The Crunked and Slammin’ Sonnets of Rocker Tommy Lee

By: Ethan Anderson

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Sure, you know and love him as the aging bad-boy drummer of Motley Crue, the on-again off-again hubby of Pamela Anderson, and the almost-every-week defendant on Celebrity Justice, but the oft-tattooed rocker Tommy Lee is so much more — he’s a poet, too.

So without further ado, the bodacious words of Tommy Lee…

Molten Metal Sonnet

Again I’ve gone and wrecked the Escalade;

both bags deployed to stop my drug-drenched dreams

of Inspiration, that muse whose bangin’ bod

evades my famous grasp. Despite the reams

of righteous loot from multirecord deals,

prodigious backstage lines of pulchritude

bedecked in next to nothing, gold and squeals

of adulation, something’s missing, dude.

If I could truly rock through words alone

like Auden, Keats, Metallica or Korn,

I’d fly my jet to Monaco and hone

my craft, with breaks for baccarat and porn.

Alas, I lie beneath the teeming stars

and call my agent, crashing words like cars.

Vampire Sorority Girl

It’s not the way you rushed that freshman boy

and ripped his heart out (although GOD, that ruled),

or how you shocked the Theta Chi’s and spoiled

their bakesale fun (of course, you did the school

a favor). Deans will never understand

precisely why you tear them limb from limb,

but I do. Let me hold your icy hand

as we depart this bloody awful gym,

forget the pep squad sucked, and concentrate

on why you slay me. Deathly hot and sleek,

your evil schoolgirl skirts eviscerate

my will to live, your pallor makes me weak.

How this sophomore longs to feel your heart

not beating. Bite me now, and never part.

(Editor’s note: This next work features a brief but daring departure from self-absorption by Lee, as he dons the guise of an astrophysicist — several, actually — and then carries them into familiar territory, a strip club. And so we rock onward.)

Super String Theory!

We’re only telling you because we’re ripped

and also, Amber, when you dance, we feel

the thrilling vagaries of space are stripped

of mystery. Clad in curves and time, you steal

the hearts of Nobel astrophysicists

like us, the lonely nine who know the math

behind a theory panting fortune kissed

and wed too soon. Forget the garden path —

the bottom line? We made it up, us guys

around this table. Superstrings confound

all proof, dimensions tease and feign surprise;

our figures envy yours, so smoothly sound.

The universe is kind — unless we’re wrong

about our guess, you’re on for one more song?

Rebel Nonsonnet 27:

My Hot Erotica

Your rack’s a rockin’ revelation, causing heart attacks,

your can’s a planet of its own, the epi-tome of back,

your gams are slammin’ slender missiles blowing up those sandals,

your hips and curves have dips that pervs in dreams could never handle,

your midriff rips my brain in two, your arms destroy the rest,

your neck alone could launch the ships to crush that Helen test,

your eyes make supermodels cry, your nose blows waifs away,

your ears are sexy satellites, your mouth’s a passion play —

so lose the tube top, Daisy Dukes and discount Sauvignon,

and smack those lips with Bonne Bell. C’mon, let’s git it on.

Misfortune Cookies

By: David Martin

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Even the most famous writers have to make a living. Recently retrieved archival material reveals the failed attempts of several famous authors to break into commercial writing.

********************

To: Jean-Paul Sartre

From: Parisian Fortune Cookies Company

Thank you for your list of “realistic” fortunes for our cookies. Unfortunately, we cannot use your submissions at this time. We are returning your list. Please feel free to try us again when you’re feeling better.

The Editors

Realistic Fortunes

1. Your life is a continuous cycle of despair.

2. Your god is dead.

3. Life has no meaning, at least for you.

4. Choice is your eternal curse.

5. Health and prosperity are but words in a dictionary for you.

6. Your waist size will exceed your chest size.

7. You will die a horrible, painful death.

8. The glass is half empty and it has a crack.

********************

To: T.S. Eliot

From: Sunnyside Greeting Cards Inc.

We regret to inform you that the greeting card verses you submitted do not meet our needs at this time. We are therefore returning your submissions. This is no reflection on the quality of your writing. We receive many more greetings than we can use.

The Editors

Modern Greeting Card Verses

You grow old

You grow old

You shall wear the bottoms of your trousers rolled.

Happy 60th Birthday!

You lie there like a patient etherized upon a table…

Get Well Soon!

Shape without form, shade without color…

Paralysed force, gesture without motion.

Happy 25th Anniversary!

This is the way the world ends — not with a bang but a whimper.

With Sincerest Condolences.

Best wishes from us on your wedding day!

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing…

No end to the withering of withered flowers.

********************

To: Ernie Hemingway

From: Merrill Lynch Financial Newsletter

Thank you for your proposed “literary” stock forecasts (enclosed). While we do not question your expertise, we feel your work is not a good fit for our publication at this time. Please try us again in a bull market.

The Editors

Literary Stock Forecasts

IBM: Three letters suggesting a man soiled himself. Where is the nobility in that? There is no future in such sad musings.

GM: The letters are effete. They are the lispings of a homosexual. Who would buy such pitiable stock?

Studebaker: The word boldly states “grace under pressure.” A company with such a name can be destroyed but not defeated. Buy and hold dearly.

