Lawn Care

“My ass is grass? Oh, my ass is grass? No, your ass is grass buddy. I'll mow you down like Kentucky Blue, don't think I won't! I'll take you to the curb and tie you up pal! I'll have my son stomp on you to make you fit into fewer bags. And then in a few weeks I'll do it again. After I get done they'll be pieces of you left in the yard and I'll have to get them up with a rake. You will be too finely chopped up from getting mowed over again and again and again and again. And if there's any of you left I'll get my leaf blower out and blow you into the neighbors yard. If you get worms or June-bugs during the summer I'll come out with a pesticide and just pour it all over you. Yeah, I'm done fucking around. Not one of those cheap pesticides from the hardware store either. I'm paying full price to get a company out here. They'll be looking at the worms and be like “yep, this is gonna be expensive.” I'll tell them, “do whatever it takes. Money is no object when it comes to caring for my lawn. Use toxic chemicals.” And they will!

“Then on trash day the trash-men will come by and only pick up two of the bags, leaving a whole bag of you just sitting out in the heat. Our neighborhood has a two bag limit. Since it'll be hot out you'll start to stink and I'll smell you every time I pull into the driveway. I'll have to throw you into a few more bags, double or triple bag you. Maybe I'll use white or yellow bags so you don't absorb so much heat. But it will just be so hot and damp out that you'll keep stinking up my driveway anyway. I'll have to borrow my friends truck, throw the last bag of you in the back and then drive around the neighborhood until I see a poorly monitored dumpster. I'll probably have to throw you into the dumpster behind the Target, that's where I usually take it. And I'll underestimate your weight and miss the dumpster a couple times as I throw you in, tearing the bag on that little metal flap that sticks out but that's never used to lock the dumpster. Yeah, laugh it up loser. I'll be ready for it and pull a rake I brought with me out of the back of the truck. I'll rake you up and throw you into the dumpster, fist by fist. Then I'll drive home. Wash the stains you left out of my pants. Change into my nice pair of shoes. Then sit down in my lazy-boy and fall asleep. And the whole neighborhood will marvel at my immaculate lawn not knowing some dumb chump is...” He said as the world exploded into a bright and beautiful ball of fire. All lawns were scorched and spread throughout the universe. Our hero's greatest achievement, his lawn, was sent to regions of space and time where no man will venture. 


Coffee and Fries

A song and performance written for an elderly dying man

Verse 1:
I've had myself coffee
I've had myself fries.
But neither one seemed it'd make my body die.
I could eat a long time and drink up some brew,
But the coffee and fries just won't bring me through. (x2)

[Note to Nurse or Doctor: At this point in the song the nurse should come and check on our singer. If he is, indeed, less than a minute or two from death, please instruct the singer to hurry along with the lyrics and remainder of the song. If he has more than 12-15 minutes of life left, please wait for 10-12 minutes. You may then instruct our singer to complete the song.]

Oh, my heart's grown black,
like I like my coffee.
And I got fat,
from all the fries that I eat.
Now I'm laying here wishing I was better off.
My heart just couldn't take these fries and this coff. (x2)

Verse 2:
Children around the world are on the TV
I watch them, as I die, consume fries and coffee.
If I could tell those children just one last thing.

[Long exhaled breath and pause, as if our singer has died.]

It would be to exercise and switch over to tea.(x2)

Oh, my heart's grown black,
like I like my coffee.
And I got fat,
from all the fries that I eat.
Now I'm laying here wishing I was better off.
My heart just couldn't take these fries and this coff. (x2)

[Note to Nurse or Doctor: As you notice the singer's life fade away, make a whistling shape with your mouth. This should remind our singer to whistle the melody of the song as his life fades away, creating a natural fade out effect to the song/life.]


The Gentleman

I saw the gentleman running through a field until he ran head first into the branch of a very small elm tree. He then fell to the ground and later died in the hospital. I should mention that I was not at the hospital to see him die. I only saw him running into the branch which was brief. When I think about him I think about the moment his head hit the tree. It looked very peculiar and funny.

The gentleman was brought into the hospital and placed under the care of a Doctor Elmer, similar to the tree he ran into. The gentleman died of the brain injury caused by running into the tree. There was severe internal bleeding. Doctor Elmer and one of the younger doctors had already recorded his time of death upon my arrival. The gentleman was then taken to the first floor where his body occupied a small room near the hospital entrance. This is generally where bodies are taken as staff attempt to contact their direct family. I try to imagine how he appeared running into that tree.

