SKEET 11/18/12

‎"Well, that's the genius of modern life, it's no longer possible to exist within its parameters of function and still be able to do your job as an artist. The machine is too advanced. I mean, sure, ya know, you can pull off a career in the arts, that's never been easier, but to be a true artist, shit, you'd've had better luck as a baby Jew left on Hitler's doorstep. And lucky you, huh? I mean, come on, there's no artist more naked and vulnerable than the writer. I mean, what do you wanna do anyway, tell stories? What's another story gonna do? Stories are dead. You want a story, go to the fuckin' movies or read a goddamn comic book or something. Hey, I got a story for ya- there is no fucking story. And THAT, my friend, is what's needed. We've studied the specimen, we've investigated its behavior, but you know as well as I do it's time for something else. So unless you're playing for keeps, unless you've committed yourself to that noose, don't even fuckin' bother because it's never gonna happen. It's like trying to strike a match in the rain." -Skeet Giddens, 11/18/12

AN EXAMPLE OF ONE OF THE COUNTLESS CARTOONS I WOULD BE SUBMITTING TO PLAYBOY OR PENTHOUSE OR MAYBE HUSTLER IF ONLY MY PARENTS WOULD'VE CARED ENOUGH TO ENCOURAGE MY DRAWING AND I WASN'T SO AFRAID OF HOW MY WIFE WOULD REACT IF SHE FOUND OUT I WAS SPENDING MY TIME CREATING CARTOONS TO SUBMIT TO PLAYBOY OR PENTHOUSE OR HUSTLER EVEN IF MY PARENTS HAD ENCOURAGED MY DRAWING:

1. Frumpy, middled aged man jerking off naked on his back (underwear pulled down around his ankles), sideways across the bed as his wife squats (standing beside the bed) her big white pimply ass down upon his face. The man's face is completely buried in her butt. She's picking at a fingernail, bored and disgusted. Her purse and keys are on the floor beside her and her skirt is simply pulled down to her knees. She still has her jacket and scarf on as she is clearly doing this out of some sort of last minute manipulation or pity.

CAPTION (Woman): Hurry up, Frank! I'm meeting Nancy and Kelly for coffee!



 

PETER

     The day of the funeral Peter was still nowhere to be found. It was cold and the ground was wet from the heavy rain the night before. Every person from both sides of the family were there. And so many friends from so many chapters of their lives. Peter's brother had flown in from Iraq. He stood clenching his jaw in his Army fatigues and beret behind Peter's wife, Sue, who sat hunched over, rocking, holding her pregnant belly. It was a strange low moan which she made, the same sound she had made when she went into labor with her boy. Her mother put her arm around her and took Sue's hand. Sue slumped into her mother and her mother kissed the top of her head through her veil and rested her cheek upon it, squinting hard against the pain. Sue's father looked over and saw their two white hands clasped together upon Sue's lap. "How could they ever let go?" he thought. He had been sitting erect and motionless, his eyes darting here and there toward any movement, a falling leaf, a squirrel, a bird, anything. The preacher was tall and thin, an Irishman with watery eyes and dry, painful looking skin. He reached up with his long crooked fingers and brushed a few strands of hair across his bald head. He then bit his lip as he stepped forward with his bible beside the small black casket. It was Peter's mother who saw him first. "Petie!" she yelled. Everyone's head turned in unison. Peter's mother shot out of her chair and ran towards her son down the hill through the graves. The preacher clutched the bible to his chest, looking on. Peter was still shirtless and barefoot just as he was when he had heard the news. His skin was bright red and his feet were caked with mud. He was still dragging his little boy's bike behind him, like a hunter with a kill through the cold wet leaves. He stopped when his mother reached him but he gave no response to her embrace. She reached up and grabbed his face. "Look at me!" she said, "Peter, look at me!" He closed his eyes and turned his head as he pushed her away. He put a foot out in front of him and then another one and he continued on. His mother staggered behind him, weeping with a hand cupped over her mouth. "Peter," said Peter's father. "God!" said someone else. Peter approached the coffin. He stopped, his cold body swaying to some sort of rhythm working inside him. The bike finally fell from his hand. Tears streamed down his soldier bother's face. "Peter," said the preacher. Peter stared at the coffin, breathing, shivering, wobbling upon his feet. His breathing got heavier, his hairy chest rising and falling, his flabby belly quivering. "Peter please!" cried Sue, "please!" Peter's father and Sue's father both moved in towards him. "Son," said Sue's father as he reached for Peter's shoulder. Peter turned his head and looked at them. "Peter," said his father.