Disney: A man cannot face himself if his portfolio contains cartoons. This Walt, with his pencil-thin mustache, is no real man. Divest.

Zenith: I awoke to find myself next to a television. It was a wondrous thing, a good thing. It promised more than I could hope for. I made Zenith mine. You must do the same.

********************

To: e. e. (?) cummings

From: Acme Advertising Agency

Thank you for sending your sample product slogans to us for review. You have a unique style; however, it does not fit our print media needs at this time.

The Editors

it’s spring when the world is puddle-wonderful

so too is downy freshener

r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r

who

a)s w(e loo)k

upnowgath

th(e) new SELECTRIC

f(ro)m i-b-m

anyone lived in a pretty how town

thanks to century 21

you shall above all things be glad and young

the cream nivea your face will wear

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

thank you coffee god for this amazing

maxwell house

Be My Ghost

By: Helmut Luchs

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Recently, two of my readers recognized me at the train station. The first one approached me and was reaching into his vest pocket when a shot rang out. Pulling a pen and paper from his pocket he gave a look that seemed to say, “Will you please autograph this?” And then, as if the look were not enough, he said those exact words and dropped dead at my feet. I’m highly suspicious of anyone who reads my work, you see, and am inclined to shoot first and sign autographs second.

The next man who approached me was nothing but a sobbing, slobbering, jellied mass of tears. The man’s name is a secret between him and myself which I will sell for a quarter to anyone who can prove they have a healthy interest in sports, foam rubber or blackmail. He cried on my shoulder for a long, long time, and I considered having him surgically removed because he was costing me a fortune in train fare and making for unfavorable sleeping conditions at home, until my wife suggested I ask him what was wrong. It worked!

The man said he had nearly been driven insane by a ghost. The ghost had entered his house via the television set and tortured him by making double images on the screen and changing channels when he went to the washroom. Later the ghost learned to frighten him by casting shadows that looked like Alfred Hitchcock. In the end, before the man fled the house, the ghost would access his email and delete just enough words to make the exact intent of a message unclear. In trying to respond to his friends, the man only succeeded in alienating them to the point where they stopped writing back.

It was then that he came to me for help, although I can’t see why; I’m certainly no expert on the subject. It’s my opinion that there is no ghost in his house, but plenty of bats in his belfry. Or it could be that his story, like so many others, is true, but so ridiculous that one can’t care. In any case I will state here what I do know of ghosts if it will be any help.

I first heard of ghosts as a child happily growing up in the little town of Stunt Growth, Michigan. For years our next-door neighbors believed they were being tortured by a ghost that would shout in a deep, bellowing voice, “For God’s sake, get out!” Instead, they discovered, it was only the efforts of a patient fireman trying to rescue them from their house, which had been steadily burning for years. After being rescued, the mother wept tears of joy, until she remembered the house was not insured. Then the tears became real. Running back into the house, she threw herself into the flames, but as the flames were very small she only succeeded in putting out the fire and blistering a finger or two.

My firsthand experience with ghosts has been very limited, but pleasant. I have only seen a few in my entire life. Usually they are strolling down the sidewalk, passing in the opposite direction, in which case we exchange nods, a cheerful smile or a jovial wink, as did one ghost who was ecstatic over a new pair of platform shoes he was sporting. Ghosts, as you may know, are absolutely crazy for new shoes, and especially shoes with high heels. They are quite vain about their height, probably because they are so hard to see in the first place. In fact, after seeing one I always have to ask myself, “Did I truly see a ghost?” Although I can never get a straight answer from me, I find it much safer than asking someone else. Once I merely wished for someone to confirm what I’d just seen, and inquired of the fellow walking alongside of me. “Surely, my good man,” I said, “surely that was a ghost wearing platform shoes that just passed by and winked at me, was it not?” The man acted very much as if he had no other choice than to strike me in the face repeatedly, knocking me down into the street and oncoming traffic. The experience was extremely humiliating, and for years I was convinced it had devastated my sex life, until my wife explained to me what sex was. What a relief!

This kind of ghost story is not uncommon, for apparently no everyone can see ghosts, or if they can they have the good sense to ignore them. My grandfather could do neither. He complained that although he never caught sight of his ghostly assailants, every night as he was dozing off, several of them would sneak up and tickle his feet until he was almost conscious, then run and lock themselves in the bathroom along with the best magazines in the house. Grandpa would kick and scream and pound on the bathroom door, his face turning orange, then green, then a lovely shade of purple (I never actually saw him at those exact moments, but I know those were the colors Grandpa turned when he kicked and screamed and pounded on things). But it was no use.

“They were all cowards,” he said. “Four to one, and they were still afraid.” He knew there were four because once they were taunting him by asking, “Guess how many of us there are, you old goat. Go on, guess.” “One?” asked Grandpa defiantly. “No!” they all cried with delight. “Two?” They simply laughed. “Three?” “You’re dumber than a jackass!” they screamed. “Four?” “None of your damn business,” they growled. He had obviously touched a sore spot, but it didn’t help him to know whether there were two, four, or a dozen. The only way he could ever get any sleep was to keep a vacuum cleaner running by his bed all night. He claimed the ghosts were loathe to come near it for fear of being sucked up and forced to spend eternity among old carpet dust and bits of shredded Kleenex.