He was very polite. Always a gentleman. I was so surprised when I found out about his death and the circumstances surrounding it. Gentlemen have died in silly quarrels between friends. Gentleman have died from starvation after they just gave up eating. Gentleman get sick of this or that or they die as small gentleman after being born sick. It happens all the time. I'd been watching a cartoon with my grandson that morning. A couple animals chasing each other into trees after running all over the place. I don't know if I could enjoy that program again after hearing about this gentleman's death. He wasn't an animal.

I'd been sleeping with the gentleman for a few weeks. He came in and never told me his name. He first asked for oral sex. It was several weeks before it was anything more than that. He would make cartoon sounds when he came. Whistles, train sounds, or he would say things to me in a funny cartoonish voice. I think he was probably trying to kill himself when he ran into the tree. He was trying to kill himself by visiting me and the other escorts. He told me that. I make my living doing this and I have kids I need to see grow up. I think he assumed all escorts don't care about their health. That they have some kind of desire to get sick and die from work. He was very nice though. He always paid me more than I asked for. He was a gentleman.

The gentleman donated his skeleton to a science classroom at the University. Removing the flesh from a body is a fairly difficult process. Each bone must be cared for and inventoried before the first in a long series of bleachings may begin. At our particular University this task is handled by first year medical students. I was told the gentleman's bones were not inventoried as required by the University's procedural guidelines. I did not witness the after math of the situation but I was told the genleman's bones were propped up in a chair wearing a full tuxedo. The hands were wired in a particular way as to appear they were grasping a long black cane. His skull, which had a small fracture due to the circumstances in which he died, still had the eye balls intact. I was embarrassed as an administrator and a representative of this university. The party responsible was immediately expelled and legal procedures are currently being taken into consideration. For this gentleman to die the way he did and to then donate his body to education, it is nothing less than tragic the way he was treated after his death.




MAN: How about a dollar?

Man reaches into his pocket and hands a one dollar bill to Old Man on the Street

OLD MAN ON THE STREET: Money ain't an issue, in fact, it's just a tissue.

Old Man on the Street brings the dollar to his face in order to wipe his nose. Then, reaching into the back of his pants, he wipes his bottom.

MAN: What you've just done and said I find incredibly profound.


The Inventor of the Longneck Bottle

As the year comes to an end, various publications will attempt to properly memorialize the many great lives we lost in 2011. This often comes at the expense of hundreds of scientist, philosophers and humanitarians whose work has been overlooked in favor of men and women fortunate enough to gain celebrity in their lifetime. While this year will likely be remembered for the death of true technological visionary, Steve Jobs, it is important not to forget the other great visionaries we lost.

This February I was lucky enough to visit with Terrance Cole, the self proclaimed inventor of the Longneck beer-bottle, who passed away this month at the age of 97. We discussed his life, his inventions, and how he felt about his legacy.

How did you originally come up with the idea for the Longneck beer-bottle?

Terrance Cole: I always wanted a longer penis.

You've mentioned briefly, in previous interviews, that you originally developed the Longneck bottle while working nights as a bartender. How did the actual conception of the longer neck come about?

TC: I use to drink quite a bit and also I wanted a longer penis. A couple of the bar regulars worked as glass blowers, which was not as uncommon at the time. That's that. 

There is the famous story of how the computer mouse existed many years before the Apple Macintosh but was not popularized until its release. Is this more or less how the popularization of the Longneck bottle came about?

TC: In a way, I suppose. I only had one bottle made. I would pour into it various beers, water, anything I drank from behind the bar. I thought that if people saw me drinking from this bottle, which had a longer neck than the bottles the other men in the bar were using, everyone would think I had a longer penis. No one ever really said anything to me about the bottle while I was holding it, I'm assuming most men were too intimidated. Then, one day, it was everywhere. All men were drinking their beer out of bottles with long necks. It was a horrible time in my life.

Obviously Longneck bottles are one of the more popular ways of distributing beer. They line the aisles of grocery and liquor stores around the world. How did you overcome that period in your life and the discomfort caused by seeing your invention everywhere?

