he felt slightly uncomfortable, for he had nothing to look at, and did not know where to direct his gaze. luckily, there was a big picture window, and he gazed out of it, even though he did not especially want to look at the cars passing on the street.
suddenly, a small bird flew into the big picture window, making a soft noise. The man thought the noise sounded like "thud," but this was perhaps because "thud" was the word used in his society for such a noise.
the bird knocked its head against the window again and again. "thud, thud thack-thud, thud, thack." the man felt sorry for the bird, although it did give him something to look at.
the bird continued to collide with the window, until it had knocked itself senseless. It fell into a tiny mound on the pavement outside, it's little white feathers and brown feathers trembling slightly in the breeze. the man sipped some more. Now there was nothing to look at. The bird had fallen in a place where it was hardly visible. after a few more sips, the man decided, "I will step outside, and examine the bird."
he tipped his chair over as he got up, attracting looks from other patrons. the man set the chair up-right. Then he stepped outside.
the eyes were shiny, black, and wide. the sharp little beak continued to open and close. the man crouched near the bird and sipped. a cold, damp breeze blew on the feathers and on the man's clothes. the man wanted to reach out and touch the feathers, but he was worried that there might be germs or lice on them. he wanted to help in some way. he said quietly, "poor little thing,"
at these words, the tiny creature turned its head to the man and whispered, "you know nothing about me, and my life," and then it expired in a quick, trembling spasm.
the man stood up and looked around. no one else had heard. for lack of knowing what else to do, he raised his cup to his lips, but there was no longer anything to sip. he went inside and sat down at the same table.
"why did I come back in?" thought the man, "I have nothing left to sip." when he got up to leave he knocked the chair over again, and again the patrons looked at him. he felt like saying to them, "what? have you never seen a chair knocked over? cretins!" but he carefully put the chair back in its place.
"why?" he thought to himself. he pictured himself knocking the chair over a third time, and then saying to the others, "fascinating, isn't it? I ought to be a showman." but of course he left quietly, and lived the rest of his life as unobtrusively as possible.
the smell of suntan lotion was wafting on the breeze
Outside the window thousands of houses gleamed white. Somewhere in the distance a power tool buzzed, and a mourning dove went "coo," a mourning dove went "coo."
Bob jotted it down.
Scott smoked a cig.
Jeva lay in bed and after some time got up to pee.
They all got up to pee after some time.
Then it was coffee and cigs for Jeva, coffee and donuts for Scott, coffee and cereal for Bob, though for Bob the coffee was entirely a mental excercise, for he no longer drank coffee.
It was going to be a day. And nothing memorable was going to happen. Try to remember a forgettable day. . .you cannot, can you? Bob had read of a man who lived every day in such a forgettable way, that he could not remember a single thing he had ever done. Furthermore, each day came as a mild sort of surprise, because he hadn't the slightest notion about what would happen. Personally, I don't believe that tale for a second, and I told Bob so.
Bob said, "Why don't you believe it?"
Me: "If it were true, how would anyone know about it?"
"Huh?" replied Bob.
I said, "If that man could not remember any of his life, he could not have told anyone about it."
We argued lamely about it for a little while.
the next day
The next day Bob awoke feeling unusually well rested and he was fifteen minutes late for work. As usual when oversleeping, he had dreams involving his coworkers. . .
The phone rang as he was taking a shower. He did not hear his answering machine pick up, nor did he hear his supervisor leave a message to this effect: "Uh, Bob, It is 9:30. Get up and come to work."
But in the long run, it really made no difference that Bob did not hear the phone. Except when Bob got home that night, he noticed a new message blinking on the machine.
"A message?" thought Bob, "For me?"
But, of course, it was merely his supervisor telling him to come to work.
Not his woman telling him to come to bed.
Bob did not have a woman, but he began to think about the women that he knew and tried to decide which one he would most like to go to bed with. None of them seemed quite right.
A letter to the Weekly Liberal
A cursory examination of this region's free weekly alternative papers will reveal that the town of Charlotte boasts the poorest example by far in her Weekly Liberal, a rag that is quintessentially Charlotte in its bland, insipid articles and weak, uninspired commentary, but mostly in its pathetic groveling and bowing to sponsors and corporate interests. This paper so consistently cultivates the characteristics that we are supposed to find loathsome in conservatives, that we might forget it is ostensibly an "alternative" "liberal" publication. The unqualified ramblings of Burk N. Stocks, whose column could easily be replaced each week with the slogan "liberal good, conservative bad" serves to remind us.