Unfortunately, my grandmother shared the same fear and finally left him. I was the only one in the family who believed him, and he was committed to a home, where I believe he did very well until his death several months ago. In fact, I recently received a letter from him that stated, “I believe I did very well until my death several months ago.”

This being all the information I have on ghosts, I ask my readers to go now in peace, and may God be with you. Run! You must run and never stop running. Don’t look back over your shoulder unless you wish to know where you’ve been. Go on, scat. Boo!

The Wretched Soul

By: Ernst Luchs

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(The following is a selection from the logbook of the Wretched Soul, an accursed ship driven to its doom by the likes of Captain Jack, a mad Cornish sailor and adventurer extraordinaire, quite possibly the greatest unsung hero of the high seas.)

Liverpoole, Saturday 7 Aprill 1693 — The sun arose at six o’clock. A good sign. The ship be loaded and the sea is calm. Ah, my nostrils heave to the scent of the spray. I sent out the quartermaster early this morn to drum up some “fresh meat.” By Jove! He comes back within the hour rolling a barrelful of bold Irish apes suitable for framing. Hear me now, good strong lads! Climb aboard and leave your hags on shore. God help your heathen souls, boys, we’re a-blowin’ to the edge of the deep blue brine. We cast off. Methinks to consult the ship’s astrologer as to where the dangers lie on this voyage. In a low voice he says only this: “Beware the wrath of Neptune.” Well boo to the Fates says I! Let’s be underway.

Sunday 8 Aprill 1693 — Only eight miles out to sea yestermorn our ship’s carpenter, D’Amico, lost an eye to a mad seagull. The bird responsible was placed in hot irons amidships, subjected to the jabs and jeers of my ill-tempered crew. He should be thankful to have been spared a grim communion with tonight’s hamster stew.

Thursday 12 Aprill 1693 — I caught the cabin boy pinching my tobacco. This so distressed me that I retreated to my quarters for several hours. After a great deal of deliberation I reluctantly had his nose cut off. There were some of the crew who found this amusing. They too paid through the nose.

Sunday 15 Aprill 1693 — Horrors! This afternoon we quite accidentally tangled a huge serpent in our anchor chain. Fearful were its eyes. The quartermaster tried to flog it to death but presently the monster tired of that irritation and snapped at the man, impaling him clean through on one of its perilous fangs. The poor bloke beseeched us with piteous cries for several minutes before succumbing to the slavering maw of that treacherous beast. We watched helplessly all the while and saw the man’s head broken off, whereupon it flew up and landed in the crow’s nest. The young tar on watch up there cried out like a banshee and jumped straight down to the water. May God have mercy on his soul.

Monday 16 Aprill 1693 — We awoke this morning to find the deck swamped with a multitude of jellyfish. Swarming over the jellyfish were millions upon millions of tiny green flies. The cabin boy was first up and he might have smelled the trouble if his nose had not been missing. As it was he received stings on both heels. Severe was his discomfort and he let out a sound you cannot imagine. This alarmed the flies, which straight away attacked the boy and covered his entire body a foot thick. We did not suffer so greatly as he, but even so none of us escaped without being bitten several thousand times.

Tuesday 71 Aprill 1693 — I write these lines with a hand now swollen to the size of a cabbage. The cabin boy’s single cry continues with an intensity equal to yesterday’s. We’ve tied him face-down onto a bale of cotton. All of are now stricken with the laughing/crying disease (Jester’s Death), surely visited upon us by the fiendish green flies and their devil’s spawn, the jellyfish. Spineless scum! As if this plague were not enough to break the mortal spirit, another tropical storm comes presently upon us full force. Many men are delirious and have taken to swallowing frightfully long lengths of rope (“fishing for fool’s gold,” says one). It is still morning, aye, but dark as night on deck. I keep forgetting where my feet are.

Tuesday 18 Aprill 1963 — A large flock of East Indian palm trees flew over us this afternoon. We managed to snag one with a gaff and land it after a fierce struggle. But alas, its flesh was poisonous and our mulatto cook, Nubi, lies near death, trembling so and coughing up small yellow lumps of bile. The foul acid burns his skin and chafes his lips. Thank the Lord it will all end soon.

Tuesday 9 Aprill no make that Monday 163 — Sky still dark as a coalminer’s lung. Opium running low. Threw the cabin boy overboard in search of China or Marco Polo or something or other. But if I know a devilish boy with six guineas in his pocket I’d say that’s the last we’ll see of him.

Apilr today, many moons — No more fresh water I’m afraid. I had medicinal doses of brandy doled out to ward off the cold. What a storm! Double the brandy ration I say! That’s right. Regale and be merry.

221 B Baker Street, 8 paces, 7 bells — More brandy! More! More! Drink yer fill lads. There’s half a barrel left in the hold. Bones, tattoos for everyone. Be quick about it, you old leech juggler! Ah, what a jolly storm!

May? — Lo! What fierce fever has laid me out? The tropical sun bears down on the brow. Yea, to my astonishment and complete demoralization I find the entire larder ransacked, every brandy barrel drained, my crew gorged like pigs, many of them stark naked, all unconscious or dead, with the telltale stench of liquor lingering over their skins. So help me, as God is my witness those responsible shall pay dearly for this outrage.

May or Aprill, 1693 (?) — Several of the surly foreigners were put to death to atone for those mutinous crimes committed during my absence. We are all anxious to forget the whole dreadful incident.

