Critique #1

“Hey there sailor…” by Jessica Douglas is a painting done in the year 2007. It features a anglerfish-like monster with a nude mermaid as a tail luring a ship of unsuspecting sailors to their fishy doom.

The medium is watercolor on canvas, with the colors looking rather layered for that type of paint. It has a soft, humorous aesthetic, its hues of blue and green making the viewer feel happy and preserves the tone of the piece even though the subject matter involves the death and destruction of an entire ship and its crew. The focus of the piece is the green and scaly creature, a strange mix of an anglerfish and a bullfrog hiding in the bottom left corner.

The piece is not designed to be taken seriously, and was admitted by the artist as merely a humorous dream she had painted onto a canvas. Art does not always have to be profoundly deep to be well made.

Narrative #4

The young gardener felt a cramp build in his raised right arm. His thumb was extended out over the road, pointing off behind him. He had been standing in the same spot for hours and desperately needed a ride home. He would take a ride in the pack of a dirty pickup truck at this point.

His dark hair hung in dirty locks over his grimed face, sweaty after a hard days work. The night sky was thick and starless, the moon hidden behind a saturation of clouds. It even seemed the crickets were noiselessly suffocated in the humid solidity of the evening air.

The gardener leaned his body on his large, industrial chainsaw he used for work. It was half the size of his body, and the gardener was not a small man. It could saw through an oak in under a minute and was one of his most prized workman’s tools. It was a bright yellow and would shine in the light, which was terribly lacking at the moment.

A car, a van from what the gardener could gather, was about to pass. He looked hopefully at the approaching headlights, gesticulating his hitchhiker’s thumb rapidly back and forth, and for a moment the van appeared to slow, break lights lighting for a brief moment. The moment, however, was indeed brief, and the van sped back up and out of sight over a hill behind him. The gardener let out another sigh. Why would no one give him a ride? He thought he looked pretty legit.

A motorcyclist stood not two hundred yards away from the gardener. Actually, it would be a stretch to refer to him as a motorcyclist, for his motorcycle lied in a smoking heap by a tree a dozen or so feet back. His head light was slowly waning, the bulb needing to be replaced and the corner he stood at appeared to come out of nowhere. His face was scraped rather badly because of the bark of the tree but overall he was unhurt. He had a large metal bat he was using as a makeshift crutch while he waited for some help to drive by.

He had been at the local biker’s softball game and for the first time since he had been playing, his team, the Devil’s Rejects, had finally beat out the Road Demons in seven innings. He had even hit the homerun which brought his team victory. The Road Demons even walked over and shook his hands to congratulate him. Such nice people, those Road Demons.

Up the steep hill in front of him, he saw a car, perhaps a truck or van of some sort, climb over the apex of the bump. He smiled a bloody, toothy smile as he swung the bat over his shoulder. For the second time that night, the van began to slow, but only for a moment. It quickly curved down the left hand turn and sped off into the night’s darkness. The biker was crestfallen.

He thought he looked pretty legit.

Leaning on a large metal sign, the man who looked like a business man stood nonchalantly, arms crossed in front of his chest. His tie was slightly uneven but besides that there was not one thing amiss on his body, from his well polished shoes to his perfectly slicked back hair. In his hands was a large black briefcase.

The man who looked like a business man decided that, being such a lovely night, he might as well kill some people before heading off to bed. The sign above him, large and in all capital letters, warned, “PRISON AREA: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS”. He occasionally straightened out his stolen suit or let out a tired yawn and figured if a car full of dimwits didn’t pull over soon he was going to forget this whole murder business for the day and rent a motel room. He may even be able to kill a prostitute if he spies one on his way home. That was always a treat.

Just as he decided tonight was not the night, headlights emerged around the corner to his left. He smiled, briefly thanked the Gods above, and slowly stuck out his thumb.

The van’s break lights flashed on for a second, then flashed off. However, this time they turned on once more and stayed alit as the van slowly stopped at the side of the road.

The smiling murderer who looked like a business man picked up his suitcase, which contained several sharp instruments that could to really nasty things to nice people, and approached the van, leaving behind his post under the large metal sign. Out of the open window, he heard the sound of a bickering couple.

