Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Pizza Place

I'm sitting in a pizza place waiting for my order. People are complaining because their food is taking longer than they thought it was going to take.

The infinite magic of the universe, the impossibility of human existence, an unfathomable coincidence has led us to this irrelevant and inconsequential moment in time, where people are angry because the restaurant is busy and their food isn't coming on time.

When they are dead and buried in the ground, nobody will remember they ever fucking existed. But people will still be eating pizza.

Halloween Poem

On a night like tonight many moons ago
A tragedy struck; terror, sorrow, and woe
I recount to you this tale of dread
The time I accidentally caught the zipper of my pants on my penis head
Like a venus fly trap it became ensnared
I was mentally and physically unprepared
For the pain from which there was no way to escape
And the gruesome sight below my waist
Of my penis - mangled, bloody and torn
Like a circumcision by a rabbi in a blindfold
Ripped to shreds like rice paper in a bear trap
From this injury I knew there was no going back
As I picked up the pieces of my mutilated cock
I woke up from my dream in a shock
"Oh thank God!" I cried, "It was only a nightmare!"
I felt my intact genitalia through my underwear
But I already knew that there was nothing amiss
Because my bed sheets were sopping wet with piss

Sunday, October 29, 2017

Context

Context is important. Without context, things would not make any sense.

Without context, golf would sound fucking insane. Men in weird clothes driving around in motorized carts, occasionally stopping to dismount and unsheathe a metal rod after careful deliberation of the exact circumstances that have brought them to this moment. The rod they eventually choose has been designed specifically for the terrain considerations.

One at a time, they place a tiny white ball onto a funnel and hit the ball with the stick. If they are lucky, the ball will not land in water or sand but will come to rest in a patch of grass that is darker than the other grass surrounding it. The ultimate goal is to make the ball go inside a hole in the ground and then pull it back out.

The men who golf have their own language. Birds do not fly, they are unit of measurement of how many times you hit a ball with a stick. A foursome is not a sex orgy. Instead, it is much less interesting.

Why do people do this? Whose idea was it? What do they get out of it? Don't they have better things to do?

Boob Telescope

I have a telescope set up by the window of my eighth floor studio apartment. It is manufactured by a company called Celestron and the model number is 21035. I bought it on Amazon, where it is the number one best selling refracting telescope. A significant amount of time was devoted to reading the reviews of the all the top rated telescopes. I wanted to make sure that the telescope I bought was the best value for money.

I use the telescope to look at women's breasts. I spy on them in the adjacent apartment buildings while they get changed. I watch them walking on the street on their way to the supermarket, or maybe to an important meeting. Without the telescope they would be small, like ants. The telescope has changed my life.

My curtain is drawn almost all the way, save for a small slit where I stick my telescope. Nobody knows that I am watching them. Nobody knows what I do with my telescope. On the occasion that I have guests over, I tell them that I have recently taken an interest in astronomy. It is the perfect cover. Nobody questions it.

The telescope is designed to be portable, for people who want to travel the world and look at stuff, but I rarely leave my apartment now. In the real world, I cannot see boobs with the same level of focus and precision. If I try to, then I get yelled at or arrested.

I have a recurring nightmare. My penis is a large telescope. I cannot have sex anymore. Women are repulsed by me. Nobody wants to get fucked by a telescope.

Friday, October 20, 2017

Building a Deck

Last month was my 64th birthday but I don't feel like I'm a day over 34. My vitality is stronger than ever. I have a young man's blood coursing through my veins. I can feel it. I think today's going to be the day I finally finish building that deck. I'm building it for guests, 4th of July, etc. That's how I feel today. I feel like building a fucking deck out of cedar and pine and spruce.

I'm going to be shirtless while I build it. You can see the sweat glistening off my pectorals. I look up to see you and the sun bounces off the steel nail I'm holding between my teeth and it's so bright it nearly blinds you. You stand there holding a tray of lemonade. You bend down to offer me a glass. I say, "No thanks, buddy, I don't need any of that shit." You say, "It's not shit, it's lemonade." But I'm too focused on my work to hear you.

Hours pass and the sun is cresting over the horizon. You come out and crouch next to me and rub my shoulders. "Come on," you say, "It's almost dark. You can finish the deck tomorrow." As I turn to you, you can see the fiery rage igniting in the darkest depths of my eyes. "YOU BITCH!" I scream, knocking you back. I tower over you with a hammer in one hand and a two-by-four in the other. The sun is behind my back and the shadows engulf you, exposed and defenseless, your back against the unfinished deck.

You crawl backwards as I approach you menacingly. "DON'T EVER INTERRUPT ME WHILE I'M BUILDING MY DECK AGAIN!!!!!!!!" I throw down the hammer and the plank and get down on all fours on top of you, mounting you, sweat dripping off my shoulders, my wet hair hanging down, shrouding my head like the Grim Reaper's hood. My chest heaves as I lower towards you, and you grab around for someone, something, a tool, a weapon, but there's nothing there.

When I'm less than an inch away from your face I stop. "I love you honey but I swear to God if you ever interrupt me while I'm building my deck again I might fucking murder you and bury your corpse under my new deck." Then I sneeze in your face and go back to my work.

You wipe off your face and hurry back into the house to prepare dinner. I know you regret ever suggesting that I build that fucking deck in the first place! I've been building that deck for almost seven years now and every day is a repeat of the last. I'm not even halfway done.

Monday, October 9, 2017

Antarctica

In Antarctica, there is nothing.





Don't get me wrong, there are things there, but these aren't things that people like you or me would care about. These things are boring things, like glaciers, penguins, scientific research outposts, and tundra. But these things are all nothings. Somethings are things like TV, Internet, restaurants, football, buildings, politics, and the beach. There are beaches in Antarctica but they are too cold for recreation.

