UNREMITTING FAILURE

At least substance abuse

Has substance.  It's not like you're abusing fluff.

The Good Old Baseballers

All huffed ether.  It's a fact.  Ty Cobb says as much in his autobiography, Get Yer Damned Eye Out of My Spikes!  Ty said one night Babe Ruth did so much ether he basically melted, slowly spreading in an oleo of Babe that ultimately covered the entire outfield.  Caught ten fly balls. At the end of the night they rolled him up like a tarp and let him sleep it off.  He woke up the next day and ate 46 hot dogs.

Ornery bastid

Mumps

Sounds like a family lives in RD2.  Which sounds like a failed Star Wars character. "RD2, run!  Mumps!"

We Don't Like to Flatter Ourselves

But if you gave 1,000 monkeys their own blogs, only 875 of them would be better than ours.

We've Been in Lockdown All Day

Trying to finish a long piece for the City Paper on grave robbing.  It's been exhausting but fun.  Now, if you'll excuse us, we need bandages for these shovel-blisters.

It's not that we don't have feelings

It's just that we outsource them to India.

Prose Poem by Jeffrey Little, the John Greenleaf Whittier of Littlestown!

The Drum Thing

The drums are not in my head I repeat the drums they're not in my head.  The drums are in my head.  Along with my parents transformed into wicker chairs.  I confess to a confusion as to a clean, white baseball from the war. 

All the dogs we never bought in strip malls, are in my head.  I try to teach them to fetch and i remind them never to sit in my parents. 

My head is a sausage casing I struggle to keep from the skillet blackly smoking on the stove as my wife stares into the mixing bowl at a curdled batch of Aunt Jemima.  I haven't a notion of what she's looking for but it's in there, she tells me - growing - a tiny arm from out a forehead.  It will speak to her this arm in a language the language of the drums not in my head. 

Just yesterday we learned to breathe salt water while waiting for the bus.  It was like watching a cartoon subtitled in sanskrit but by the fifth stop we were there, our heads completely submerged in plastic beach pails of brine. 

You would think this exhilarating but actually it seemed more of a chore, besides for my wife there was still the pancake batter to consider and the nagging question of first contact.  As for myself it turned to thunder the drums rolling through my head the drums not rolling through my head. 

We're in a corn field when she turns to me, holds up a clean, white baseball and says "dogs are coming," a pair of chairs without any cushions sitting by the side of the road and my right hand turned to wicker.  In a language the language of the drums not in my head.

Futility isn't for everyone

It's a calling.  You have to be able to hear the winds of nothingness blowing through your skull.  And you have to know that everything you do, say, think, dream, and feel is of no consequence whatsoever.  It's quite exciting, actually. 

Here at Unremitting Failure

We peddle failure and futility.  Today we're running a special.  It's buy one, get one free.

Don't Be Brave

It's going to hurt and you're going to hate it.  What?  Everything.