Karaoke is over. Nobody is singing because they’re too drunk to work the machine. It is sincerely amazing that they had “Somebody Farted” by Bobby Jimmy and the Critters. People bitch because I don’t sing, but they never have songs that I know. Me and my two best dame friends woulda tore the club a new earhole if they had “Keep It Goin’ Louder” by Major Lazer featuring Nina Skye, because I do an uncanny impression of autotune. Our private room is strewn with emptied Soju bottles and shattered affections. We have one of those in-bred circles of friends that you couldn’t bring a member of the opposite sex to without causing at least a little disappointment, if not full-fledged heartbrokenness. Don’t fuckin’ fret. Those shards would be swept into the bin on the way to the next friend in the circle by next month, if not next week. Jimmy brought Giselle (Jizzelle), so Tina is outdoors smoking a cigarette to stave off panic and keep them out of her eye line for, like, five minutes. She’s thinking desperate thoughts like, “If I don’t mean everything to you, then I might as well mean nothing.” Poor Tina.

I am drunk and wearing my cock on my sleeve, so I address Janelle, the tall blonde with the most beautiful backside I’ve ever ogled. What I like most about her is that when presented with a complimentary rhetorical question, she answers it honestly. “Janelle, you’re smart, you’re funny, you get hotter with age, and not in a desperate housewives kind of way. Why don’t you have a husband?”

“Because I’m smart.”

Her tone of voice lets me down, but not easy. In case you’re wondering, the woman with the best ass on Earth does ride the bus. #sexist She should have an insurance plan for those pistons.

Then I overhear Brock, the author of this bullshit, speaking on the other side of the karaoke room. He doesn’t know how to modulate the volume of his voice, so I have to listen carefully. He says, “You can’t mock the overeager audiences of Inside The Actors Studio. You’ve never been starstruck? I remember how I felt when I saw Connie Britton that time in Whole Foods downtown Austin. She wasn’t even answering James Lipton’s questions, she was buying god knows what in her sweats, with no make-up, and that shit still made my day.”

Which is the eightieth time he’s mentioned seeing Connie Britton in Whole Foods. She must give him a huge boner.

I am up for it and Janelle isn’t, so I turn my eye to raven-haired beauty single mother Linda, put my arm around her shoulder and give her an affectionate squeeze. I knew she’d always wanted to fuck me, so I figure I might as well give her what she wants once in her life. Guess tonight’s the night. She’ll get over it when we don’t get together afterward. She’ll have to, or she’ll have to leave the group, and none of us are ready to go.

I was wrong, it isn’t over. When did Tina get back? She starts singing.

Oh, are you fucking serious? They have “Banana Phone,” but they don’t have “Novocaine For The Soul?!” Fuck this karaoke joint. If we’d gone to a better karaoke bar, Janelle prob’ly woulda gone for it, and fell a mighty boner.

Keep an eye out for “Swamp Chicken and the Nadir of the North Koreans,” “Pyrotechnic Porno Babies Put Afghanistan On Its Ass,” and “Emily Edison Racists the Ethnic Stereotypes.” Coming soon!

I know. You say, “But BEEow dot com,” using the full name so formally, “America isn’t at war with North Korea!” To you I say, stop shouting. After we figure out we can’t win in Afghanistan and withdraw, we’re going to need somebody to shoot at. Voters will be so sick of hearing about war in the Middle East, that we’ll leave Iran on the back-burner and deploy to the Pacific. Enjoy this preview of rough storyboards from the Swamp Chicken short. One continuous shot:

While on his way to arm himself, Swamp Chicken encounters animals who don’t look like him and offers derogatory remarks related directly to their species. Though it may appear to be a friendly, interspecific wave in the third row, it is actually a rude gesture. Swamp Chicken can be such a sass-hole, but it’s totally justified during wartime. This lone animator’s process is still experimental, so god only knows when we’ll see the first short. More to come!

