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this story was written by both cowboys and slaughter. one wrote a few sentences and then the other and so on. it was a first time experiment. it shall never be repeated.
The world started to turn slowly towards the season of spring. The cocaine snow is being snorted into the nostrils of time. Becky was excited because this hot guy, Brad, was taking her to the movies later that evening. Since she wanted to look real cute for her date she went to the shopping mall. Thoughts of the summer before, jumping on trampolines with Brad, revolved around the film wheels of her mind. Becky found a great pair of shoes at the mall! They were ALDO. Her teeth peeked out of her M.A.C covered lips as she swiped daddy’s credit card at the counter. Beedy eyes from the abyss sneaked peaks at her fresh young bottom. If only those boys knew what she had tucked between her legs…or his?
The story of Becky’s life was shocking to most, amazing to few. Her parents always wanted a little girl you see, but when a baby boy popped out of mommy’s vagina their hopes were crushed. So their grandmother knited this cute little tuck thong for Becky. The hours were passed spent on high for Becky’s parents. Speed, coke, heroin. All in their perfect little suburban home. The only neightbour that knew was a frenchman who supplied the family with weekly batches of oxycottons, and on special occasions like christmas; crystal meth.
So they moved to Canada. The wind use to blow through the willows and travel along the prairie side speckles of the lightrays from the ex-california sun became the beautiful rays of their new life story. Becky blew a tiny kiss to the horizon as life as he knew it vanishes like a sunset. He was now forever a she. As a child Becky would lick her tiny teeth as her mother would feed her tiny peanut butter and sardine sandwiches. It was delightful like a philly cream cheese ad to watch her with her tiny chops licking away at the fishheads. Her eyes are like perfectly cut diamonds as they reflect images of pornographic paintings and erotic poetry. She is a child born to a world of american apparel and sexual harrasment. She is the new generation.
Generation AAA.
But who knows. she loved Jesus Camp and praying every night. When she grew up she wanted to be a gaytar hero superstar.
Damn she looked fine. She knew Brad’s dick like diamonds. She was to be a movie star like texas!
Nobody objected to the promiscuity of this 12 year old doll. She partied in New York with punks and raved with the clubkids of Amsterdam. She owned the tabloids like a star inpregnated by golden dreams.
Man, noone ever could compare to her broken champagne glass parties. So this was life.
Self mutilation style it was going on in the kitchen. Sluts, hoes, and faggots.
She went to the cineplex after.
Brad reaches up her skirt and smiles with afternoon delight.
by: slaughter & cowboys
Why our beloved world no longer makes sense:
I was handed 2 pieces of gum today. I knew it was gum due to the word “Bubba” written on the wrapper. Along with this word there was a picture of the gum. Similar to a gusher or trident splash. The gum itself was a lemon yellow with a red goo. The rest of the wrapper was written in spanish and naturally, since I don’t know one word of spanish, I had no clue what it was saying. I unwrapped it to reveal a pale yellow piece about the size of a quarter. I popped it into my mouth expecting a nice tropical flavour normally affiliated with bright coloured gum. For the first few seconds, yes, thats exactly what it was. A huge shock came when it suddenly felt like someone was rubbing 50-grit sandpaper on my tounge. I found out later said gum was flavoured pineapple and hot sauce. Hot sauce, as in tabasco, louisiana red hot, hot sauce. Needless to say, I did not eat the other piece. It did not taste good.
Motha Pain and I wrote the same story.
It was completely unintentional.
Making it that much more awesome.
Here is part one of mine.
I.
Imagine yourself in a diner. Let’s say it can be any diner you’ve ever been in, just make sure the walls are painted a lemon yellow, and it has to have a corner where a small table sits with a single chair. That lonely spot can’t be occupied by anyone in your imaginary diner though. It’s reserved for a character from my imagination. I’ll introduce you to him soon, but for now we need to focus on your imaginary diner. In the kitchen you need to create some cooks, I don’t care how many you create but I do recommend that they be ill-tempered and constantly frying up greasy food. I’ve worked in kitchens before, and all of the cooks have been short-tempered jerk-offs; so I know from experience.
Dispersed throughout my imaginary diner there are the regulars; the woman who own’s the antique store in the next building, the 40-something man who hands out flyers for his church, the punk rock teenagers who are skipping fourth period for the eighteenth time in a row and so on. Let’s say the name of the diner is “Lily’s”, named after the first wife of the owner. The owner sits on his stool all day reading his newspaper and talking to his loyal customers. I’m going to name him Herman, even though he doesn’t look much like a Herman, I just really like that name. Herman’s third (and final) wife stands behind the counter all day. She takes the customer’s money and always gives the correct amount of change, in fact she has never in her existence given a customer the incorrect change.