“You know,” came an annoying female voice, high pitched and rather whiney, “they say it’s not a good idea to pick up hitchhikers. You saw how sketchy those other dudes looked.”

As the man opened the back door of the van, the man responded, “Don’t worry, babe. This guy seems pretty legit.”

Narrative #3

The aged stack of glowing televisions casted a jaundiced glow on the boy’s body leaning against the brick wall of an abandoned electronics store. Worried French fell out of an older gentleman’s mustachiod lips, hair looking messed and untended and completely unsuited for a news anchor on live television, his voice like a cheap radio in a car shaking and stuttering over rocky terrain. But none of this concerned the body of the dead young man; in fact, he did not mind the old man’s repeating commentary at all. Someone at the broadcasting booth managed to set a loop of the same recycled message before the Grippe took his ragged breath and was only playing now for the hundredth or thousandth or millionth time.

The television’s warnings were of a standard, simple affair; do not panic, remain calm, the sky is falling and we need the petty crowd to remain in the streets so they don’t notice the better of society sneaking off underground. Standard disaster business.

The emaciated remains of what was once a boy named Nathan concerned itself as one of the luckier victims of the Grippe. For reasons unknown, his immune system took one look of the invading virus, threw down its arms, and shouted, “Take the bastard if you’d like, we quit!” and the virus immediately obliged by striking him down quickly and comparatively painlessly. Compared to the others, of course, who got the pleasure of drowning in their own mucus if their throat didn’t swell and close on its own, of course. Everything is about comparisons.

Across the empty street in front of Nathan’s propped corpse, another body was sprawled across the concrete. She lied face down, arms and legs awkwardly splayed across the ground as if attempting to hug the entire city. Or strangle it. He figured, based off what was left of her, she must have been beautiful at one point. Of course, death has a way of taking a chisel to what we hold dear and then stomping on it like a mad bull, laughing crazily while He does it.

The sacred remains of Nathan attempted to talk to her, but it proved near impossible. Her face was buried in the hard ground, and all that came out was some muffled reply. No breath left his or her lips, being dead and all, but the dead have a way of talking to one another in ways few understand.

With the suddenness of a bomb detonating, the nervous old man caught in an infinite loop of mass deceit flickered off for a moment to be replaced by harsh static the next. If Nathan could still feel, he was positive it would have quickly given him a migraine. One of the many perks being dead, he imagined.

A fat crow lazily hopped by, its fragile twiggy legs barely supporting its body. The Grippe was of no concern for the local wildlife. The birds and scavengers were becoming obese and lethargic, food now being in great abundance without those pesky people hoarding it all away. Nathan felt no resentment for them, though. Pick up where the losers left off has been the way of the world since the dawn of time, and humans were fools to believe their radios and microwave dinners somehow kept the world on its tilt.

Like a rush of déjà vu, Nathan saw himself as he once way. Blood flowing, heart ticking, motor skills under his almost complete control. There was a faint feeling of remorse but it was mostly pity. It was no different than feeling shame for the beauty of the young woman in front of him melting away in death. There was no point in regretting what was inevitable. He accepted that everyone had to die at some point. The only surprise was that it seemed to come for everyone the same few weeks. One can never predict life any more than they can predict death.

Still, a flash like lightning shot through his still nervous system, and almost clear as the crisp night air, he could picture himself and the little lady across the way. Maybe they had met before, no more than passing one another while rushing to work. Maybe they even spoke once. If they had, he wished he had grabbed her hips and kissed her there, get the chance before the Grippe stole it from them. Of course, in his fantasy, their lips never managed to touch. They always drew closer, yet never touched, like the unending hallway that once haunted his nightmares. If you go half the distance between you and your goal, how many steps would it take to reach it? An infinite, which is a nice way of saying it won’t ever happen, sunshine, pick up the dice and roll again and see if you can get a thirteen.

No, he was not going to reach across the street. Death offered many perks, no more pain, no need for food or drink, no waiting in line for anything, and certainly no nine to five job, if you discount his now permanent guard duty of his empty brick store, window lined with now snowy screens and flickering lights.