TC: Eventually I began to seek treatment. Treatment to lengthen my penis, I mean. Pills, procedures and so forth.

Did the treatment help?

TC: Of course not. You can't lengthen a penis. You can only attempt to trick people into thinking you have a longer penis by holding things.

What is your opinion of the new technological advancements being made to beer bottles(e.g., the wide mouth can, the “vortex” bottleneck, and vented aluminum bottles meant to enhance chugging)?

TC: Things were simpler when I was young. Young men were only concerned with the length of the penis. I'm not sure what problems the youth of today are encountering and I can only imagine what kinds of problems someone must have in order to invent a bottle with a vent on the bottom of it. How could that possibly make someone else think you have a longer penis? The vortex bottle? Maybe. I'll need to try holding and drinking out of one in a room of crowded people.

You've expressed how painful the popularization of the Longneck bottle has been to you.  Do you ever regret that you'll be remembered as the inventor of the Longneck bottle?

TC: Yes, of course. It was never my intention to have this silly beer bottle serve as my legacy. I'm a humble man, one who has lived a long life and raised four lovely children. I would have much rather preferred being remembered for the impressive length of my penis. 


9 Letters


I love you. I always have. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about the way you sleep and the smell of your breath when you first wake up. I have dreams of falling down in front of you and just dying right there on the floor while you cry over my dead body. Would you do that if I died? When I wake up from the dream I usually go to the bathroom and think of how the bathroom smells after you're in it. I smell the bathroom at work and I also think of you. Are you waiting for me? I'm trying to change my diet. When I'm not around do you think about me? I think about you thinking about me. I think about every thought I have about you and think you must have some opinion or fondness or some corresponding thought, for me. You told me my breath always smelled bad when we woke up in the morning. You would refuse to kiss me. I think about that. I think about how when you would go into the bathroom, after I had been in there, you would spray the Lysol can for about a minute. I think about you complaining of how you didn't like the Lysol scent I picked out and that if I ate healthier you wouldn't have to spray so much. We use to sleep together and you would complain about my weight, about my diet. I think about that. I love you. I'm changing in every way. I'm trying to eat more vegetables now, you know my family did not raise me on vegetables. I've told you that. I put a lot of salad dressing on them and I'm not sure its any healthier for me. I keep gaining weight. I need you here to help me with this. I love you and need you. I think about you and I'm picking out new clothes for when I see you next.


Honey, you left your cell phone in my car. It's on the mantle, don't forget about our plans to meet Jan and his wife for drinks later. Return those videos for me, please. Also can you pick up my suits at the cleaners. I might be late for drinks with Jan and his wife, I'm meeting a client for drinks at the Charleston Suites downtown. I'll just take a cab down to meet you after. I might be kind of drunk when I show up, so be sure that you drive and please don't plan on having any drinks. Please don't wear another black dress. It makes you seem like you only have one dress. Jan actually asked me if you only own one dress. People notice those things. You might want to pick up some Oban as well. I think we're about out and Jan and his wife might come back to our place for drinks again. I'm going sailing with Jan and a client tomorrow, so please make sure you take my white linen suit to the cleaners. You can drop it off when you pick the other one up. I left my gym bag at the gym again. I was planning on washing those clothes before next week. Jan and I are meeting some clients for racquet ball on Tuesday. Can you go down there and see if they'll let you pick up my gym bag? You don't need to take them to the cleaners, washing them yourself will be fine.

Love you and see you tonight.


Did you see the DVD's I bought you? I haven't heard from you in a week and I put them with a card on your doorstep. Did you not like them? I drove by this morning and they were gone, did you get them? I remember you telling me you liked Jim Carrey, that's why I got that one. I want to apologize if I did anything. I know I act stupid when I'm drunk, with my brother around its even worse. I've been working pretty hard since I saw you. I picked up a couple shifts from Jared and I just come home and put on a movie and fall asleep. I wish you were here though, I like watching them with you a whole lot more. I never thought I would meet someone like you and it would just break my heart to think I did something to hurt you. I love you and I want you to call me. I'm saving up to take you out, if you'll have me back, and I'll try to take you out every night for a whole month if I can keep picking these extra shifts up. My back hurts. I'm thinking how you use to rub it for me. My dad called this week and told me he thinks you're good. You remind him of my mother and how she use to look. I miss you, please call me.