But Herman’s third wife isn’t important, nor is Herman, not even the punk rock teenagers. There are only two people in this diner that are important to me, and they should be important to you too. Now one of them is slightly more important to me than the other but both are equals as far as this story goes. He is more important to me because he is the son of my hero. He hasn’t saved anybody’s life, nor has he singlehandedly brought peace to the world. He is my hero because he is a direct descendent and only descendent of the man who invented the retail checkout divider, also known as the stick. I admire Theo Misaresh because he patented this idea and made millions, show me a grocery store that doesn’t have one! When Theo didn’t have all the millions and billions of dollars he fathered a son but was too broke to keep it, so my character was sent away to an orphanage until he was eighteen and allowed to move out on his own. The story I am telling is unfortunately not about my character discovering his inheritance, perhaps later when I’m done with him and he is part of a story by somebody else he’ll find it (but I doubt it).
Anyway, now that you know my important character’s background, perhaps it is time for you to finally meet him. He is sixty-three years of age right now. He lives in an apartment approximately fourteen minutes away from this diner, what his apartment looks like isn’t important though, I want your mind to stay in the diner and remain in the diner until the end of this story. (In fact, I’m not even sure what his apartment looks like, I’ve never even been there). I suppose that I had better give my favourite important character a name, so that I don’t have to constantly refer to him as my favourite important character. His name will be Ed. In have given him this name as a sort of cruel joke, since ‘ed’ is usually added to words to make them past tense, and at sixty-three years of age Ed is very past tense. Ed’s physical traits are only slightly important to the telling of this story. You must know that Ed’s eyes are sunken in and have a tired look to them. His mouth is drooping at both ends and he always has stiff, white stubble all over his chin. (When Ed was forty years of age he had a thick, dark beard but he shaved it off for a woman and it never came back).
Speaking of women, they are very rare in Ed’s life. He has had two girlfriends–the first was from the orphanage he grew up in. They hid in the tube slide in the playground and explored each others bodies. Eventually she was adopted and he never heard from her again. His second girlfriend was the person who got him to shave his beard. She made Ed do lots of things he didn’t want to, but her still never objected. They dated for eleven years. It all ended when his girlfriend came to the realization that she was attracted to women and was in love with the woman who coached her son’s hockey team. Her son wasn’t Ed’s, but Ed enjoyed the young boys company. When his girlfriend left him, he never saw the boy again.
The women which surrounded Ed’s current world and life are not sexually attracted to him. In fact Ed hasn’t fornicated in twenty-four years, five of those years he was dating the lesbian.
The women in Ed’s life do adore him though, they are two waitresses at the diner. Waitress #1 is an important part of this story, she will remain nameless. Waitress #2 is only important to the story because #1 can’t work all the time, she needs time off to take care of her son, who is completely coincidentally named Edward, but called Ed for short.
Waitress #1 is not a natural blond, but she pretends to be because it makes good tips. She sways her hips and butt when she strolls to each table she is serving and always has a warm smile when she talks to customers.
#1 has been serving Ed his black coffee and fruit cup for twelve years, that’s 4272 days when you subtract holidays. Every time the conversation has gone like this:
#1- “The usual?”
Ed- “mumble mumble”
#1- “Alright then, Ed”
Ed- “mumble mumble”
#1- “How’s the novel coming?”
Ed- “mumble mumble”
#1- EXIT
This conversation, though you may not realize it from a distance, was the most important moment in each of these character’s day. It is also an important piece of information for you to have in your little mid and a great segue for me to introduce the point of my ridiculous story. You see, Ed is writing a novel, he has been writing this novel since he was twenty-four. He’s written countless short stories too, they’ve been sent to publishers and have never been sent back. So Ed isn’t sure what that means. Ed’s novel is the most amazing piece of literature anybody could ever read. Ed is an amazing writer.
Ed enjoys drawing small pictures with permanent markers, everyday after his conversation with #1 he draws a small picture or writes a short poem that pops into his intricate mind. And that mind which controls my character is the most interesting mind I’ve eveer had the pleasure of creating.
All of Ed’s poems and drawings are scribbled onto the paper thin napkins #1 gives him with his coffee and fruit cup. Ed never keeps his pictures of poems though, and some of them are actually quite lovely too, he just crumples them up. The he places the exact amount of money plus a two dollar tip on the lonely table, and leaves the diner. I’m not sure where he goes after he visits the diner, I’ve never left the diner to actually follow him.
Since I do stay in the diner after Ed leaves, I witness something amazing. I’m not going to tell you what it is though, I want there to be some element of surprise at the end of my story–which is closer than you think.
He was an old man, maybe 60 or even possibly 70. The kitchen staff called him Felix after Jack Lemmon’s character Felix Ungar in The Odd Couple because of the striking resemblance between them. His greying hair always combed and tidy. His thick rimmed coke-bottle glasses spotless. His face always shaved. He wore Oxfords and corduroy slacks that barely brushed the tops of his leather loafers.
Every day was the same. He came into the diner at 11:38. Exactly three minutes after changing the coffee filters and two minutes before the 42 Lakeside bus passed. He sat in the booth in the corner with his back against the wall so he can see every part of the diner. He ordered a large coffee, black and waited until the steam is completely gone before drinking it. From where I stood behind the counter I could see his eyes dance from customer to customer as the tip of his black, felt marker skimmed the napkin.
