Grand Ideas and Chocolate Pudding

Fortune never seeks the seeker
less we bring ourselves to bear.
For with our worth we toil and try,
to find our wealth far and near.

Drinking Club Audio Edition

Drinking Club Audio Edition

Huxley

That lousy cocksucker who is the product of a simian and human relations thought he could hurry my bathing.

“You can fucking’ blow yourself. Fucking Nutjob!”

My epithet does not deter Gerald. He paces outside the door. If the door were not there the raper of donkeys would venture in to the room. Thank Christ for the door.


“You afford me no favors, Huxley!”

The Christ loving cocksucker is correct that I afford him no favors. His mother fucking majesty can wait his fucking turn, or he can wait several turns past his turn. The cocksucking little Lord fucking Fauntleroy can preserve his bath time for a future time, and a future fucking date.


“Your language is unacceptable, Huxley! Please refrain from blue language during the bathing operation.”

What a wonder it would be to see an ink pen jabbed into his eye. What a wonder it would be to hear him squealing while writhing on the floor, while the ink pen sprayed ink around the room.

“Cock off!”

You lousy rotten cocksucker, born from a simian love, cock off, and a cock upon your house, and many cocks in your eye, and many cocks to you, sir!


“Your language is unacceptable, Huxley! Please refrain from blue language during the bathing operation.”

Gerald was a mind-reading fucker of swine, and a cocksucker of epic proportions, in addition to his mental illness. He caught something that corroded his mind once upon a time.

“You afford me no favors, Huxley!” the rotten codger before his time shouted. His shouts became a greek chorus.

“Thank you, sir,” Gerald said while standing in the hall, “for relinquishing the bathing room.”

“Cock off!”

Have you ever

There were a few dumplings left, the little container of soy sauce had spilled on the table. Tom threw half an egg roll into what was left of the fried rice. The mei fun was all gone. It’s hard to find good Chinese food in Nebraska. Of course, Tom didn’t know that. How would he? Nebraskan Chinese was all he knew. Nebraskan Chinese…

Sheila

Sheila walked into her apartment. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a Wild Turkey. She lit a cigarette and sat at the kitchen table. Sheila looked into her drink, and smoked. ‘Poor fellow,’ she said. ‘He never saw it.’ She saw in her mind the body spin and fall to the ground. Sheila took the notebook she kept in the kitchen table drawer out and placed it upon the navy blue place mat. It was a composition book from the Dennison Stationary Products company out of Framingham Massachusetts. The book bulged with a fat pen Sheila kept inside to mark her place. Sheila flipped the book open, and took a drink. She smoked, and then wrote.

‘Snow fell.’ she wrote. ‘with soft thuds.
and the body fell to the ground.
Bullets suck for you.’

Sheila drank the Wild Turkey deeply, and shuddered. She took her coat off and draped it around her kitchen chair. She turned her chair, and looked out the window. She could only see the building across the way, and if she pressed her forehead to the glass, down into the alley of the urban canyon. She laughed a little then. She took another drink and laughed some more, then took a drag off her smoke.

‘Trigger finger,’ she wrote. ‘soft.
pop, pop, pop, and red pools in
the snow. Brains and blood.’

Sheila fetched some ice from the freezer and dropped the frozen lumps into the bourbon. She poured some Wild Turkey into the glass. She took another drink. Sheila stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. She cocked her head and watched the embers fail to stay alight in the ashtray. Sheila took another drink of the bourbon.

‘Dead man,’ she wrote. ‘in the snow.
Dead men and their tales untold.
Bullets solve them all.’

Sheila closed the composition book, finished her drink, poured another, and dropped in a few more lumps of ice. Sheila lit another cigarette.

Todd

Todd lived in Delaware. It’s the first state. Todd worked in a pet store. It was his first job. Todd listened to a lot of Pink Floyd. Todd wore a denim jacket, all the time, even in the winter. It got to be a bit chilly. Todd drove a 74 Nova. It was his first car. Todd lived in his parents’ basement. He had a tv, a stereo, and lots of posters of the Philly Flyers. Todd went to the dentist every three months, like clockwork. Todd was happy.