Ten years from now I'll be 36. You'll be 32. I'm noticing all the ways we've changed since we met. The rash on my leg is changing, its pink and with spotted red dots. You remember when we came back from the beach, your legs were rash red all the way up to where your swim suit was on. You laid next to me and the heat from your legs kept me up through the night. I'm thinking of how your legs will look in ten years. What the effects of going to the beach with me, for ten more years, will do to your skin. I love you and I'll see you tonight.


I wear different lipsticks for you. I remember when we first went out I had on a dark red. We slept together that first night. I hadn't cleaned my face and the red left several marks on your bed sheets, pillow, and body. We showered. I put lipstick back on and left it on the counter in your bathroom. I thought of it all week. I went shopping and starred at the various colors. I don't think you've really noticed. I'm not sure why I keep changing it or what it would possibly mean to you. Your face looks bored when we have sex. I think about you sleeping with other women, the women I've met who you work with. You told me you slept with some of them before you and I met. I think you're enough. I think I can be with you the rest of my life and I'm in love with you.


I licked your body and it tasted horrible. Salty. I knew you needed my help and I could teach you how to live better. You held me in a very rough and violent way and I enjoyed it. You're so kind most of the time, I know you do it thinking I'll like it. You listen to me and keep eye contact. You often lift your hands and place them on my leg. I told you I like that. I remember when you were behind me, and reached down to my legs, grabbing my thighs. I knew you did that for me. I can tell those things and I want to help you. I feel like you're unhappy. I'm constantly offering sex to you. I try to listen to you, but you don't seem to want to talk. I want you to know that you can tell me anything. I'm in love with you and I want to help you. I think of how you say the word 'pussy' to me and how it makes me uncomfortable.


Mary and I are bringing the kids down this weekend. She lost her job this week and I just need to treat her. I need to get her out of the house and away from the kids. She has been screaming at them, trying to humiliate me in front of them. She humiliates me in public. Its worse than before. I've talked with you about these things before but I just can't handle it. I really feel like if things continue we'll need to spend some serious time apart. You told me, “don't force it.” I think you're right, you can't force it. I don't want to keep these kids in a household where their mother can turn on them any second, villainize me. Any critique I give her on talking to the children is met with violence. I love you and I'll see you soon. Please, treat the kids, I need this to be a good weekend for them.


Your father came back from the War and I was so attracted to him. The first month we dated he refused to talk about his experience at all. He spoke of growing up in Mississippi, the sunshine and his brothers. He was supposed to pick me up one afternoon and he never showed. I had been sitting near the window, waiting for almost two hours. I finally gave up and walked to his house. I'd teared up, I 'd never been in love with a man before and was so hurt and young. You remember your grandparents house had that big front gate? You would open it up and walk through there for a good ten minutes before reaching the house. I wanted so badly to see your father that I opened that gate, walked down that driveway and right in front of his house I saw him throwing rocks at the Irish Setter they had. That dog loved your father. He would get hit with a rock, right in the head, and keep running back to him as if he had done something wrong. I stood there and watched your father throw rocks at the dog for a good four or five minutes. I never told him I saw that and he never spoke to me about it. Its difficult for me to tell you and I've thought about how to describe that moment many times. I still don't know many details of your fathers life from around the time of the war. I didn't love him because of it and I don't know if he threw those rocks at that old dog because of something the dog had done. It seemed very odd then and answered many questions I had yet to ask. It seems very odd to me now and I love and miss him very much. I love and miss you very much too. Kiss the children. Call me.


Fuck you, asshole.


On on On

Geri On developed and sleeps with a Companion(A large device which contains multiple mechanical arms, designed to be heated and pressed against various portions of the human body during sleep)

I wasn't interested in women or men. I went to dinner with friends and thought they were boring, spending the entire meal trying not to offend them. Companies put the most attractive and charming people into movies. I would see ten movies a month and none of the people in them I ever found myself attracted to or charmed by. Food was all the same to me. Anything more than bland taste and texture was simply a novelty.