A hopeless prayer crossed through his mind and dribbled onto the ground like a fallen dream, a hope that there were people still left alive somewhere, and that they got a chance for one more kiss. A kiss goodbye for mankind, perhaps, or just one more beautiful moment before humanity gets coughed at like a wad of phlegm in the throat of the planet.

And if they did kiss, he hoped they remembered to remove their face masks first. Even the coldness of the Grippe cannot interfere with the love of a simple kiss.

The televisions flickered off.

Narrative #2

The great jester Francois retired with the ingress of nightfall. The air around the great fool appeared to thicken to a viscous fluid, giving his movements grace and keeping his step light. The room was deathly dark, yet the blackest objects were his two eyes, surrounded by a rich mask, blue and gold and heavy on his face.

Francois let out a gentle laugh whilst he danced across his lavish home. Money offered him no concern, evident by the elegance in which his home was decorated and the quality of the fool’s garments he wore, a beautiful mix of red and purple, life and royalty hugging his frame close. The king would want his most favorite fool to live as such, for as the king’s empire continued to grow, so did the fool’s favor in his eyes. The great fool Francois’ mien of mocking majesty entertained the king to hysterics, thus filling Francois pockets to bursting.

“I beg your pardon, friend,” the jester apologized to the darkness of his estate, “the true master fool demanded me to stay late.”

The silence, unsurprisingly, accepted his apology by returning it with still noiselessness.

The bells upon his head jingled in rhythm with the bells on his feet as he skipped towards a single ornate cabinet, a hulking monstrosity of dark wood and elaborate carvings. Its very existence offput even the most gregarious of guests and was avoided out of habit by his many visitors. It was for this exact trait he purchased the terrible thing. There is no secret better kept than one guarded by groundless terror.

“If that man,” he informed the humid darkness, “took the time to look at his own form, he would laugh himself into regicide. I say again, he is the true fool!”
Francois slid open the heavy cabinet, grinning madly.

“Hello, old friend.”

The skull merely returned the jester’s toothy grin, wordless.

He lifted up the boney cranium, holding it in the palm of his hand. Two dark, empty eyes stared back at two equally empty eye sockets.

“That is why I love your company, friend,” he said, “You are a man of few words.”

His laughs carried across the stoic void of Francois’ home, not simply echoing through the open air but instead beating the walls and decorum until they mournfully issuing back the mirror sound of his joy. The great fool twirled about, the ringing bells the only company to his manic laughter, gently placing his long deceased friend upon a red pillow, extravagantly made and totally unused by any living persons, which was placed next to a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Francois lied on his slim belly, his head resting on his hands. With a subtle fluidity he lifted his legs in the air over his back, until they hovered above both his own and the head of his permanent guest.

“Shall you have any wine, this evening, my friend?” Francois asked, grasping the scarlet bottle using only his feet, pouring a glass for both him and his companion. Not a single drop fell onto the tablecloth, though if one did manage escape, staining was not an issue, for the fabric was the same burgundy of the wine.
“Entertaining, no? I believe that fat comedian fermenting in his throne shall be tickled to no end.”

Francois stared into the blankness of the skull’s missing eyes, then said, “You know, it is so difficult to tell when you are amused when you smile so often thusly,” and began to laugh again.

The fool swung his body around, sitting himself up in a more normal manner, grasping the crystal glass. He lifted its rim up to his lips, tipping the contents into his mouth, savoring the taste of the wine as it pleasingly went down his throat, like thin, sweet syrup. Once the glass was again once empty, Francois flung the glass into the air. It spun numerous times, yet without a single glance upwards the jester reached a hand behind his back, catching the glass. He then placed it back on the table besides the dark red bottle.

“What do you think, my comrade?”

The skull rested on the pillow in deathly stillness.

Francois smiled gaily, patting the top of its bone dry head, “It is only because of you I am able to do what normally would terrify me. You bolster me to do what I know should be done.”

A suddenly harsh rain began to pound the world. Far away, Francois heard what could have been the slow rumble of thunder, or perhaps the approach of a billion soldiers in an army’s march.

The fool’s face seemed to drop with the quick departure of his grin, as if the tension of his smile kept his face tied to his skull, and his tone became more solemn.

