Brock Says: The other writer participating in this weekly exercise, Megan Renart, started us off with this sentence:

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. Continue reading This Fish Tastes Terrible

Brock Says: I’ve begun a weekly writing exercise with another writer, in which we take turns sending each other a sentence and filling in the remainder of a short fiction of indeterminate length. This week, I took the lead.  The starting sentence:

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. Continue reading My Horse Has Cancer

Written after I was wrecked by the heartbreaking West Wing season three finale, Posse Comitatus, on November 8th, 2006. Revised April 29, 2010

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“I got a couple emails to my artwork website’s inbox from Japan. I can’t read any of it, so I don’t know if it’s just junk. I never get junk at that address.” I confessed curiously to DJ Huxtable while I drove over the I-8564578298 overpass on Scrimshaw pkwy.

“What an awful name for a street.” Hux belted, gazing past his reflection at the street lamp lit army-green street sign.

CROCKETT: What? Interstate 8 billion, five hundred sixty four million, five-

DJ HUXTABLE: Scrimshaw, you dick. I should harpoon every whaler I can.

CROCKETT: Listen to this vegan extremist. You think that’s not worse than killing whales?

HUX: I’ll make artwork out of their teeth, then. Or maybe I can just take one arm and use that bone. I’ll make scrimshaw dildos and sell them back to their lonely landlocked wives. Or maybe a femur would be better for- The femur’s the thigh bone, right?

“If it’s human, it isn’t scrimshaw, it’s gotta be a marine mammal.” I thanked archbishop internet for the knowledge it once provided. Continue reading Post Posse Comitatus

Regina didn’t know she was pregnant when she traveled to the first lunar resort on the edge of Bilharz crater.  She was thick waisted before the pregnancy, but from a genetic predisposition and not unhealthy eating, which meant that she had lovely skin.  Regina was beautiful and capable, so she carried herself with confidence.  She was the desire of a fair share of decent men, and pursued by those who weren’t ashamed of the imagined image that depicted themselves standing beside this atypically attractive young woman in full view of the public.  Still many more indecent men with strong confusions about their powerful lust for her curves were happy to fantasize about fucking Regina in private.  She wore her weight in a way that reminded me of Christina Ricci in Buffalo 66, but she looked at the world through half moon eyes instead of full.  Regina almost always looked like she wasn’t so sure you were telling her the truth.  She parted her shoulder length black hair on the right and swept her bangs across her left eyebrow, but hardly fiddled with it, not even when it fell in her line of sight.  In fact, if she did brush it behind her elven ears you would know she had it in mind to undo all of the correction your orthodontist made against your formerly teenaged will.  You would mostly see this when haggard, haughty harridans with Where’s Waldo physiques complimented her pretty face.  These old cunts surreptitiously insulted her in response to their husbands ogling her confidence, or in anticipation of them doing so.
Continue reading Moon Baby

What follows is the Animal Crossing fanfic that the catbear was writing here.

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It’s been months since Rosie left.  She was the best pussy in these parts.  By that, I mean she was the best cat.  A pussy cat.  Nobody gets double entendres in this town, which I apparently had to name during the taxi drive over.  Right now the only one I’m banging is Victoria the horse.  Rhonda the Rhino totally has a crush on me, but she apparently isn’t into sex.  I taught her to say “Me so horny” but she doesn’t seem to get that though it may sound like she’s talking about the bony protrusion on her snout, she should actually be stating that she wants to get nailed hard between the haunches.  Rhonda gave me her framed photo, so at least I can look at that while I ride Victoria like it’s the Kentucky Derby.
Continue reading Did It All For the Nookway