I could rely on one thing only, companionship. I don't mean this in a sexual way, the way most do when they speak about a companion or life partner. I simply needed people near me at all times. I've never been attractive and never cared enough about myself to convince another human being to come home and sleep in the same bed as me. But at night the lack of companionship would destroy me. I'd wake up in the morning struggling to open my eyes, convinced that the only thing left to do with my life would be to walk straight into the traffic of the boulevard. Staring straight, moving straight, and walking until I'm hit. Maybe my eyes would be closed. I would then get out of bed, take a shower and forget about these things until the next morning.

I thought of dog owners. People who sleep with their dogs in their beds. People I would see out around the neighborhood, carrying on entire conversations with animals the size of a boot. This level of comfort seemed, at the time, to come from their own seclusion from other humans. If you keep yourself from the world long enough, the idea of a companion becomes so distorted in ones mind that even an animal or inanimate object could serve as a partner.

I met a man, around this time, who worked as a cashier at the grocery store nearest my house. He was very short, maybe five feet tall, had a very round body and large hands. I couldn't help but think about this mans body, what the sensation would be like sleeping next to him. Would it solve the anxiety I felt at night or as I woke in the morning?

Thinking about the cashier's body made me think about the bodies of other women and men. I thought about the appearance of the men my female friends slept with; husbands or boyfriends somewhat tall, fairly thin, with a moderate amount of body hair. It occurred to me that I could take home various men and women, see which ones presented the most pleasant experience.

Its surprising, at my age, even a few years ago, to discover how easily others can be talked into sleeping over. I reached out to my friends telling them I wanted to go out more on the weekends, have dinner with them at restaurants and bars. We would have dinner parties where coworkers and family members were invited over, strange men and women of all types.

I began with larger humans, first a woman who was considerably overweight. She was extremely shy. It was the middle of the summer when she came with me to my apartment and she simply produced too much heat. It felt vaguely like suffocation sleeping next to this woman. Though I did not wake with suicidal thoughts, I became convinced she was in love with me. My intention was never to harm anyone and I moved on.

Large men were the same, more inclined to feel and grab at the body during the night, which disturbed my sleep. Thin, tall, black skin, long hair, dark tans, stretch marks, protruding belly buttons, small penises, pale torsos with sun-burnt arms and legs. Each slightly different, though, I'd still never slept with anyone resembling the cashier from the grocery store. I took to visiting the market every day, often twice a day. I learned his name. Phil or Phillip.

One morning a coworker called for him to clean up a large spill in one of the aisles. A child had held open one of the coffee dispensers and a thick layer of ground coffee had spilled across the cream tiling. I happened to be standing there as it happened, watching the child spill the coffee. Watching as Phillip's small body bent over the grounds with a dust pan and brush. White underwear rode up from behind the black work pants of his uniform, his navy polo coming untucked as he leaned forward and rose back up. I imagined his body fitting inside my own, my arms wrapped around him like a pillow, the white underwear tickling my stomach, his penis warm against my own privates.

That night, before sleep, I filled a few aluminum water bottles with boiling water and stuck them into a large pillow. I'd purchased the pillow for a king sized bed I no longer owned and it had been hidden away in one of the hall closets for a year or so. I placed the three bottles in various parts of the pillow, imagining Phillips body. One of the bottles was positioned lengthwise within the pillow, intended to distribute heat to my body were I to grab it tight or roll onto it during the middle of the night. Another, smaller water bottle, was positioned where I imagined Phillip's crotch. This bottle provided a constant release of heat throughout the night, I would have to struggle to escape it during the night. The third bottle I wrapped within a towel and shoved into the top of the pillow case. My face would nestle against it.

This was the beginning of my Companion. My life has greatly improved, just as my Companion has improved over the last few years. I'm finding myself happy for the first time in what seems like a decade, no longer depending on others for some sort of comfort at night. I'm too busy now, improving my Companion.  


Woman Shoots Man In Stomach

I was actually standing beside your mother when we saw a woman shoot a man in the stomach. He bent over, obviously in pain or shock from the gun shot, and your mother and I ran. Later we heard the woman had turned the gun on herself. She had shot herself in the stomach. The next day the story ran in the news. We bought several of the dailies only to find a small article entitled:“Woman Shoots Man In Stomach.”