2 May 1693 — Land ho! We were greeted on the beach by a crowd of noble savages who offered us doormats and slippers made from shark’s teeth. One of my crew, eager I suppose for some fresh beef, blew the chieftain’s head askew with a blunderbuss. The rest of the savages turned tail and took refuge down the beach, hiding under bits of seaweed and dead fish. We routed them out, secured them in chains and dragged them out to sea. Anyway, we are fully provisioned once again. The weather has taken a nasty turn, but fog or no fog we sail tomorrow.

4 May 1693 — Hell’s bells, disaster has struck! The fog blinded us like the Devil’s cloak and we drifted into a school of whales. One couple in the heat of nuptial foreplay rammed the ship to bits and swallowed half the cargo and crew. A few of us made it to the shore of this barren, godforsaken island. Only giant reptiles live here. They must have subsisted on volcanic ash until we came along to whet their appetites. They are surprisingly fast.

5 May 1693 — The lizards keep coming back for more. The scent of their stools is everywhere. We tried to make a signal fire but it only attracted more lizards from the neighboring islands. The new lizards are bigger, hungrier, and noticeably faster. I pray we were judicious in sacrificing those two cowardly Frenchmen this morning. They disappeared like hors d’oeuvres. Surely it won’t be long before the heathen lizards break bread with my carcass.

Mayday! Mayday! — This is it. No one left but me. They’ve been dancing all around me in a terrible frenzy, lashing wickedly with their long purple tongues. They have a healthy fear of my campfire. But by now all the fuel is spent, and as the last glowing embers fade the lizards grow calmer and exchange knowing smiles with each other. I see an occasional wink. Yes, the jig is up, lads. I have a lovely bunch of coconuts with which I intend to bash in a few heads before I’m finished. I will now place this journal inside one of the nuts, hoping that he who finds it will be forever dissuaded from joining the Navy. Ah, God must have loved giant lizards. He made so many of them. Their eyes — (end of manuscript)

Travis Longworth, Pioneer Insurance Salesman

By: Ethan Anderson

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…and then the Northern Spirit turned to the penguin and said, “What? No pemmican?”

Hahahaha okay I see you’re not much of a talker, but I still think it’s great you agreed to have a sitdown with me, Sitting Bull.

This is strictly a get-to-know, so no pressure, but Sitting Bull, I think you’ll find that we at Pioneer Insurance have products uniquely tailored to your leadership needs.

You can do an a la carte — we’ve done a lot of that with, wow, just a whole bunch of tribes in Sioux Nation, but I wonder if you’ve heard about our Hunkpapa Comprehensive Plan? No? No, okay, well, that’s a one-stop shop approach. One monthly premium and that covers life, health, property and horses. And that’s unlimited horses. What? No — that just covers you. But we do offer a fee-based add-on per son, so they can ride too.

And FYI think if you check around, you’ll see other companies jack up the premium during hunting season. We don’t. Which is just one of the advantages of —

What? Okay, a la carte, a la carte it is…there’s term life. One lump sum payment, and that covers you for thirteen moons. Advantage: heap big savings. Which goes over big with the squaws, if you know what I’m saying, am I right?

Okay, no. So, anyhoo, you’re still young and active, so let’s talk disability. There’s our Earth n’ Sky package, so your spouse gets a perpetuity every season in case of debilitating injury or death. And that’s forever. I know, I know, God forbid and fingers crossed, but we’re talking another arrow in your quiver, am I right? Am I right?

Alright, my bad. Apologies. What about college savings? I saw a bunch of youngsters outside the tent. Yours? Cute little devils. They grow up fast, don’t they? And who can say what the winters will bring? Once the buffalo were many. Now? Hey, I’m feeling it too — lots of tents folded last year, but look who I’m talking to. So whaaat about your kids? The future, talking leaves, education…kids need options now. That takes wampum. We have tax-deductible annuities through Fort La —

What? Shaking head? Okay, I’m feeling you. Look, honesty time — if I may, it’s the Cheyenne thing, right? Okay yes, yes, we did business with Crazy Horse. But that was on the investment side, it was a total one-off, and I can assure you —

Oh, you’re good with the Cheyenne now? Hey, that’s terrific. That Crazy Horse is great. Nuts, but a super guy. So it’s the Other Thing…you’ve been burned by contracts before, right? Right? I hear you, padre. What I’m saying to you is One, who hasn’t? And B, that’s not how we do at Pioneer, straight up, and Finally, here’s the deal — you can cancel at any time. No obligations. None. How’s that for peace of mind?

I swore I wasn’t going to do this today, but just between you, me and the peace pipe, we just sold Red Cloud the Hunkpapa Comp Plan. But he paid retail. Now from what I understand, Red is pretty much Sioux Nation second banana to you, so…for you — and this is good only for today — 25% off the first two months. For the exact same plan. I’m just sayin —

What’s that?

You will? Right now? Don’t be jerkin’ me, Sitting Bull.

Well, well, that’s, that’s just supertastic. You bet I’m jazzed. Hunkpapa Comp it is!

Whew. You had me going there. Hahahaha. Tell you what — right after this I’m done for the week — yeah, yeah, a little R&R with some buddies. Hey, we all need a break sometimes, right? Okey dokey, the way this works is, you sign here and here — an X will doo ya — and then we do the sweat lodge, but ONLY if you want to. No? Okay, no. Hey, it’s all good.