TWO 40 SOMETHING YEAR OLD MARRIED DUDES WITH KIDS AT A BAR, WAITING FOR A YOUNGER SINGLE DUDE TO SHOW UP BEFORE THEY GO TO ANOTHER BAR

"HAHA! Dude, that is some funny fuckin' shit right there!"
"Hey, man, you know, that's like one of the biggest reasons why I knew I could trust my wife. She was like the only chick who was ever totally honest about my penis size."
"Dude, your girl's a fuckin' riot, man! Suzy fuckin' loves her!"
"Thanks, man... Yeah, it's pretty cool how they've started hanging out."
"Yeah, man. It's hard up here... Dude, there was this chick I used to fuck back in college who used to call my dick the 'bulldozer'."
"Haha. What?"
"I mean, it was like so fucking stupid. Like, you know, I'm just an average guy with an average sized penis. And it's like she even knew I knew some of the other guys who had fucked her. I had this friend, Rick, from high school; I knew for sure he had fucked her. And Rick was like this fuckin' six foot four, two hundred and thirty pound fuckin' monster. We wrestled together. He was like heavyweight state champion and shit."
"You wrestled? Dude, I wrestled too! 157. I mean, this was Connecticut not Iowa."
"Yeah, you almost had to wrestle where I was from. God, I hated that fuckin' shit."
"Oh, man, me too."
"I mean like I fucking HATED it! Anyway, I mean, like no joke, this dude's dick was like... I don't know, like I swear to God it was like as big around as this glass."
"Haha. Damn... Hey, where is this fuckin' asshole anyway? It's like almost 9:00. Like he invites us out and then..."
"Yeah, I don't know about him anymore. It's like he never fucking listens to anything I say. It's always about him and all his acting bullshit. I mean, dude, I used to do commercials. Like I'm still signed with Innovative... At least I think I am. But I mean that's how we bought our fucking house and shit!"
"Yeah, I know, man, but he's just young, you know. I mean, I'm sure we were both fuckin' douche-bags too at that age."
"Yeah, I don't know. I guess he can be pretty fuckin' funny sometimes, I'll give him that. I wish him well, you know, but..."
"Hey, man, don't you ever wish you could go back in time like, you know, like be sort of like a ghost or something you know, like be able to watch your wife the way she was before you guys even met and like listen to her talk to her girlfriends and interact with dudes and shit?"
"Fuck that shit, I'd want to watch her get pounded by like each and every one of her fucking boyfriends! I mean, just to see what that looks like, you know. Fuck man, I think about that shit all the time."
"Oh man, me too! I mean, what is that shit? What the hell's wrong with us?"
"I don't know, man, but I'm like all hung up on all sorts of shit like that. Like my mother's friends, you know, from back when I was a kid. Oh, man, there was this one friend of my mother's, this chick she worked with. She was SO FUCKING HOT! Reba, or wait, maybe it was Reva? Anyway, oh man, she was like, uh, she was like this fucking smokin' hot like Latino-ish fuckin'... FUCK, MAN! I mean, she had these big fuckin' heavy fuckin' titties and this great big ass! Awe, man, women were like, I don't know, they were just fuckin' WOMEN back then, you know? There's just something about it. I don't know, I just, you know, it's like it was all just so fuckin' MMM!"
"Yeah, I know what you're saying. Things were just, I don't know. Things are different now. Maybe it's just us, you know, gettin' older?"
"I don't know. I see beautiful woman all the time in the city, but something's just different, something's missing."
"Maybe it's just internet porn? You know, like maybe we've just seen too much shit? Maybe we're all just too desensitized?"
"Yeah, that's probably true."
"Hey, have you seen the new Frontline, the one about like the disparity of wealth and shit?"
"No, I haven't. Is it good?"
"Oh, man, it's fucking awesome. It's called Park Avenue... something. A lot of it's about this one building on Park Avenue where all these billionaires live. It's supposedly like the highest concentration of personal wealth in America."
"I'll check it out. Hey, what are you guys doing for thanksgiving?"
"Uh, we're driving down to her folks."
"How long is that drive, like four or five hours?"
"No, man, it's like seven or eight."
"That sucks."
"Yeah. What about you guys?"
"Looks like we're just staying here."
"Dude, that's awesome!"
"I know... Hey, where do you want to go, the Hop? This place fuckin' sucks."
"The Hop closes at like nine or some shit."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, I think on weekdays they do. I was thinking we would go the Roundhouse. That Phil dude's usually working."
"Hey, what's up with that guy?"
"He's cool."
"Did he really used to be a model?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"I don't get it, like what's he doin'?"
"I guess he's a writer."
"What does he write?"
"I don't know."
"You want another beer? Oh, wait, here he is. Haha, look at that fucker."
"Hey, brother!"
"Hey, man."
"How you guys doin'?"