The cheerleaders were too spirited, the band girls were too brassy, the theatre girls hogged the spotlight, the 4H girls hogged the hogs, and the anime club girls were too withdrawn. Them soccer broads could kick my ass, the student council dames could kiss it. The color guard girls were, well, they just weren’t hot enough to make the cheerleader squad. The science chicks were too controlled, and the math ladies wouldn’t let me divide their legs. The English skirts were too pro-noun and anti-verb, and I was looking to make sweet verbs. Maybe I was being too picky. On the swim team, Valerie looked good to me, in spite of her slight frog eyes. Heather was an amazon, with the body of a goddess, but taller than me, so I don’t know if I can reach around her to unfasten her bodice. When he who has eyes to see, sees sweet, Southern Baptist Alexis it will transfigure his day, but those religious girls are too marriage-minded.

It’s my own fault if I die alone.

This fish tastes terrible.

“This fish tastes terrible. Because it’s fish, I guess. The only time I ate fish that tasted any good and wudn’t a fish stick, was in Vagina Beach, Vagina. Bourbon braise’ salmon with like dese little shave’ almons up top. ‘Cept for the texchure, you couldn’ tell it was fish. Not like this. This, is shit,” is what some woman was saying so everyone who wasn’t deaf in the restaurant and on the surrounding pier could hear.

“Have we been seated near an audition for the Real Housewives of Some Other Shitty City?” some dude with skinny jeans and gauged ears was saying so only his table could hear.

Nothing, is what his partner in sarcasm was saying, because though he wanted to let his friend know that his remark was humorous, he could not allow so much as one genuine, positive expression to seep from inside him into the atmosphere. For instance, a laugh. Just farts, carbon dioxide, and cynicism. He hadn’t the wit to compound the joke, so silence. Nothing to hear.

“Please, god, even if you never do anything good for me again, please let this bitch order dessert,” is what the vengeful chef was saying under his breath, so only the popcorn shrimp could hear. This matter was out of god’s hands, so the prayer went unanswered.

“I have never, ever heard a fake porn movie title that was actually funny, and you haven’t either…until now. Lars Von Trier’s Dongville, starring Nicole’s Kids, man. I mean, if kids can work as slang for tits. Doesn’t work for ya? Try some of this. Porn On The Fourth of July. Okay, The Pound and the Furry,” is what some smartass aspiring stand-up was saying so his digital audio recorder could hear. He was so excited about his own ideas that he missed out on the joke that god was making nearby.

“When are you going to get married, Crockett?” is what somebody’s grandma was saying so her grandson and granddaughter, husband and son could hear. Crockett had recently seen Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, so he was thinking it might be never. Actually, he was right.

“The Street Fighter 3 Chun-Li is my ideal woman. Those thighs!” is what some horny video game nerd was saying so some other horny video game nerd could hear.

“I just wish I could have those big thighs wrapped around me once before I die,” is what that other horny video game nerd was saying so the first horny video game nerd could hear.

“If Brokeback Mountain didn’t do as well as it did at the box office, I wouldn’t expect America to ever be ready for a gay president,” is what somebody who thought they knew what they were talking about was saying so another straight person could hear. America, as we know it, wouldn’t last long enough to be so accepting.

“Honey, I love you,” is what a perfect gentleman who actually wasn’t kidding himself was saying so his bride-to-be could hear.

“Sweetheart, I love you, too,” is what that bride-to-be was saying so her gratefully betrothed could hear.

“Of course Christianity is more powerful than Scientology. Christianity doesn’t need lawyers and cash to control its flock,” is what a thinker was pondering so his transgender and black friends could hear, when Jesus Christ finally came back.

Even the Christians were surprised, because though they thought they had faith it would happen with all their hearts, few of ‘em really believed it. They had faith in their hearts, but not their heart of hearts. Christ himself wasn’t even sure it would happen. So many were confused by the gesture, and not just because he wasn’t white, but because he hadn’t come to bring about the end times. He just came back to tell people to stop being such cocks to each other. He was like, “Give it a rest,” so all the cocks could hear. Especially people who were being cocks in his name. Then he gently reminded us that nobody has a fucking clue what goes on after they’re corpsed and that they should stop acting like they’re so damned sure they know what happens all the time. I’m paraphrasing. After that, he left again, and people started to wait patiently for his third coming.