Then Todd met Gretchen.

Todd now lives in Las Vegas. He tends bar, doing neat tricks with the bottles. Todd makes good tips, and is happier.

And that’s all there is. Sometimes, all you need is a little Gretchen to change your world.

Allegra

After I’ve seen a movie, any movie, in a theater, I have an overwhelming urge to write. It doesn’t happen if I’ve watched a movie on tv, only when I’ve attended a theater. The urge generally comes devoid of a muse. I don’t know what I want to write about, just that I have to write. Usually a specific thought or feeling fills me, and that is the impetus to write. This is different. This is writing first, inspiration needs to be found. The predictability of some films convinces me that I could easily have written them.

Tonight I remember why I loved Allegra. I have not seen her in over 7 years, and I haven’t thought of her in a very long time, but tonight I remembered why I loved her; she would listen to me. I don’t mean that she would heed any opinions I offered. Quite to the contrary, I relished that she lived by her own mind. She liked to listen to me speak. Allegra was, and most likely still is, an incredibly beautiful and highly intelligent woman. Most everyone, including myself, was often confused by her attraction to me.

Allegra would often ask me random questions tangential to anything we were currently doing, in order to provoke a long, opinionated oration, which with me, was inevitable. She would then intently listen. There was an indefinable stillness about her that made me want to talk as much as she wanted to listen. Her eyes would be locked on mine. Her smile was infectious. She hung on every word. Her intensive stare and obvious enjoyment filled me with her acceptance and affection. I could be on a tirade about my intolerance for the general inconsideration of the human race, or explaining the intricacies of the trap play; she would listen. Her attention was fixated upon me even if the particular subject was of absolutely no interest to her. She may have indeed been enamored with my oratory prowess, but I believe the bigger truth is that she lavished her engrossment upon me because it fed my ego. I love to be the center of attention, and I adored being the center of hers. This little exercise worked both ways. I delighted in hearing her tender her viewpoint on anything. Allegra spoke with poise, charisma and intelligence. I would get lost in the lilt and rhythm of her voice.
I remember why I loved her.

Yeah, I messed it up, but that’s a story for another day.

Rudy Powell

Rudy Powell sat in his easy chair and donated money to a Tsunami Relief organization. He felt fine as he clicked the icon that sent five thousand dollars to people less fortunate than he. Rudy set his computer aside and went over to his bar. He dropped several lumps of ice into a glass, and poured in three fingers of wild turkey. He took a quick drink and lit a smoke. On the bar was a spiral notebook opened to a blank page. Rudy took another drink and a magic marker out of his pocket, and set to work on a set list. He wrote:

1. Sand to Glass
2. I want Your Bush Love
3. Bush Love (reprise)
4. Camel Peace Piss
5. World without Filters


Rudy wrote out the set list, and drank. The club management promised Rudy and his band a quarter of an hour that night, and he wanted to make the most of them. Rudy hummed ‘Sand to Glass’ and drank. He drank and then sang:

‘I want to turn your sand to glass
take this missile up your ass.
Fuck your turban, and fuck your sister,
My warhead will give her a blister.’

‘It’s is so fucking tight,’ he said and drank. ‘Goddamned,’ he said, ‘what a fucking song.’

Rudy checked his band’s website, and the their fan mail, and the comments section of the band’s blog. He switched on the television while he composed witty and clever replies in his mind.

‘…think that jounalist should receive money from the government for reporting on government programs.’
‘Without these programs Brit, several journalists would be out in the cold. They would be un-able to make a living.’
‘I agree totally Tom. These programs are indispensable. These programs provide twenty or thirty thousand dollars to needy journalist.’
‘But at what trade off?’
‘Well, obviously the journalist will have to…’

Rudy switched off the television, and closed his notebook computer. He put on his leather biker jacket, and packed up his guitar. He locked up his apartment and went down the interior staircase.

At the front door he stopped, and said; ‘Shit.’ Rudy reversed course, and went back up the stairs to his apartment. He grabbed the fat envelope off the bar and stuffed it inside his coat pocket.