“Everyday,” he stated, “that tyrannical jelly-man chortles and snorts at silly antics and thinly veiled insults. If I could spit upon him after my routine I would. He deserves no more and much less, my friend.”

Outside, the harsh crack of lightning issued, briefly illuminating his night filled home, yet the bright light offered no reprieve from the stifling uneasiness which was beginning to spread from drapery covered wall to the others.

“For what he did to us. To you. He deserves much, much less.”

Another low rumble rolled across the planet, seeming to shake the very ground.
Francois the great fool leaned over to the skull, placed on its scarlet pedestal of down and fabric, and kissed its crown softly. He leaned over to where its ear once was, and whispered, “Aime, qu'on les loue ou les blame, toujours les grand coeurs aimeront. Joins cette jeunesse de l'âme a la jeunesse de ton front.”

Suddenly, a crash rang out like an accusatory shout. Francois calmly looked towards the large wooden door, where the noise issued.

“Francois the Jester!” came a harshly gruff voice, “Open the door!”

The greatest fool merely reached over and poured himself another glass of wine.
A second crash echoed through his hallowed home as his chamber door crashed to the ground, lying in a heap as if a fallen golemn of wood and metal. Solid soldiers of tinish conformity stood at his stoop. Their armor briefly flashed in the harsh light of a striking bolt from the storm raging.

“Francois the Jester, the king has been slain. There was a bell tied to a lock of his hair. One of your bells, if the hands of the house are correct. Also, on his now still chest laid a crimson rose. Come with us, so we may clear the air of any confusion that you, the great jester, could have any part in this plot.”

Stillness was all that met the Captain’s words, but just as the soldiers began advancing to seize the murderous fool, Francois chimed in, “A rose, you say?”

Humorlessly, the Captain responded, “Yes, upon his chest. Know you anything of this?”

After a final sip of sweet wine, the jester returned, “Yes, and ‘tis a fine parting gift for such a fine actor of majesty.”

“Your jokes have landed you in the noose, fool. We have the king’s murderer, like as not. The people may now rest in peace.”

Laughing as he was led away by the long arm of the deceased monarch, Francois the fallen jester shouted, “It took a fool to save your souls! Dost thou not see the humor in it?” and he continued to laugh until the air was cut out by the firm grasp of the hemp rope which hanged him.

His friend, shrouded in darkness, sat grinning, finding the course of events to be quite entertaining.

To the dead, the world is a funny place.

Narrative #1

When a madman is left to his own vices, he paces like he intends to outrun something terrible. When a man is left alone for too long, he begins to grow mad. Therefore, Jack was a madman, and indeed he was pacing.

He looked towards the solar powered clock at an unhealthy rate. When he descended to the fallout shelter, it was exactly 2:47 p.m. As he looked at its face again, he noted it was now exactly 2:47. As it turns out, solar power, no matter how noble a cause, becomes wholly useless when the sun is cowering behind several inches of industrial grade steel. And, more than likely, several hundred rads of lethal radiation. Still, he felt proud that he had sought after only the most environmentally safe materials and electronics. He was truly concerned what those green house gasses he had heard about on T.V. could do to the earth.

His legs were screaming for a reprieve from the endless pacing. He walked to the far back corner, where an almost complete living room was set up, television and coffee table included, along with the standard grey leather couch and loveseat. He flicked on the television, and was greeted cordially by a blast of static. Antenna must be knocked loose.

He looked at the clock again. It was 2:47.

He ran his hand over his almost nonexistent gray hair, a nervous tick that was more than likely responsible for his baldness. He wished he had remembered a few more hats as he made his mad dash to the shelter. He did not wish any of the survivors to be greeted with a wide grin and a blindingly shiny head. First impressions and all.

With a step as steady as a warplane balanced on a pinhead, he navigated across the fields of tiled linoleum. Jack, not without some struggling, opened the great white refrigerator opposite his living room. He was greeted by a chill of cool air and the unsettling sight of empty shelves. He had intended on storing all of his perishables, had in fact spent most of his money on a generator solely for the cooling monstrosity, but he was so exhausted lugging the television down the stairs, he instead went back inside for a drink. Clearly he had simply forgotten about it.

