me shine some light on the Way of the Gun. See this hear? This is the handle. You just put a bullet in the handle…like this.”
A click echoed throughout the alley. The creep jumped, because he was scared because the gun made a sound. The gun that would soon snitch his life.
“Then this is what happens. The bullet sit’s in the handle. Waiting like a gumball in the Death Machine. A kid will eat it and blow bubble’s. You will eat it and Blow You Away.
“Then I do this.” Voit spun the round thing in the middle of his gun incredibly fast. “This is the primer. Get’s the juice’s flowing.
“You see, the Science of the Gun has been invented by Science. Its an evolution, like you or me. All the same in this freewheeling world. Its’ but a keg in the machine. The world is a freaking unicycle that goes nowhere because there impossible to ride.
“Lucky for me…training wheel’s.” “Jonothon Voit hit a piece on the back of the gun and it made a sound.” “Now I did that thing, and the bullet is in the chamber. Its begging to be shot. Begging fore a ride. Like a junk-yard dog. Choking on his collar by his chain. The bullet is a dog.”
This is important because the creep, Timothy, started his Evil long ago by throwing rocks at a dog. Timothy begg’d refuge from the Pain Train about to roll over him at 50 M.P.H.
“Oh. Almost forgot. The safety.” Jonothon didn’t really forget; it was Theater. Jonothon unscrewed the lid from the barrel of the gun. “Now your dead. Tell the Lord God he owe’s me a sole.”
Timothy grifted his teeth. Then: the science. Bullet. Gun. Gunpowder. Trigger. Bullet. All working together like a League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
The bullet fire’s.
Timothy checks his head. Its still there. Jonothon Voit smiled, the safety clench’d in his teeth.
“Yore life starts now. Go be a freaking doctor. Go into the Telecom field. Do whatever the freak you want, but get out of these streets, my fine feathered friend. Their going to swallow you up and crap you out. Fightclub
It was an awkwardly randome night.
Topics: By: Jon | 1 Comment »
A Miner Threat
By justin | January 8, 2008
Private Pete was a private in the U.S.A. Army of America. It was his first day in the army and he was doing his best to make a good first impression. He was a minesweeper. He made a lot of friends because he was a cool guy with a hot girlfriend (supermodel Kathy Ireland) and an awesome car (a 1986 Ferrari Testarossa). The day was almost over when he heard his name called over the intrecom instructing him to go to the head office. His boss at the army, General Patton Q. Howitzer, called him into his office and told him it was his job to sweep the battlefield for mines before the big war. “The big war is tomorrow, private,’ said the General, “and we need the batlefield swept for mines so that our soldiers don’t get blown to smithereens!”
“But sir,” said Pete, “this is my first day in the Army! Shouldn’t this operation be left for someone with more experience?”
“What is your major malfunction, maggot,” barked the General. “If I wanted to answer questions I would have challenged you to a round of Trivial Pursuit! Do I make myself clear, Private?”
“Sir, yes sir,” saluted Pete.
Pete gathered up his minesweeping supplies and headed toward the battlefield. The cool night breeze whipped through his flowing blonde hair like a bunch of hip urban youths performing a high-speed supercharged Tokyo drift around an inner-city street corner. “This place is a mess,” riffed Pete. “Time to sweep it up.”
With the grace of an eagle and the majesty of a faster, smarter, cooler eagle, Pete set to work. He was spitting out flags and marking territory much like a pitbull with a hyperactive bladder. No soldiers were going to die on his watch. He took a minute to reflect upon the horrors of war.
From far off in the distance, Pete heard the faint notes of the Army’s marching song, Rollin’ by Limp Bizkit. As he struggled to hold back the tears of respect for all it represented he knew there was still one more mine out there. But oh no! He was all out of flags… except for one. The mother of all flags, Old Glory herself. Pete pulled the flag from his satchel and thinking back upon former American heroes like George Washington, Hulk Hogan, Mick Jagger and Most Xtreme Primate, deftly hurled it across the battlefield. It punctured the dirt like a hot needle puncturing the scarred face of a socially awkward 14-year old. At just that moment the rest of the Army showed up to fight the war. Pete breathed a sigh of relief. Democracy had been saved.
That night after the war had ended, the other soldiers threw Pete a big party and told him how cool he was. Then the phone rang! Pete picked it up and it was none other than the President! The President of America! “Bang up job, Pete! Or should I say General Pete?”
“What do you mean, sir,” questioned Pete.
“In light of your recent accolades I have decided to promote you to General of the Army,” juristicted the President. “Effective immediately!”
Pete turned and faced the soldiers who were giving him a rousing ovation of respect similar to that received by Keenan Ivory Wayans whenever he’d appear on the Arsenio Hall show. “As my first order as General of the army,” speeched Pete, “I’m commanding all of you to eat pizza and ice cream! And remember, that’s an order! Oh, and Private Howitzer, I’ve got a special assignment for you.”
“W…what’s that sir,” toadied the former General.
“Lick. My. Boots.”
Then Kathy Ireland gave Pete a blowjob in his Ferrari while they flew to Paris for a romantic triste (the car could fly too).
Topics: By: Justin | No Comments »