Okay…X aaaannd X. We’re in business, my friend!

What am I doing? Oh, you mean with my friends? Yes? Yes? Oh, well, it’s nothing much — I’m going tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow. Just a buncha guys, shootin’ the breeze, couple drinks, couple jokes —

Where? Little Big Horn. You know it?

Modern Art Installations I’ve Inadvertently Created During the Last Few Weeks: A Retrospective

By: David Litt

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Title: Empty Forty in Bush

Materials: An Empty Forty

Workspace: A Bush

Installed: Last Saturday Night

A clear homage to Andy Warhol’s famous “Campbell’s Soup Can,” “Empty Forty in Bush” is the crowning achievement of the artist’s famed “glass receptacle period.” Originally accompanied by a performance art piece, “Man Falling Down on Way to Bathroom,” this pieces blurs the line between serious art and serious problems. In the words of the artist himself, “Have I ever told you that you look like a big, fat daddy longlegs? Wait, spider woman, come back! I love you.”

Title: Misplacings

Materials: The Absence of a Cell Phone

Workspace: Everywhere I’ve Looked So Far

Installed: Not Sure

After the success of “It Didn’t Just Get Up and Walk Away,” “Missing — A Turtle,” and “Goodbye Moto,” it is clear that the artist wanted a dramatic end to this four-part series. By using the lack of something (a Samsung phone he only just got last week, for heaven’s sake) instead of the physical object, the artist invites viewers to guess its whereabouts for themselves. If they guess correctly, the artist also invites viewers to e-mail him and let him know ASAP.

Title: Chaos/Disorder

Materials: God Knows What

Workspace: Dorm Room Floor

Installed: Two Weekends Ago Through the Present

When “Chaos/Disorder” was first unveiled, it was panned as “a piece of trash.” But in the two weeks since then, supporters have rallied around it, insisting that it is actually “several pieces of trash.” Effortlessly weaving together refuse, odor, and allergens, the artist has created a work of art that is as repulsive as it is gross and as unappealing as it is unappealing. Even its detractors agree that it brings two words instantly to mind: viral meningitis.

Title: All Alone

Materials: A Snickers Wrapper

Workspace: The Entire Universe

Installed: Two weeks from Next Tuesday

“Choosing to turn all known and unknown matter into a canvas was brilliant,” says this description. But “Alone” garners high praise from outside this description as well, for it confronts something most artists don’t dare touch — the fact that the universe is really, really big. In fact, the piece is best seen as a response to the French existentialist Albert Camus, who said that the two most important questions in life are “If everything has no meaning, why not kill yourself?” and “Hungry? Why Wait?”

Title: Longings

Materials: Condom Tightly Sealed in Wrapper, Accumulated Dust

Workspace: Bedside Drawer, Underneath an Envelope Dated January 12th

Installed: Don’t Want to Think About It. Before January 12th, Apparently

According to the artist, “Longings” is the result of a dream he had in which the beautiful muse Calliope appeared before him clad only in a toga and inspired him with song before telling him she just wanted to be friends. He has told the art world that he hopes the completion of his next installation, “Detachable Sexy Beard-Mustache Combo With Rubber Cement on Face,” will render “Longings” obsolete.

Picked Up On Waivers

By: John Erskine-Kellie

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When I was a kid I used to tell people that I was adopted. I know it was juvenile of me but I was a kid after all, and besides, it seemed safer than telling the truth — that I was picked up on waivers.

For a long time I was ashamed of that, but now I’ve developed a real sense of pride about it. I mean, the odds were against me right from the start.

It was 1976 and I was an unsigned infant. I was convinced that I would be picked up in the 76/77 family expansion draft, but after the 21st round I still hadn’t been chosen. I heard all the usual excuses — I was too old, my knife and fork control hadn’t developed to a professional level, and as far as bed-wetting went I was still something of a question mark. I was about ready to give it up when a small family from Scarborough decided to take a chance on me.

I was picked 729th overall. Well, they tried me out in the family but it was pretty obvious that I wasn’t going to fit into their plans — I was just a quick fix to fill their hole in the preschool position…So, after only a year and a half I was traded to the Wilson family for future considerations. The Wilsons were very girl-heavy at the time, and I guess Mr. W. hoped that I would add some muscle and balance to the family. I toiled there for three years, gooning it up and watching out for the girls, but recurring tonsil problems kept me out of the line for most of the winter of ’81, and when I tried to hit the Wilsons up for a higher allowance Mr. W. pulled me from the lineup and put me on waivers.

My agent said that I had priced myself out of the North American child market, that I should consider joining an Italian family in the less competitive European market…But I hung tough, and just three days before the Wilsons could put me out to pasture…Bang! I was picked up on waivers. And it wasn’t just any family; it was the Jones family, a good organization with lots of money and a great history. Mr. Jones wanted and expected the best from his kids, and competition was tough. I was fighting for a top spot against three veteran eight year olds and spent my first 18 months on the farm team sharpening my skills. Every day I worked out, doing math, reading books, playing tag and making slingshots, but I still hadn’t gotten a chance at the big leagues.