With a sigh, he let go of the door handle, as the fridge slammed itself shut. He had a habit of leaving the fridge open, so he had the auto-shut feature installed. Not that it would do him much good down now, of course.

He glanced at the clock again. 2:47.

With a step as steady as a fault line, he raced to the kitchen-like set up on the wall adjacent to the television. He supposed it made more sense to place it nearer to the fridge, but he heard from a friend it wasn’t as pleasing to the eye. It wasn’t “fung shwee” or something like that. He wasn’t sure what the word meant, but it was not his job to question, and he did not want to risk looking ignorant. The bald head made him feel silly enough as it was.

The cabinet was lined with Spam. Months and months worth of Spam. He detested Spam, and weighed the pros and cons of starving to death to consuming nothing but Spam for weeks on end. He found the balance tipping slightly in the favor of starving.

The clock still read 2:47.

With a step as steady as nuclear combat, he approached the last of the four white walls, which held for him no solace and a single steel door.

Inside was the bedroom.

Well, in actuality, it was more of just a room, since in order to fall under the definition of a “bedroom”, he assumed it required an actual bed, which was sorely lacking in his. He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand with enough force to echo throughout his new home. He had asked Jeff Olson, his next door neighbor, to help move the bed from inside to the shelter, but he claimed he was busy and would come next weekend.

He cursed under his breath, then realizing there was no one around to be insulted nor could the echoes penetrate the thick walls, began shouting and stomping his feet. After a dignified session of tantruming, he fell to the floor, pounding his fists as if trying to knock on the roof of hell to inquire about their living arrangements.

With a move as steady as death and taxes, Jack crawled on all fours out the door, like a child playing soldier. He imagined the neighbors, especially that fool, Jeff, seeing him in such a state. They’d probably insult him behind his back, laugh at him, call him a baby. He hoped they laughed until they wet themselves, so he could get the chance to call them a baby. That would show them.

Unfortunately, it was also after that thought he realized he never installed any plumbing. When it came to basic and disgusting bodily functions, he tried not to think about them too much. He filed that thought under the rest of the issues that may come back as troublesome later.

He pulled his skinny body along the clean floor and ascended to the couch, where like the fallen hero he knew deep down he was, he pulled his knees to his chest and put his thumb to his mouth and began to cry.

He blamed Jeff and he blamed the government, ignoring his past friendship and the unimportant fact that he had voted for the elected party for every election he could remember. He blamed the fridge for being empty and he blamed the Spam for tasting so God awful, which was really the only thing that deserved the damning, and he blamed the fallout shelter for being incomplete and the stupid clock for not moving an inch since he had been down there.

He heard on the television not long before the bombs began to drop it took around six weeks for nuclear fallout to clear out of the air.

It was 2:47.

Infinite Jest

"What metro Boston AAs are trite but correct about is that both destiny's kisses and its dope-slaps illustrate an individual person's basic personal powerlessness over the really meaningful events in his life: i.e. almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it. Destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an alley with some sort of Psst that you usually can't even hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you've tried to engineer." - David Foster Wallace

Irony

- by Sam, Photography

The Cola Wars

- Stephan Black, Photography

Grim Humor

Amanda Mae, Photography

RENT

- Finbar Skullivan, photography

Face It With Humor

From left to right, "For Beer", "For Wine", "At least we're honest", "For marijuana"

By Edward Brewick, 2009, Photography, Black and White

+Dark Humor

- By Sahraw Sahraw, photography

Free Soup

- Baird Hoffmire, Mixed Media

The Good Soldier Švejk - Jaroslav Hašek

"'And so they've killed our Ferdinand,' said the charwoman to Mr Švejk, who had left military service years before, after having been finally certified by an army medical board as an imbecile, and now lived by selling dogs — ugly, mongrel monstrosities whose pedigrees he forged.

Apart from this occupation he suffered from rheumatism and was at this very moment rubbing his knees with Elliman's embrocation.

'Which Ferdinand, Mrs Müller?' he asked, going on with the massaging. 'I know two Ferdinands. One is a messenger at Průša's, the chemist's, and once by mistake he drank a bottle of hair oil there. And the other is Ferdinand Kokoška who collects dog manure. Neither of them is any loss.'

