Saturday, December 23, 2017

The Trumpster and the Oysters

The beach was big, and filled with sand.
Like beaches usually are.
Some oysters from the working class
Were hunched around their cars.
When a distant chunky figure.
Clocked those bivalves from afar.
His bleached hair combed across his skull.
His mouth a sphincter smile.
Donald Trump, who else?
He was up to something vile.

No threat at all he seemed at first
But our most fortunate fortunate son.
Had shellfish on his selfish mind.
Looking out for number one.
So dripping sweat and snorting
Like a cokehead with a cold.
He closed the sandy distance.
With a game that don’t get old.
The Trumpster walked up proudly
Squinting at the sun.
His fake tan gleamed like candy corn.
He thought he’d have some fun.

“Hey oysters, guys. You seem depressed.
And I can tell you why.
The government is not your friend.
They lie and lie and lie.
Fake news too! And PC pointyheads.
All want to see you die.
They rigged the game so you can’t win.
Don’t play. Don’t even try.

But come with me, my oyster friends
And we can get them back!
Let’s truck on down this beach
And plan out our attack.
Right past that rock, right over there.
We’ll stop and have a snack.”

The aging hippy looked at them
And shook his shaggy head.
“I’ve seen this shuck before, OK?
You see that loaf of bread?
That fascist’s going to eat you up!
You’re going to wind up dead!”
“Fuck you, hippy” they all replied
And kicked him in the head.

Fast-forward half a mile or so.
They sheltered in the rough.
“The time has come,” the Trumpster said.
To talk of things and stuff.
Of why the rich are overtaxed.
And enough is not enough.
Of why the sea is boiling hot.
And why I brought this pot.

You want a happy ending

This ain't the poem for you
The Trumpster and his hungry friends
Scarfed down on oyster stew.
"Who feels guilty? Anyone?"
But there came no boo-hoo-hoo.
"That's what I thought," the Trumpster smiled
And raised a glass of brew.
"Losers lose and winners feast
I got plenty more for you!"

Thursday, December 7, 2017

And so it was written

EXT, HILLTOP IN ANCIENT ISRAEL — DAY

Jesus preaching the Sermon on the Mount

Jesus: (to Scribe) you getting this?

Scribe: (scribbling away) Oh yeah.

INT, SCRIBE’S HOUSE — NIGHT

Scribe walks inside. Sees various sheets of parchment with obscene drawings on them stuck to the wall.

Scribe: Oh f***!!! Malachi!

Scribe’s Wife: (enters room) What did that little … Oh f***

Scribe: Tell me about it.

Scribe’s Wife: What do we do now? They’re putting the Bible together tomorrow!

Scribe: What … (snaps fingers) We make s*** up.

Scribe’s Wife: Are you crazy?

Scribe: No, you’re right. What was I thinking? We’ll just turn in a bunch of dick picture to the Bible committee.

Scribe’s Wife: I’ll get the papyrus.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017


Come and play with us, Donald. Forever and ever and ever ...

Thursday, November 16, 2017

The Accident-Prone Don

EXT, NEW YORK CITY STREET - DAY
Scratchy black-and-white footage from the 1950s. A Cadillac pulls up to the curb. An imposing Mafia Don approaches. A flunky opens the door. Photographers cluster around him like locusts. 

Narrator: Tony Antonioni. He combined a ruthless, Machiavellian grasp of strategy with sudden bursts of psychotic rage and an extremely poor sense of spatial awareness. That's why they called him "The Accident-Prone Don." But not to his face.


Tony bends down to get in the car. Misjudges. Hits the top of his head.

Tony: Ow! Motherfucker! Why do I always do that?

The car drives away.

Y-yeah.
You designed the Coupe de Ville, huh.
Yes I did. Why.
Love the fins, Harley. But the fucking edriver's side window ends at the roof. There's like three inches of roof! What's up with that?
It's easy to misjudge getting in.
It's a convertible.
Don't give me fucking excuses. It's bad design.
People could get hurt.
Yeah. Like you.

Narrator: (OS) Don Antonioni lived by a simple credo. "Keep your friends close and chop your enemies up into small pieces and put them down the garbage disposal in different locations." This code of honor had worked for him for years. It was still working in 1955. Then a meeting with the Five Families changed everything. It was Don Ameche's Retirement Party. The notorious Boss of All Bosses, also known as the Capo de Tutti Fruiti. 

A toast. To Don Ameche!

Don Antonion raises his glass, clnks it.
The glass shatters.
Red wine spills all over Don Ameche's white coat.

You did this on purpose.
No.
You did this on purpose to insult me!
No. I did not do this thing as you have said with such an untoward intention.
What?
I didn't do it on purpose?
Freud says everything's on purpose. 
Fuck FReud. No disrespect indented. Nomine domine. What do you think.
Ah, Tony, Tony ... Forget it! I think it was an accident.
A what?
An accident. 
Yeah. So ... not like this?

Tony whips out a 45 and blasts Don Ameche full of holes.

Fuck you -- you chickenshit Colonel Sanders motherfucker. 

Sound: (OS) Police sirens.
Tony: We gotta get outta here. Through the kitchen.
He goes through the kitchen doors. Bangs his head.
Tony: Motherfucker!

Sunday, October 29, 2017

F***ing Paper Skeleton


Behold. The F***ing Paper Skeleton. Yes, I had it, once. And I'd been had. The f***ing ad in the f***ing comic book said, "Life-sized human skeleton." It seemed improbable, but they couldn't lie in an ad, right? So I sent away for it. I'm figuring a life-sized, plastic, human skeleton would arrive in in the U.S. Mail in some kind of plastic coffin. "Why, yes, Mr. Postman. I've been expecting that. I'd be happy to sign for it." Then the damn envelope arrived. Envelope? Yes, ENVELOPE. Flat, obviously. It was a f***ing paper skeleton! I knew it immediately, without opening the envelope. They made their bogus, impossible claim. And, like a chump kid, I fell for it. To this day, I've never gotten over the profound disillusionment.

Monday, October 23, 2017

The Vincent Price is Right

Vincent Price: What do we have to bid on, Igor?

Igor wheels out giant plexiglas cage.

Igor: We have the Tingler, master! The Tingler!

Vincent: Excellent!

Contestant: What the hell is a Tingler? Is that some kind of sex thing?

Vincent: Well, no Mrs. Jones. The Tingler in question is a parasite that attaches to the base of the human spine. Have you ever been afraid, in your life? Extremely afraid?

A few times

And did you notice .. a tingling of the spine during this unpleasant experience?

Yes.

Well that's the tingler! It feeds and grows stronger when the host is afraid! There's only one way to stop it. Screaming!

OK.

Well, what do you bid, Mrs Jones?

Nothing! Why the hell would I want ...

Master!

He points to the cage.

The Tingler it has escaped.

Ah. Well, I'm afraid the question is academic, Mrs. Jones.