My break came in my tenth summer. The Jones family had been doing great all year and everyone was trying to keep up with them. The kids were going strong when their star son, Billy, went down with the measles — he was going to be out of the lineup for a week to ten days and there was a vitally important family picnic coming up. I got the call. I was in the city the next day, had my own room, name tags sewn into my underwear, comic books — the whole nine yards. But man, was there pressure to perform. Dad — that’s what we called him — made it clear to me that I was just a sub-in, but I knew in my heart I had what it took to make the family permanently. I hustled my buns off, walking the dog, mowing the lawn. I took the trash out three times in one week, and by the time Billy was back on his feet I had all but stolen his gig and it was him, not me, that was sent down to the minors…

My career as a kid had its ups and downs, a couple of trophies, the odd mention in the papers and the usual bout with acne, but I played in the big family and that’s all that matters now. I made myself one promise — that when the time came for me to grow up I was going to do it gracefully. Not like some guys, who are still playing marbles and wearing short pants when they’re 21. I knew when it was time for me to leave, and my career’s not over. I’m still in the game, and parenting is just as tough. Sure the rules have changed, but I’m learning to adapt, although, if truth be told, it just doesn’t have the same glamour as it used to.

Lesser-Known Catholic Relics, Miracles, and Holy Sites

By: Justin Warner

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The Coughing Statue of the Blessed Virgin: Situated in a public square in the village of Opatija, on Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast, this marble likeness of Mary is said to clear its throat loudly when people stop paying attention to it. Passersby have also reported hearing murmurs of “Hey! Over here,” “Stop fawning over that cheap Michelangelo knockoff,” and on crowded days, “Coupons! Free drink coupons!”

The Mostly Holy Rough Draft of the Sermon on the Mount: Contains seven previously unreleased Beatitudes, including “Blessed are those who speak softly in restaurants; they shall receive good service,” and “Blessed are the managers at Shlomo’s of Judea Hair Salon, for they readily accommodate walk-ins.”

The Immaculate Hot Tub at the Spokane Motel 6: Although the chlorination system has not functioned properly since 1987, thousands of guests have shared this Jacuzzi over the years without a single reported infection.

The Boning Knife of St. James the Greater: James was a fisherman by trade, and when Jesus fed the five thousand, this “original Miracle Blade” helped with the filleting. Since then it has been connected with several miracles, including the feeding of an entire Italian-American wedding from one stuffed flounder.

The Healing Spirit of St. Finbar’s Distillery: Made in County Kerry, Ireland, this 110-proof aged whiskey relieves pain and inspires ecstatic visions when consumed in sufficient quantities. Those who experience spiritual communion with Christ Himself are awarded a free T-shirt.

The Incorruptible Timex of St. Ignatius: Although this Benedictine martyr was buried alive, dug up again, drowned, boiled in fat, partially devoured by wolves, and then reburied in a peat bog, his wristwatch was still running when his remains were exhumed in 1931. This is doubly astounding, since Ignatius died several centuries before wristwatches were invented.

The Miraculous Lucky Strike of Conshohocken, Pennsylvania: Smoked continuously for thirty-one years by Monsignor John Carroll of the Philadelphia Archdiocese, this unfiltered cigarette burns perpetually but is never consumed.

The Tangentially Blessed Hotel Bar of Palermo: Located in the Marriott-owned Bellavista Suites, this casual nightspot is mildly revered because the weekend bartender, Carlito, has a sister-in-law whose great-aunt went to the same grade school as Saint Bernadette.

The Latent Stigmata of Glenn Taubes, Canadian Postal Clerk: Described by his Ottawa, Ontario friends and neighbors as a “very nice man,” Taubes suffers occasionally from medically inexplicable cramps in the hands and feet, accompanied by a “sharp, poking sensation” in his right side.

The Divine Message at Charles Schwab, LLC: On December 12, 1999, the figure of Christ appeared to Matthew Kartali, a senior partner in the Atlanta office of the international brokerage firm. “For My sake, do not invest further in telecommunications, for thy earnings shall be vanquished,” the Lord reportedly said. “Liquidate thy holdings from the NASDAQ and take refuge in real estate and government bonds, and you shall be spared the pain of the coming Apocalypse.” Kartali was later indicted for insider trading.

The Mystery of the Holy Intersection: Fifteen miles outside Lubbock, Texas lies the junction of Highway 631 and Old Dallas Pike, which, when viewed from overhead, uncannily resembles the sign of the Cross.

Inside Blurb For The Forthcoming Short Story Collection What Was What, What Wasn’t By Jonas Ribb, Acclaimed Master Of The Form

By: James Warner

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What Was What, What Wasn’t by Jonas Ribb contains thirteen startling stories that bear witness to the lives of Americans in our time.

In “Indecision,” a tale that reflects Ribb’s profound understanding of contemporary reality, an adulterous chiropodist realizes that the Midwestern college town in which he has lived all his life is in fact made out of marzipan.

“A Story of Domestic Life” has basically the same plot, except that this time the town turns out to be made of chocolate malt.

In “Oklahoma Dreaming,” nothing happens at all.

“Marzipan Aardvark” shows the unexpected gift of a marzipan aardvark forcing a New York couple to confront their incompatibility. The wife claims to be allergic to marzipan, while the husband, refusing to believe her, drags her to the Spanish hill city of Toledo, famous for its marzipan and its swords, and beheads her. These events are memorably portrayed through the eyes of some Cuban adolescents who are discovering their burgeoning sexuality.