'Oh no, sir, it's his Imperial highness, the Archduke Ferdinand, from Konopiště, the fat churchy one.'"

Kurt Vonnegut Biography

"Writer, novelist. Born on November 11, 1922, in Indianapolis, Indiana. Kurt Vonnegut is considered one of the most influential American novelists of the twentieth century. He blended literature with science fiction and humor, the absurd with pointed social commentary. Vonnegut created his own unique world in each of his novels and filled them with unusual characters, such as the alien race known as the Tralfamadorians in Slaughterhouse-Five (1969).

After studying at Cornell University from 1940 to 1942, Kurt Vonnegut enlisted the U.S. Army. He was sent by the army to what is now Carnegie Mellon University to study engineering in 1943. The next year, he served in Europe and fought in the Battle of the Bulge. After this battle, Vonnegut was captured and became a prisoner of war. He was in Dresden, Germany, during the Allied firebombing of the city, and saw the complete devastation caused by it. Vonnegut himself only escaped harm because he, along with other POWs, was working in an underground meat locker making vitamins.

Soon after his return from the war, Kurt Vonnegut married his high school girlfriend, Jane Marie Cox. The couple had three children. He worked several jobs before his writing career took off, including newspaper reporter, teacher, and public relations employee for General Electric. The Vonneguts also adopted his sister's three children after her death in 1958.

Showing his talent for satire, his first novel, Player Piano, took on corporate culture and was published in 1952. More novels followed, including The Sirens of Titan (1959), Mother Night (1961), and Cat's Cradle (1963). War remained a recurring element in his work and one of his best-known works, Slaughterhouse-Five, draws some of its dramatic power from his own experiences. The narrator, Billy Pilgrim, is a young soldier who becomes a prisoner of war and works in an underground meat locker, not unlike Vonnegut, but with a notable exception. Pilgrim begins to experience his life out of sequence and revisits different times repeatedly. He also has encounters with the Tralfamadorians. This exploration of the human condition mixed with the fantastical struck a cord with readers, giving Vonnegut his first best-selling novel.

Emerging a new literary voice, Kurt Vonnegut became known for his unusual writing style — long sentences and little punctuation — as well as his humanist point of view. He continued writing short stories and novels, including Breakfast of Champions (1973), Jailbird (1979), and Deadeye Dick (1982). Vonnegut even made himself the subject of Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage (1981).
Despite his success, Kurt Vonnegut wrestled with his own personal demons. Having struggled with depression on and off for years, he attempted to take his own life in 1984. Whatever challenges he faced personally, Vonnegut became a literary icon with a devoted following. He counted writers such as Joseph Heller, another WWII veteran, as his friends.

His last novel was Timequake (1997), which became a best seller despite receiving mixed reviews. Kurt Vonnegut chose to spend his later years working on nonfiction. His last book was A Man Without a Country, a collection of biographical essays. In it, he expressed his views on politics and art as well as shed more light on his own life.

Kurt Vonnegut died on April 12, 2007, at the age of 84 as a result of head injuries sustained in a fall at his home in New York a few weeks earlier. He is survived by his second wife, photographer Jill Krementz, and their adopted daughter Lily as well as his six children from his first marriage.

© 2009 A&E Television Networks. All rights reserved.

Famous Last Words

by Cris, Charcoal

Unattended Children...

- By Anna Chaos

Oranges Part III

- By Mike Draven, Photography

"Dude, your fuckin' face fell off!" - Author quote

Criticism #2

"Heathers is a super-smart black comedy about high school politics and teenage suicide that showcases a host of promising young talents.

Daniel Waters' enormously clever screenplay blazes a trail of originality through the dead wood of the teen-comedy genre by focusing on the Heathers, the four prettiest and most popular girls at Westerburg High, [in Ohio,] three of whom are named Heather.

Setting the tone for the group is founder and queen bitch Heather No. 1 (Kim Walker), who has a devastating put-down or comeback for every occasion and could freeze even a heat-seeking missile in its tracks with her icy stare.

Heathers No. 2 and 3 (Lisanne Falk, Shannen Doherty) get off their own zingers once in a while, while the fourth nubile beauty, Veronica (Winona Ryder), goes along for the ride but seems to have a mind of her own. She also has eyes for a rebellious-looking school newcomer named Jason Dean (Christian Slater).