But my main objective in writing this letter is not to criticize the WL, but to offer a means of improving it. I have submitted for review several short columns. I can provide columns of this nature on a weekly basis as long as there is a need for them. And while there is no money to be directly gained from the inclusion of my column, I am graciously offering it free of charge, and I am positive that it will cause a marked increase in readership, at first among the many consumers with whom I am aquainted, and them among those who discover my column and come to look forward to reading it each week.
I anticipate hearing from you soon,
Charles Q. Spugley
The leaves are turning black
I piss out my back door. I listen to the piss crackle in the dry leaves. I feel the cool of night on my skin, for I piss at night. I shake my penis to dispel the last drops of urine, and sometimes I stand there with my dick in my hand and look at the moon, or if the moon is not in sight, the tree branches sillouetted against softly glowing clouds. I piss outside because my toilet is broken.
Jeva said to me, "Why don't you fix your toilet?" for he is want to use my toilet.
I said, "Just piss outside."
He said, "I have to shit."
I said, "Then shit in the neighbor's yard."
He said, "OK," and wandered off. Maybe they will find it, and blame someone's dog. There are lots of dogs in the neighborhood. But still, Jeva raises a good point. I should fix my toilet, because the dry leaves in my back yard are turning black.
I have taken up knitting
I have taken up knitting. I knit my brow. This is my response to any problem or dilemma, or uncomfortable situation. This response is entirely ineffectual. For all the good it does, I might as well be tossing rose petals around: The car does not work--toss rose petals. I have no money--toss rose petals. I go to jail--toss rose petals. I do not like you--toss rose petals. My brow is knit--toss rose petals. Also, there is a tension along the bridge of my nose which I believe is caused by smiling at people I wish to scowl at. I would enjoy being able to scowl at someone now and then. I would rather like for someone to scowl at me. We would scowl at each other with only the best of intentions, of course. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt. I just want to allow more scowling. And body odor.
I took a shit in my toilet today
I was recounting some mildly humorous incident to Jeva, and in the course of telling it I mentioned that a took a shit in my toilet.
"Wait a minute," interrupted Jeva, "Your toilet works now?"
"Yes." I said.
"How did that happen?"
"Well, Jason originally broke the toilet when he fixed it."
"Huh?"
"You know how toilets will sometimes run constantly?"
"Yeah."
"Well, ours did that. Because the float ball was out of place. So Jason bent the rod that connected to the float ball, and the toilet stopped running." I paused a second in my telling of the narrative. What point was I getting to, I wondered? I had forgotten.
"So how did your toilet get fixed?" asked Jeva.
"Oh, yeah. Well, you see, the rod the Jason bent was attached to a thing called the ballcock."
Jeva found that amusing about the ballcock.
"And when Jason bent the rod, he jiggled the ballcock. Causing it to leak."
This was even funnier to Jeva. "Can't have a leaky ballcock," he joked.
"So anyhow, We had to turn off the water. But today Jason finally got a new ballcock, and now the toilet works. More or less."
"More or less?"
"Well it justs runs constantly. That's all."
"Hmm," reflected Jeva, "I guess I shouldn't have crapped in your neighbor's yard this morning then."
If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump off it, too?
Why not? All my friends just died.
why did you get drunk?
To simplify things. Things seem much more simple when I'm drunk.
That girl is beautiful
I would fuck her in a minute. Literally.
By that do you mean that it would take you no longer than a minute to fuck her?
Unfortunately, yes. In fact, I have already climaxed. I must go and change my underwear now.
Imagine being a phallic symbol
tuesday
I went rather to slowly to work, and worked so slowly that I was told to work faster. I felt thoroughly unhappy to be there. I passed the time having imaginary conversations with people I hated, berating them with my witty and scathing verbal assaults, while realizing all the same that the only ego I was reducing was my own. When I left work I went quickly home to continue being unhappy. I felt slightly hungry, but had nothing slightly fulfilling.