It was about a year and a half before people started acting like cocks again. And, oh, what a year and a half that was.

…

“I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” -Mahatma Gandhi

744 words

My horse has cancer.

My horse has cancer. They say, “Cure cancer? We can, sir, if you turn on the funding faucet.” The spelling of faucet was different around the time of Farrah’s death. This is totally unrelated, but, do you think it’s disrespectful to jerk off with photos of deceased celebrities?

The fact is, we probably won’t cure it, and most certainly not in time to free my horse. We can cut it out, irradiate it, and fill her blood with bone marrow and hair follicle cell disintegrating chemicals to chase it away, but we’re really just helping it build a tolerance to come back stronger whenever it decides it wants to relapse. I’d say, “Cancer can go fuck itself,” but I’m afraid it might hear me.

This horse has been by my side ever since I rescued her from some Comet-Brand-toilet-bowl-cleaner-huffing junkie who lived under the hobo troll bridge at I-8564578298 and Scrimshaw Pkwy in Grundle, Texas. Even the homeless have horses in Texas. We were simpatico from the get-go. When I sneaked her into my building to feed her oats and barley and carrots and bales of hay, she saw my efforts to be quiet and followed suit, suppressing her clips and clops, and holding back her snorts and whinnies. When I stacked mattresses like I was the princess and the pea, she knew it was so she could sleep by me without my having to fear her trampling me during a distressing dream. When I was kicked out of my building for keeping a horse in a one bedroom 800 square foot apartment, she just looked at me as if to say, “Where we goin’ next, Johnny?” She knows my name isn’t Johnny, but for some reason she thinks it’s funny to call me that. She recites it like she read it in some horse book, or saw it in some horse movie. Truth be told, and please don’t tell her, but I find if funny, too. Simpatico.

When I told her we were moving a thousand miles north of Grundle, Texas, she bought a heavy horse coat for the harsh winter.

She has to sense my fear of her imminent death, but there’s no way for me to explain the source of that emotion. Being a horse, she barely understands illness as a broad concept, so the specific details about how cancer kills will be lost on her. She’ll never understand why I tear my own clothes, spray liquid from my eyes, and puke frustrated cries, cursing the possibility of a god who may be responsible for her uncontrolled cell growth. God isn’t even kind to the faithful. Sheena the She-Horse read her horse bible and treated all the other horses as if Jesus H. Christ might have (the H. stands for “Horse”) and if there is a god, it rewarded her goodness with carcinoma. She’ll never understand my confusion about that. She’ll never know why she doesn’t feel like eating anymore. She’ll never run a hand over the lump on her haunches that makes it hurt too much to stand up. She’ll never know where the organ-grinding pain inside her body comes from.

That’s just one of the benefits of being a horse. Never seeing it coming. God, I wish I couldn’t see it coming.

556 words

Actually, the catbear is into women’s gymnastics.

How the fuck should I know what David Beckham looks like? I told you I’m not into sports. That includes shitty sports.

© Brock Rizy 2010

I’d say she’s a horrible person, but I’m pretty sure she’s not a person. She is, at best, an entity.

Has Kate Gosselin been killed of Dancing With The Stars yet? Who had it worse? 9/11 firefighters or the poor bastard who had to dance with that banshee? There’s no coming back from that kind of trauma.

© Brock Rizy 2010

Catbear likes natural blondes, but sometimes you can’t tell until it’s too late.

You’re willing to admit that Rosanna Arquette was your first jerk? Not Patricia? If I could turn back time, if I could find a way, I’d hold out until ’93 for Alabama in True Romance. Since when do you like blondes?

© Brock Rizy 2010

This … is the one I want them to remember me for.  P.S. She’s still got it.

Maybe I’ll try the Blue Lagoon Diet. Whassat, where you just eat mangoes? Coconuts, fish, and Brooke Shields’ pussy.

© Brock Rizy 2010

Yeah, probably.

What if we had a limited amount of boners bestowed at birth to use up in life? Would I still have used one on that Shakira “She Wolf” video? I don’t know.

© Brock Rizy 2010