Goaded by the seductive J.D., Veronica half-heartedly goes along with an attempt to murder Heather No. 1, who has become irritating beyond endurance.

Ryder is utterly fetching and winning as an intelligent but seriously divided young lady. Oozing an insinuating sarcasm reminiscent of Jack Nicholson, Slater has what it takes to make J.D. both alluring and dangerous. The three Heathers look like they've spent their lives practicing putdowns." - Variety Staff

Heathers

Pauline Fleming: I think it's a good opportunity to share the... feelings that this suicide has spurred in all of us. Now, who would like to begin?
Female Stoner: I heard it was really gnarly. She sucked down a bowl of multi-purpose deodorizing disinfectant, and then SMASH.
Pauline Fleming: Now Tracey, let's not rehash the coroner's report. Let's talk emotions.

Why? by Max Scratchmann

"Why does it always rain cats and dogs but never toads and frogs?
Why, when an Englishman’s home is his castle, does he paint it pastel?
What are seamarks and why should they care about the shipwrecks of others?
And isn’t it incest if all men are brothers?

If all things are known and there is no desire,
Then why worry about going from the frying pan into the fire?
And if Doctor Foster went to Gloucester in a shower of rain,
When the sun shines can he not go there again?"

Mr Whippy RIP by Paul Curtis

"An ice cream man has been found dead
Lying on the floor beneath a shelf
Covered with hundreds and thousands
Police say he may have topped himself"

Hell, you're reached Jesus. I can't answer the phone right now, but if the Apocalypse comes... Beep me. by Consequenceofsound

"Jesus sits and plays with his iPod
Creating playlists for lack of something better to do,
Watching as the people around him hurry through their daily ritual.

Jesus sits on suburban sidewalks
as he checks his email for the third time
in ten minutes, looking, but not really seeing.

Jesus sits with his cell phone
Checking the time as the grandfather clock chimes 2:45
unable to decipher the strange X I symbols that circle the antique face.

Jesus sits in front of the television.
The woman out front ignores the man who almost ran her over
She’s too enraptured in the text message she just received.

Jesus sits in front of the television
as a little girl stares confused at the sink.
She waves her hands around under the faucet
and nothing happens.
She leaves without washing her hands.

Jesus sits by Marc in silence
Texting Luc who is across the room.

Jesus sits with wires in his brain
and a Game Boy in his hands
as blank eyes become riveted, unblinking, enraptured
with the screen as it flickers."

Do Virgins Taste Better? by Randy Farren

"A dragon has come to our village today.
We've asked him to leave, but he won't go away.
Now he's talked to our king and they worked out a deal.
No homes will he burn and no crops will he steal.

Now there is but one catch, we dislike it a bunch.
Twice a year he invites him a virgin to lunch.
Well, we've no other choice, so the deal we'll respect.
But we can't help but wonder and pause to reflect.

Do virgins taste better than those who are not?
Are they salty, or sweeter, more juicy or what?
Do you savor them slowly? Gulp them down on the spot?
Do virgins taste better than those who are not?

Now we'd like to be shed you, and many have tried.
But no one can get through your thick scaly hide.
We hope that some day, some brave knight will come by.
'Cause we can't wait around 'til you're too fat to fly.

Now you have such good taste in your women for sure,
They always are pretty, they always are pure.
But your notion of dining, it makes us all flinch,
For your favorite entree is barbecued wench.

Now we've found a solution, it works out so neat,
If you insist on nothing but virgins to eat.
No more will our number ever grow small,
We'll simply make sure there's no virgins at all!"

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

"It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.
And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like "Poo-tee-weet?""

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galexy - Douglas Adams

"There’s no point in acting surprised about it. All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display at your local planning department in Alpha Centauri for 50 of your Earth years, so you’ve had plenty of time to lodge any formal complaint and it’s far too late to start making a fuss about it now. … What do you mean you’ve never been to Alpha Centauri? Oh, for heaven’s sake, mankind, it’s only four light years away, you know. I’m sorry, but if you can’t be bothered to take an interest in local affairs, that’s your own lookout. Energize the demolition beams."