I noticed these details after about three weeks of working at the diner. Three weeks of watching him enter and leave at the same time, order the same item and sit in the same booth. That was the same week I decided to read what was written on those now crinkled napkins. I didn’t know much, or anything about poetry. I barely even went to class. I was too involved with my friends. We never took anything seriously and we competed over everything. Who was the better football player, who was dating the best looking cheerleader, who could drink the most beers without passing out, who had the best car and therefore who could drive the fastest before getting stopped by the police.
My first glance at the napkin, I thought I was reading gibberish. Normally I would have tossed this aside and forgotten completely about it but there was something about this man that intrigued me. I wanted to know his thoughts, how he saw the world. What it was in this small diner that inspired him to write. I studied anyone I could remember from English classes I had attended.
We’re leaving the world of ding-dongs and ho-hos, of bankies and night lights, of sparkled dresses and plastic tiaras, of the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, of bed-time stories and make-believe. We’re entering the world of over stress and late nights, of too much drinking and worries about weight, of part-time jobs and minimum wage, of relationships and heartbreaks, of expected maturity and independence. As a child we all want to be older. Responsibility and reality are so much better than pretty much getting away with murder, I completely agree.
The Lusty Piles had there first interview last night.
It was with an obscure blog, which makes it A+.
Check it!
Love; HerMANSLAUGHTER.
cheese.
A six letter, one syllabel word meaning a solid food made from the milk of cows, goats, sheep and other mammals. I just call it gross. It is coagulated milk. Now, not many people know what coagulate means, me included. So I looked it up on dictionary.com (my most visited website) and it said “to change from a fluid into a thickened mass; curdle; congeal”. The word curdle would turn me off of anything. It’s just one of those awful words that sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. It gives me the shivers. I cannot eat any kind of cheese. Brie, Gouda, Cheddar, Feta, Parmesan, mozzarella. Soft cheeses, hard cheeses, blue cheeses, smoked cheeses. Grated, sliced, chunked, curdes. No thank you. I refuse. Lets save the cheese for the mice.
p.s. My views in this blog are of no way the views of herMAN SLAUGHTER. I happen to know that hS adores cheese.
It’s shameless self-promotion time.
LUSTY PILES OF WINEGUMS
LUSTY PILES OF ENVY
LUSTY PILES OF PEICES OF RAINBOW
There was pretty much a shout out to me on my pals blog, I Dream to Riot, and since it won’t let me post a comment on the stupid thing I am devoting an entire entry to point out said shout out.
“I am in love with all things Matthew Gray Gubler. herMAN SLAUGHTER takes credit for introducing me to his mockumentaries, a long time ago.”
Yes, it’s true. I am a Gubler fanatic and force my friends to obsess over him aswell. If you don’t know this man, look him up on YouTube and watch his mockumentaries. They are grade ‘A’ shit.
Also, an indirect shout out:
“I am in love with love and lousy poetry.”
Clearly, this is completely my influence. For I am obsessed with poetry, and write poetry which is pretty lousy. And I have always been a helpless romantic because I am an idiot. But aren’t we all?
So there you have it. Shout outs pour moi on a blog nobody reads.
Loves it,
Shuya Slaughter
I went to a Hallowe’en party on the weekend.
I didn’t know anyone.
It didn’t really matter that I didn’t know a soul though, I was intoxicated on many different substances and didn’t have a care in the world.
My costume was a depressed, rich housewife. To pull such a costume off I wore a dress, pearls, and fur. Then I smeared ‘cocaine’ (actually just flour, I swear) on my nose and taped a syringe to my arm. It was a fabulous costume.
I was planning on being Daria tomorrow night but I have decided to go with the classic “Ghost World” look. I actually found $20 DocMartens at Value Village today, which are perfect.
Back on the subject of stupid Hallowe’en parties:
I was a total loser and started writing poetry on the back of random objects (gum wrappers, playing cards etc.). So here is one of them. Might I remind everyone that I was heavily influenced by drugs and alcohol while writing this.
Untitled
Going inside the place was the worst
I couldn’t have made such a mistake
Unless I was truly scared of what
Was going to happen in my enclosed exisitence
Would I be laughing right now?
If Berkeley rules my mind then it never existed
And my whining prose is useless
Is love John Locke’s second quality?
If I don’t understand the philosophy
Then I don’t have time for the nature of time.
This linear progression along the track is
Fucking up my mind to the point where I can’t
Understand the Quantum Physics of it.
Music is dead to my ears, writing is alive in my eyes
I was afraid that our lives were meant to be together
And intertwined to become a heap of lust
That’s why I went inside that night.
I had found my other.
I didn’t want to destroy them with my makeshift poetry
So I didn’t.
But I wish I did.
If I had, maybe we would be together right now.
And I would be laughing and he would be singing.
Man, I love drug induced poetry.
HAPPY HALLOWE’EN PEOPLEZ!!!
