TO ALL THE SECRET BLUSTERERS

ALL-CAPS NARRATOR: I LOVE FITTED BASEBALL CAPS, YOU’RE ALWAYS PISSING AND MOANING ABOUT HOW FITTED BASEBALL CAPS CRAMP YOUR STYLE, BUT THAT is YOUR STYLE, YOU ARE A HUMAN FITTED BASEBALL CAP, SO WHAT’S THE BIG IDEAL?

[A newt enters wearing big sunglasses, walking cool. He didn’t sleep the night before. He carries his own autobiography in a plastic bag.]

NEWT: A man told me that to be a man carrying your belongings in a plastic bag is pathetic, ‘who the fuck does that, what kind of man is that.’ But I’ve had famous friends as long as I can remember, and still I carry my belongings in a plastic bag. What does this make me? I begin to remove objects from my plastic bag.

[NEWT takes a tattered New Yorker, folded over to a ‘random’ page, out of the bag] Sure, I wanna read something on the subway. [Lets magazine drop to the floor. Takes a copy of Henry Green’s Loving out of the bag.] And other times periodicals aren’t good enough. Dey ain’t apposite. I need something a little more ‘lasting.’ [Takes a portable televison out of the bag.] I love infomercials. I’m an avant-gardist. [Takes a horrible banana covered in furry mould out of the bag.] But I’m no ‘hunger-artist.’ [Stands there for a sec, just ‘digesting.’] To be an avant-gardist with your objects for the week crinklingly bound in a plastic shopping bag is a contemporary phenomenon. I’m the genius with an air of the indigent. I’m so great. I’m the best. La la la. The world’s accumulated memories of me are so, so great and so fun. I’m a clown; a million birthdays were made awesome by my pratfalls. My every appearance on recorded film, VHS or digital, is so much fun to watch. I’ve got more teeth than the three of you combined.

NEWT [CONT.]: This is a failed passage. The crew, in their attempt to sail the boat across the channel, didn’t make it. They sank. All the reams of literature they were ferrying to the new world wound up floating on the paper-thin surface of the ocean. Reading my writing, especially if you know me, is not fun. Imagine a metal washer floating on the surface of your mug’s coffee. Imagine a possessive noun getting roughed up from behind by a transgendered princess. Imagine a hurt buttercup’s feelings, perfectly intact. Dude. Pointlessness: C’mere. Slather a thesis in tahini, and cry in frustration that you’re not entirely at peace. Your friend’s feelings mirror your own, and therefore they disgust you. Making sense, particularly in the summer heat of NE Ohio, is a canard. Making out with kismet is the best Memorial Day present you could have asked for. What are your totemic power-words?

  1. Shower
  2. Louche
  3. Loaf
  4. Necklace
  5. Break-neck*
  6. Shibuya
  7. Hatchback
  8. Cower-leaf
  9. [leaf]
  10. Providence
  11. Spine
  12. Shame
  13. Leery
  14. Weed
  15. nudity
  16. frame
  17. Shrine
  18. Darshan
  19. Sproul
  20. Wicked
  21. Phish
  22. Batista
  23. St. John’s Cathedral
  24. Skulptcha
  25. Moons
  26. Labia
  27. Nile
  28. Niles [Frasier]
  29. Niles [Multiple-worlds rivers]
  30. Dick [P.K.]

Batista

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2 thoughts on “TO ALL THE SECRET BLUSTERERS

  1. Simon Winchestoner

    gogol.uk/us/html said this was the best entry yet. I can’t get enough. Send me your complete archives so that I can act them out in my living room with my cgi’d m8ting friend. Slammin’, son.

    I detest/am disgusted by the man that will take a new yorker to a watering hole. Why don’t you read at home, Socrates? Paltrow calls Billy Joel “William”—it’s binary. Same fucking thing. Is the newt reading some awesome 80s maxipad at a bar is what I’m saying

    Reply

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