In the widely anthologized “Who Will Navigate?” a man who may or may not be in Utah agonizes over his inability to forget the past.

“Stuck in Traffic,” short-listed for Best American Stories Ending With Unexpected Poolside Epiphanies 2004, is a marvel of nuance in which a man becomes aware that his dog is involved with a cat. The story ends with an unexpected poolside epiphany.

In “Losing My Car Keys,” a frustrated librarian who harbors an unspeakable secret makes a date with a cop who harbors a different secret, or perhaps the same one, we never find out, because instead of showing up they both stay home and watch “Desperate Housewives.”

“Maybe You Had To Be There” describes a man crossing a Midwestern street who sees a woman coming towards him and briefly thinks he recognizes her.

In “In The Oven,” a depressed woman tries to cheer herself up by baking some cookies.

As “What I Knew About the Hudsons” unfolds, the problems in the Hudsons’ marriage are deftly symbolized by a succession of aardvarks fired into their house by the couple’s neighbor Hank, a plain-spoken taxidermist who at the story’s beautifully wrought conclusion states his hard-won wisdom, “Some people just plain needs aardvarks thrown at ’em.”

With his next story, Ribb changes the tone of the whole collection. Controlled in its narration, spare and almost brutal in its honesty, encompassing within the perfection of its form the death and resurrection of a Siamese kitten, “Messiah Kitty” is not a story to read late at night if you’ve ever crucified a cat.

The remaining stories in the collection, penned in the last stages of Ribb’s long personal battle with alcoholism and published here for the first time, show us characters living with the aftereffects of war and repression. For example, in “Mrs. Slocum’s Pussy” a baffled undercover al Qaeda operative struggles to comprehend endless reruns of Are You Being Served?

And resolutely examined in the unnerving title novella “What Was What, Was Wasn’t” is the gradual disintegration of a marriage while both spouses are stuck in traffic someplace else. There’s also an adolescent in the mix, whose sexuality seems about to burgeon until Hank deep-sixes him with a frozen pangolin.

Piecing apart his characters’ pretensions with affection and frankness, in prose that is both luminescent and lush, Ribb is the writer to turn to any time you feel the need to wrestle with a sense of inconsolable loss. Obscure without ever being abstruse, Ribb transports us to a world peopled with normal men and women who’re struggling to understand what’s going on…or, as in the case of “Oklahoma Dreaming,” what’s not going on.

Selected Recipes By My Former Housemates. A work of fiction. I repeat: fiction.

By: David Jaggard

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Skip’s Famous Spaghetti

For six months, do not lift a finger to purchase, prepare, serve or clean up after any meals served in the supposedly communal house where you rent a room, whose residents have informally but solemnly agreed to contribute to meals on an equal basis.

After allowing this time to pass, announce with great pomp and ceremony that you’re going to make dinner for everyone and that you’re going to take care of everything, so everyone can just sit back and relax and get ready for the dinner of their life. Yes, you are going to make: Your Famous Spaghetti.

Instructions:

Order one housemate to set the table, another to chop an onion, another to seed and chop a green pepper, another to mince two cloves of garlic and another to get you a beer.

Now then.

Boil water in a medium-sized pan.
Put dry spaghetti in pan.
Realize that pan is too small.
Remove spaghetti.
Pour water into another pan, bring back to boil.
Put damp spaghetti in pan.
Realize that pan is too small.
Break spaghetti into thirds or fourths to fit into pan.
In a frying pan, saute onion, pepper and garlic in two tablespoons of butter for three minutes.
Add 1 lb ground beef and saute for three more minutes.
Pour 1 large can tomato sauce over vegetable-beef mixture and stir.
Bring sauce to a violent boil, allowing it to splash all the hell over the place.
Order housemate to clean up splashes every few minutes, because in order to make Your Famous Spaghetti you need “a nice clean kitchen.”
Do not turn down heat under sauce.
Order other housemate to make garlic bread.
And get you another beer while he’s at it.
Add salt, pepper and pinch of oregano to sauce.

Hint: While cooking, brag constantly about how great your spaghetti is and how crappy all meals made by your male housemates always are. (It is a little-known fact that if you steadfastly aggrandize yourself while belittling every other man who crosses your path, every woman in the entire world will eventually fall in love with you.)

Drain spaghetti in sink using regular table fork to hold it back as water pours out.
Allow most of spaghetti to fall into sink.
Order housemate to rinse pepper seeds, onion skins, coffee grounds and whatnot off spaghetti and place on serving platter.
Pour sauce over spaghetti.
Serve with canned “grated parmesan.”
Enhance meal with constant reminders of how good it is.
Order housemates to clear table and wash dishes.

After serving, do not lift a finger in the kitchen for six months, reminding everyone daily about how you “just made Your Famous Spaghetti.”

Pete’s E-Z-Pizza

Great for parties!
Line a large, flat, buttered baking tray with slices of white bread.
Hint: For an extra-fancy pizza, cut off the crusts!
Using a spatula, spread a thick layer of ketchup over bread.
Now add your favorite toppings: olives, sliced frankfurters, pickles, raisins, peanuts, etc.
Spray on generous layer of aerosol cheddar or Swiss cheese.
Bake in medium-hot oven for 15 minutes (optional).
Serve with plenty of beer, and…
Letare i buoni tempi rolare!

