fictional states of an actual mind, part one

here is a state i invented and drew up all by my lonesome.



i call it "textatonia" (in case you can't read my awful handwriting). textatonia features mt. blap, sippy cup hills, all the rest, klak lake, and clusterfuck town. it is the only state in my union that uses the word "shiv" more than "shit"

possibly the biggest party pooper ever (maybe)

So I wrote Sirhan Sirhan (the guy who assassinated (maybe) Robert F. Kennedy) about an anecdote one of my professor's told my class. His response is hopefully on its way (maybe).



Dear Sirhan Sirhan,

You don't know me and there's no reason why you would. My name is Talmage and I live in Portland, OR where I attend school for unknown reasons.

I recently came upon an audio file of your new lawyer presenting the case for clearing your name. His argument was strong and his spirits high. If nothing else, his legal ramblings should grant you a re-trial of sorts. Good luck to you.

I believe there are thousands of people locked up in the American justice system unjustly. In my humble opinion, you are one of these people. I do hope some rotten conspiring government journeymen get their comeuppance and spend time in the very cells they condemn the innocent.

I was wondering what prison is like for an innocent man? What are your days like? Read any good books lately or is that not allowed? There's a lot I don't know about prisons.

I just recently learned cakes with files baked within are rare, if not impossible.

The reason for this letter has to do with my screenwriting professor. He claimed he tutored you in the Russian language. During one of these sessions someone gave him the news of John F. Kennedy's death.

This is quite a coincidence. That is, to be in the presence of the guy (you) who reportedly shot RFK while finding out about the assassination of JFK? That would be an American's definition of irony, sir…Han.

My professor's name is Charles Deemer. He is portly and maintains a rather loud voice even throughout private conversation. His teeth are bad. I would really appreciate it if you could verify, or decertify this, because Professor Deemer is, to say the least, a blowhard, and I would love nothing more to sully his reputation in front of a large group of people.

Sincerely,

Talmage Larry

scientific beard

I have been thinking about my lack of beard lately.

For 4 years I always thought people treated me differently because of its presence. Since I shaved it off two weeks ago, I no longer think it a factor on how people act toward me. Sure, I am ID'd more often. And when I tell people my name they no longer assume I am jewish, amish, or occasionally, and baffling, buddhist (true story).

But really, in a city where you can't swing an unnecessary scarf without hitting another unnecessary scarf and a beard, there is no tangible difference in how people perceive your lack of facial hair against a clean, shaven face.

Without a beard I now feel liberated like the probable-guy in ZZ-Top that probably thought the hirsute shtick was bullshit.

The picture above was drawn by my friend Bridget, who is admirable enough not to have a myspace page. And after an eight-year friendship I have no idea how to spell her first or last name correctly. She is an honest-to-god scientist. That is the type of profession I need to add to my "Who'd I like to Meet" on myspace section.

UPDATE: "Who'd I like to meet" updated.

a partial guide to a now-absent beard

horse hair and dog food

Construction of The Pentagon began during the same year the U.S. stopped sleepin' on like the biggest event of the decade, World War II. Shit was mad crazy during those times. The military needed all sorts of otherwise useless garbage to throw at the Axis (Japan, Germany, the Mario Bros.). Since the baby boom hadn't happened, and Carl Finacken's patented baby-pult was frowned upon by pro-lifers everywhere, the army had to settle on bullets, sabers, and atomic bombs.

And the construction of such materials, unlike babies (semen + drunken flewsy = baby), took a lot of ...well materials. With China solely in the firework game, we had no one to supply the means for massive debt. The American people's only recourse? Sacrifice.

And sacrifice they did. The excess Bath and Body Works lotion Molly would lather up with every morning had to be culled by Jimmy, her pervert little brother, from her back and used to jack his dicky-dack-dack while the sink ran on low to drown out his self-gratification grunts. Yes, times were hard.

Back to the Pentagon. Because of the shortage of materials the soon-to-be Department of Defense Headquarters was insulated with horsehair.

So when the plane hit the Pentagon, witnesses say the whole area reeked of old, burning hair.

They also add that all the candy machines in the area of the impact burst, shooting mentos, good n' plenties all over the damned place.

When I think of the stench of burning hair and brightly colored treats everywhere I am reminded of the place of my birth, Ogden, Utah.

Ogden has a dog food factory near downtown. Inside, blood and bones are burnt, spreading a wretched stench all over the city. When you factor in the grotesque smell brought by Westerly winds from the mostly putrid Great Salt Lake you start to get my drift.