In Antarctica, there are lots of nothings and there are very few somethings. I would guess that there are about ten nothings for every one something. Plus, the somethings are very small somethings, like bunk beds, coffee machines, scientific research equipment, and a post office. They are practically nothings.

Things can be good or bad. In Antarctica, there are more good things than bad things. I would guess there are about ten good things for every one bad thing. Because the number of good things directly correlates to the number of nothings, I have realized that nothings are good and somethings are bad. Somethings are things like war, famine, disease, poverty, rape, politics, and styrofoam. None of these things exist in Antarctica.

When I die, I will become nothing. Then I will be so rad.

Saturday, October 7, 2017

Life Goals

My only goal in life is to be able to live vicariously through my unborn son. I've accepted the fact that I am never going to amount to anything. I'm already too old to be the youngest self-made millionaire. I can't act, paint, or sing. I'm too lazy to ever finish writing a book and I'm too stupid to write a book that I'd be too lazy to finish. Instead, I've decided to just have a badass son.

My son is going to wear a leather jacket every single day. He's going to take lessons in every instrument and every language and every night before bed I'm going to make him invent a new one of each. He's going to do karate and Taekwondo and Krav Maga and tennis and inevitably, when he fails just like his father, he can find some other loser to procreate with and I can have one more chance to make something of myself.

Tuesday, October 3, 2017

This is an actual email I sent to the saatchi gallery in London about some art i done did

(https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Sculpture-This-Trashcan-I-crushed-while-standing-on-it-bad/1027100/3835275/view)

I have created the moost important work of modern art of all time - please read this or you will doom modern art to an eternity in oblivion

space jam <spacejam6942069 gmail.com=>
Attachments8:58 PM (0 minutes ago)

to admin@saatchigallery.com
hi. i wasnt sure what the best email to send this to would be but i figured you guys would be able to pass this message along to the appropriate party. please read this email in its entirety for it is incredibly important to the art world and the future of modern art itself.

today i was super excited cuz i finally got that poster that i ordered online a few weeks back. it took a while to come because they didnt have any more in the size i wanted (largest size - 36"x24") and they had to backorder. the poster is a glossy landscape print of a photo of damien hirst's most famous work, the physical impossibility of death in the mind of someone living, which if you dont know is a display case of a big shark in formaldehyde. i think its the best thing to ever come out of that group of artists whose name i cant remember but i know are all financed by charles saatchi.

i had already cleared space on my wall by throwing out this mounted stuffed head of a bengal tiger that my aunt helen killed on some safari in africa or something. i turned the wastepaper basket upside down and stood on top to hang up my new poster but i overestimated the strength of the trash can's aluminum wire frame and it crumpled under my weight.

as i fell back i grabbed out for my desk but i somehow managed to crush the tip of my left middle finger in a drawer. the pain was excruciating and when i looked down i could see that my shirt (two days old!!!!) was speckled in blood. i lay on the floor clutching my finger and writhing in pain. my left hand is already in a cast because i ran it over with my own car (thats a whole other story!) so it just added to the existing uncomfortableness of my left hand.

but the pain almost instantly subsided when i opened my eyes, blinked away the tears, and saw what i had done. while i did in fact destroy the with my weight, i managed to do something else entirely: create the most magnificent modern art piece of ALL TIME.

somehow, the way that i crushed the trashcan, coupled with the trash inside the bin, has created a breathtaking piece that exemplifies so many themes that artists in this medium struggle to emulate even a fraction thereof.  not even the great damien hirst himself could have dreamed of being able to make something this fantastic.

it is perfect. there is no other way of describing it. the curvature and warping of the cheap metal is the melted metal chain link fence representative of the dichotomy between suburban paranoia and the current divisive political atmosphere in ways that frank gehry's concert halls and sex dungeons could not even begin to aspire to be. the crumpled and torn scraps of paper inside the bin are the oppressed and marginalized indigenous and minority groups being thrown away, like the gays or whatever.

i am not being overdramatic when i SWEAR to u that THSI IS THE SINGLE GREATEST WORK OF ART IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF MODERN ART, AND ONE OF THE GREATEST AND MOST IMPORTANT WORKS OF ART IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND, INCLUDING CAVE PAINTINGS.

how am i qualified to make such a claim? let me tell you a little about myself: my name is Adolph P. Chesterton of the chesterton family of branson, missouri. i doubt you english know much about branson but suffice it to say that our forefathers put branson on the map, literally, because they made their fortune as printmakers, specifically of maps and other cartographical documents. i am 24 years old and i am the sole heir to the chesterton Fortune. our family has a sizable art collection, primarily of the most famous street caricature artists, like greg stamp, anthony stewart, and momo the clown. we have some more contemporary works as well. i have a bachelors degree in art history from the university of Arkansas and i have just started online classes towards obtaining a masters degree in visual culture studies. so believe me. i know art.

i have attached photos of my piece, which I am calling, "This Trashcan I crushed while standing on it bad" to this email. please view them now. once you have viewed the photos and you understand their magnitude, you will understand that this piece must be shown to the public for the betterment of human culture. i could think of no place better than the collection and gallery of charles saatchi, one of the most important benefactors of modern art and a personal inspiration.

i am asking for $250,000 USD for my masterpiece. i dont need this money, my family has almost $30 million. i just feel that this is the lowest possible amount of money i could charge you without coming off as ridiculous. but you must act quickly because this work MUST be shown to the public for god only knows what delaying its arrival might cause and how poorly your actions would be viewed by the art historians of the future.

Sincerely,
Adolph P. Chesterton


Sent from my iPhone