    

FREDDIE FUNKLE

     For as long as he could remember, whenever the mood would strike, Freddie Funkle had always found it both comforting and exhilarating to sing the same song to himself in the mirror after showering. Freddie would wipe the fog away and swoon as he serenaded the absurd image of his naked self staring back. It was an old Diana Ross song which went: "Do you know where you're going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you? Do you know? Do you know?" He would go on for some time, singing those same words over and over again. There were certainly more words to the song but Freddie did not know them nor did he care, for the words he sang were all that were needed to bring him back to his childhood when his older brother would follow him around the house, teasing him with the song. But for some reason, the singing of this song was absolutely intolerable to Freddie's wife who would actually become angry. "You sound like a fag!" she would say. Freddie once tried to explain to her that it was his bother's voice not Diana's which he was trying to replicate, but other than that, he was unable to explain or defend his desire to sing it any further. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until the two of them happened upon an infomercial late one night which was selling a collection of CDs called Songs Of The 70s that his wife believed that it was really an actual Diana Ross song and not just another thing he had simply made up. You see, he and his wife had a few failings with what they found humorous. For instance, his wife simply stared at him at the dinner table after hearing his recent idea for a comic strip called The Adventures Of Eunice The Eunuch. "You don't think that's funny?" he asked.
     "No," she said, "I don't."
     "But it's not really supposed to be funny, I mean, not like you're thinking. That's sort of the whole point! I mean, that's what's funny. Nothing happens to him. He eats, he poops, he goes to bed. He fills his car up with gas. He goes to work. He doesn't even realize he hates his work. His expression never changes. You do one of him just going to the post office. That's it, that's all that happens. It's like Seinfeld. You love Seinfeld! Only really, I mean nothing at all happens. You never even use an adjective ever! But really, it wouldn't even be about him, it would be about the world, the world that just sort of goes on around him which he's just totally oblivious to. Come on, you don't think that's funny?" His wife just went back to feeding their little boy who was being a little asshole about the pizza they had just sat down to eat, the very pizza he had said he wanted. "But it's too spicy!" screamed the boy.
     "Sweetheart," said his wife, "it's not spicy, I promise. It's pizza, you eat it all the time!"
     "I DON'T WANT IT!" cried his boy, kicking his highchair, "I DON'T LIKE THAT PIZZA! IT'S TOO SPICY!"
     "Stop that!" Freddie chimed in. "It's NOT spicy! You're the one that wanted pizza!"
     The boy covered his face and began to sob. "Okay, okay," said his wife. "That's not helping." At that moment, Freddie felt a wave of anxiety come over him. He was in his 40s now. He missed his brother and he missed himself, a self which more and more seemed only willing to surface on such seemingly insignificant occasions. Like when he sang the song or when he came up with the idea of Eunice The Eunuch. He knew it was a great idea, but he also knew he would never do anything with it. He felt hopeless, old and hopeless. He took a deep breath, folded the tip of his piece of pizza over, and bit into it. His boy was right, it WAS spicy, much more spicy than usual.

Notes Of Ideas Of Pieces Of Sculpture I Would Love To Try To Make If I Live Long Enough And Am Somehow Able To Retire And Have The Time And The Space To Make Such Things:

#1. Hyper real, life sized, hairy, dead obese man (350 to 400 lb range) in perfect fetal position upon a concrete floor. We do not see his face, only the back of his head (curly, greasy, greying black hair), as it is tucked into his flabby arms. The poor fuck had shit himself at death (shit spray ring smeared around his gaping ass about the size of say, a standard sized frisbee, and a rat sized turd with tail to boot slipping out from his hard, swollen ring). The man is pasty white or blue or purple or black or reddish in places depending upon information gathered of such things from the internet (perhaps try to talk to some FX movie guru? shit, man, you know people!). The piece should be displayed in the center of an enclosed space. Lighting is key. Maybe either a dusty old pendant lamp or one lone 40 or 60 watt bulb (clear one where you can see the filament) buzzing from above at viewers eye level (again, talk to Jim Vermeulen or someone). The piece is called NED.  

Sunday Brew

     It was around 1:30 in the afternoon and I still hadn't shit. Sarah and Henry were out getting groceries. I had just finished watching a pig get slaughtered on Youtube. It was somewhere in the Philippines, a sow. They had her on her back while they tied her legs together. She seemed to trust the men. Or perhaps she had simply given in to her fate? She had two rows of pink sharp nipples and she seemed to be looking over at the pile of coals which were burning hot not 6 feet away. Over the men's voices, children could be heard laughing in the background. One of the men knelt down with a knife while the other men held her tight. He made the cut and the blood poured out. He tossed the knife and brought a plastic bucket up to the slit on her neck to collect the flowing juice. Her legs trembled and her body heaved but she didn't make a sound. After that, I got up and poured myself another cup of coffee. I had worked till 4:00 a.m. the night before. 41 years old and I was back working at a bar. All the glory gone as if it never happened. A line from one of Henry's books came to mind, "Un-slumping yourself is not easily done." That Dr. Seuss! The furnace kicked on as I sat back down on the couch. Another winter looming. I went on Facebook. Many people were posting about some dude who was about to jump out of a balloon at the edge of space. If he didn't die, he would be the first parachutist to break the sound barrier. I wished him well but I was simply not interested. I then saw a picture of an old friend and his pretty wife who were on vacation somewhere. My friend looked far too old, as old as my father. His hair was grey and his beard was grey and his eyes looked tired and empty. He was many years younger than me and very successful. I thought about that poor pig again. I saw her face, I looked into her dying eyes. Then, finally, my bowels began to unlock. I closed the computer and got up to take my shit.