I fucking loved that city.
.

nazis on steroids

So I wrote this for the school paper about everyone's favorite homoerotic spectacle, pro wrestling. Check it out, if you must (my editor kind of chopped it). More importantly, after I had interviewed the wrestlers and went to two events near Troutdale I was doing some extra research on the internet on the gang I focused the article on, The Illuminati.

turns out, they are likely nazis. Below is my internet found evidence. Tell me what YOU think.




EXHIBIT A:


Wade Hess' (member of Illuminati) myspace page

note the American History X banner. Not to incriminating because the film isn't really "pro-nazis" but plenty of racists latch onto it for the same reasons many dumb republicans like the colbert report.




EXHIBIT B:



Here is a pic of Wage Reichten with accompanying text "wage in war"



note the botched pun.





EXHIBIT C:



here is derek drexyl, manager of the Illuminati as him and Wade Hess manhandles a microphone together.


note the fucking swastika on drexyl's arm.





EXHIBIT D:



Another Hess myspace gem, with the quote, "two of the worlds greatest world leaders!"



note the lazy comparison often made by delusional people of both political persuasions followed by the unrepentant affirmation, that yes, according to Hess, Bush's perceived proximity to hitler's leading style is a good thing.





EXHIBIT E:



note his utter disregard for sharing.





AND FINALLY, EXHIBIT F:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lidWpE3I14o

wage can be seen here hailing hitler.

in his defense, he was pretty nice in person. can nazis be polite?

also, i might add that these guys were constantly talking about how there is NO difference between their wrestling characters, and their outside-of-ring-personas. I touch on that in my article.

so, do YOU think they are nazis?

James Pants is better than Jane Skirts

deep blue something changed my life

more about potatos, part three

part two,
part one

underwhere

I’ve got a leaky faucet. And I am not talking about my sink, kitchen or otherwise. Now today I realize after a month of being short on underwear after The Incident (a blog for another day) new underwear is needed, sorely. So I go to my local Fred Meyers.

Upon arrival, a predicament is shown to me in deciding which whitey tighties I should purchase. My first instinct is to buy the color white—not because of racism and/or The Bible, but because, well, they are “whitey tighties.” But if the pure is my choice what awful calamities could happen upon them? For one, as I have mentioned, my leaky faucet would render the front of my new under-shorts yellow. Secondly, The Incident, aforementioned, of which I am at no point to be able to write on, could ravage the color white in unmentionable ways. White is out, but what of black? Semen, semen is what of black—the foil to all colors condensed—or lacking, depending if you look upon a computer screen, or a painter’s canvas.

Black is out. Green is preposterous. And blue? Blue you ask of? I may as well buy black.

So my proposal is this: A multi-colored “whitey tightie”, one that will suffuse semen and urine in the front, and would hide in the back whatever came of The Incident.

I’m requesting a campaign convincing Hanes, and Michael Jordan if needs be, to create such a tightie for us with leaky faucets, a propensity to precarious semen placement, and those, who at their lowest point, can succumb to The Incident.

Join me.

the rock at the plaid

A man came in, scrunched short, with a heavy, general accent wanting to know if we sold glass pipes. “They smoke the rock in them,” was his only qualifying statement.

more about potatos, part two

more about potatos

my courtly youtube subscribers

I recently posted my videos, shoed in and shoed in, part two on a youtube account I created in hopes of achieving worldwide fame.

My only subscribers so far are men with beard fetishes.

shoed in, part two

part two, to see part one scroll down.

Tinkling Capacity

I kept a tan plastic bucket of X-Men action figures under my bed, playing with them until my mid-teens. Puberty saw black curled hairs gathering on the carpet, and then clinging to the small men—curling around bulging arms and legs. Finally they would settle into mussed piles in each of the bucket’s corners. By this time Wolverine had lost an arm, Gambit a leg, and all my friends their toys. The plastic men could no longer be involved with social interaction like when I was six; the bucket would be tucked further under the bed for still easy access, but also guarded anonymity.

At times, when I was sure no one would walk in, I would act out what little and imprecise things known about sex using the action figures. The scenes more resembled fish fighting on land then human copulation.

I stopped watching the Saturday morning cartoons of the mutant- powered heroes much earlier. When I did watch—every Saturday morning—it was assumed a mutant power laid within myself. Festering powers, and solving problems, like the prophets of old I learned of on Sunday mornings. It seemed a sure thing, I was after all a child of God (like the song), and I did feel different (red hair and all). I thought about his future powers every day—whether they would resonate from my eyes or nipples, and which world leaders would offer thank yous and medals—and was more than a little disappointed when I discovered my only mutant power was wetting the bed until the age of sixteen.

shoed in, part one

part two coming soon.