Your mother was upset. It seems the man had survived. He had been abusing her for weeks, the woman, and he was not a boyfriend or a husband, simply a neighbor who lent the woman what was, in my opinion, a very small amount of money. She bled to death before the paramedics arrived but after the police arrived to draw guns on her. It seemed as thought it should have been a more popular news story. I imagine she shot some vital body part, I don't really know the differences in the bodies of men and women. I've always assumed they're basically the same.

I walk by the spot where the woman shot the man. I walked by it today, my bank is right over there . I went to deposit a check from your mother. I'm able to see the situation clearer, more so now than when it was actually taking place.

A woman, in a white shirt and what looked like pink or red pajama bottoms, moving forward. A man, in a large black jacket, bent over and falling backward. I'm not sure the man was even in pain as he bent over. The impact of a bullet must be enough to make anyone collapse or move along the bullet's path.

Neither one of us owned a cellphone then and I insisted your mother and I not stop for a payphone. We weren't all too far from home and didn't hear the second shot, whenever it was made. The paper didn't state how long it was before the woman shot herself.

I wasn't thinking about you. I wasn't thinking about your mother. I was thinking about how she looked, what the woman's body looked like and how I would have felt about it had I been shot that night too. I couldn't see her face but I remember thinking the pajama bottoms were extremely tight and that I despised the woman very much.

Your mother and I. I never abused you or her and there's no doubt that I'm your father. We're nothing alike, that man and myself, aside from us both still being alive. We were together a long time. I've seen you look at me in the very way your mother looks at me now and I know what you're thinking. Let me tell you that we were deeply in love and the time we spent after that shooting was difficult for me. I'd done nothing with the woman. I'd seen a body moving forward. But men shoot men, women shoot women, men shoot women, and people shoot themselves. That's the point.  


The Perfect Woman

She left me exactly a week ago. Each day since she left, I pull on my pants and I imagine the legs beneath the tan corduroy fabric are her own thin, hairless, white limbs. A little scar below the knee where she fell on a metallic ventilation grate as a child. I place my fingers where I imagine the grooves of her webbing varicose veins could be found. And as I pull on the pants I rub my own legs, which are also very thin,white and hairless, and I imagine she is telling me she loves me unconditionally as I rub her legs(remember, they're actually my legs).

By no means was my “ex” the Perfect Woman. Far from it. I've spent my life imagining, as I'm sure all men do, what the Perfect Woman will look and act like when I find her. Thin, hairless, white legs are a great thing, but really the skin tone, shape and length of leg hair is unimportant to a man. A real man just wants love. If I found the right woman then I know the hair on her legs could be any length. Why I imagine I wouldn't even mind if her leg hair was the same length as a man's leg hair.

I remember when I began building the Perfect Woman in the depths of my imagination, storing her for personal use. I was very young, barely sexual, and had just seen a great picture with James Dean. The picture had this one beautiful brunette girl acting right alongside James, real knockout. She was young. She had pale skin. Her legs were incredibly thin. I thought to myself, “wouldn't she be beautiful if she only had that James Dean face.” He is an attractive guy after all and I'm not ashamed to say that I like a handsome woman.

Just think about it. You're walking alone through an abandoned street when a few hoodlums in leather jackets walk up behind you and flip switch blades. You're dead, right there. They want to kill you. Then the deep rumble of a car engine can be heard in the distance. All of a sudden this beautiful woman comes pulling up with her long jaw line, deep blue eyes, sensitive thin lips. She tells you to get in, wraps her red jacket around your shoulders, and off you go into the night. Its perfect. How romantic.

Of course, James Dean is a man, not a woman. And he is hardly a perfect man. First of all, he is dead. My perfect woman must be alive. None of this Marilyn Monroe, young Stevie Nicks business. Those women are dead and gone. The woman in my imagination is more than alive, she practically vibrates from out my thoughts. I've even found myself slipping parts of her into conversations with the other women I've dated.

“How is your dinner,” my date will ask.

“Good. Do you own a muscle car or a bright red jacket?” I'll respond, looking under the table to gauge the size, skin tone, and length of hair on her legs.

Also, breasts are not my thing. I'm more of a chest guy. I think this is why I would like my perfect woman to look more like James Dean. By today's movie star standards he was a puffy, doughy, effeminate glob. My perfect woman is comfortable with herself and does not conform to today's harsh standards of beauty. Be flat and doughy chested I say. It worked for James. Boy did it work for James.