Tanya’s Chocolate Chip Cookies For You Guys

Before undertaking this recipe, conduct thorough census of housemates to make sure that everyone really likes chocolate chip cookies, because you “never eat them — they’re for you guys.”

Ingredients:
3 sticks butter
1 cup white sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
4 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 lb chocolate chips
Pinch of salt
2 tbsp shortening

Grease large baking sheet with shortening.
Preheat oven to 420 degrees.
Cream butter into sugar.
Taste.
Blend butter-sugar mixture, flour, slightly beaten eggs, vanilla extract, salt and chocolate chips in large bowl.
Taste.
Taste.
Form small uniform mounds of dough, depending on desired size of cookies, and arrange half of them on baking sheet.
Arrange other half in your mouth.
Place sheet on middle shelf of oven and bake for 15 min.
Allow cookies to cool for half an hour, the last 20 minutes of which take place in your stomach.

Holly’s Holy Health Roll

Ingredients:
No beef (mad cow disease)
No chicken (cruel)
No lamb (cute)
No pork (gross)
No fish (pollution)
No seafood (hepatitis)
No eggs (salmonella)
No corn or soybeans (GMOs)
No onions or garlic (halitosis)
No legumes (flatulence)
No oil (fattening)
No sugar (fattening)
No dairy (fattening)
No salt (not sure why)

Chop other ingredients finely and mix in large bowl.
Complain loudly and at length about how nobody ever eats anything healthy around this stupid place.
Blend mixture well and bind with 3 tbsp flour.
Chain-smoke throughout this process, alternating tobacco with marijuana as desired.
A little ash in mixture is OK.
In fact good.
Probably.
Complain loudly and at length about quality of cooking utensils around this stupid place.
Shape mixture into a cylinder, place on no-stick lousy baking tin and place on middle shelf of piece-of-crap oven.
Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, or five cigarettes.
During baking, complain loudly and at length about dimness of worthless lightbulb in piece-of-crap oven, your goddamn backache, how you can’t shake this freakin’ cold and how that jerk Steve never calls you any more.
(It is a little-known fact that any problem will eventually solve itself somehow if you can just manage to complain about it enough.)
Remove roll from oven.
Cut into slices and serve, carping stentoriously and incessantly about people who eat “carrion,” “bait” and “roadkill.”

Hint: This dish seems to come out better if you maintain a grim, determined look on your face at all times. Not just while preparing it — at all times.

Josh’s Thanksgiving turkey

Do not consult housemates.
Invite every single person you know to your house for Thanksgiving dinner.
Late in afternoon on Thanksgiving Day, go to only open convenience store and buy cheapest frozen turkey they have left, regardless of its weight or expected number of guests.
Thaw turkey by placing it on back seat of car for drive home.
Place turkey in large, deep roasting pan.
Stare at turkey for 30 minutes or until house is full of guests.
Call mother.
Follow mother’s instructions, more or less, to stuff, truss and roast turkey, basting regularly.

To baste:
Remove turkey from oven using worn, thin dishrag as a potholder, ignoring thick, heatproof oven mitts hanging on wall next to oven.
Sustain first-degree burns to fingers while placing pan on stovetop.
Baste turkey with teaspoon and return it to oven.
Repeat without variation every fifteen minutes throughout cooking process.
Towards midnight, give up on deciding whether turkey is done or not.

To carve:
Hack at turkey with a succession of random knives of varying lengths and degrees of sharpness until it looks as though it has been run over with a lawn mower.
Serve to anyone still present and conscious.

Frank’s “Tumor or Trichinosis” lemon pork chops

Ingredients:
8 pork chops
1 qt tequila
4 tbsp butter
6 oz Triple Sec
2 lemons
6 limes
Salt
Dash of bitters
Salt

Slice through rim of fat around pork chops in several places so they will not curl up while cooking.
Juice limes.
Pound pork chops with meat hammer to tenderize them.
Mix tequila, lime juice, Triple Sec and bitters in large pitcher and top off with crushed ice.
Arrange pork chops in large buttered baking pan.
Add salt to rim of glass and have a margarita to check proportions.
Adjust proportions.
Cut one lemon into thin slices so you have one slice for each pork chop.
Have margarita to recheck proportions.
Juice other lemon.
Have margarita and then serve margaritas to guests.
And self.
Preheat oven to any setting between 280 degrees and “Clean.”
Drink remaining margaritas straight from pitcher.
Find pork chops.
Slosh with lemon juice.
Sprinkle with herbs and spices chosen and dosed at random.
Drop handful of lemon slices on top of pork chops and toss pan in oven.
Stand at sink for 15 to 55 minutes, swaying slowly left to right.
Place burning hot pan containing way undercooked or way overcooked pork chops directly on wooden table.
Leave table and allow guests to serve selves.
Stagger around backyard hurling for five hours, or until guests are gone.

Karen’s “Tex-Schmex” fajitas

Grill thin slices of chicken breast, strip sirloin and chorizo.
Get timing just right so that meat is tender and juicy.
Season with improvised mixture of spices that brings out full flavor so that eating this dish is like tasting in color after a lifetime of tasting in black and white.
Garnish with finely shredded romaine lettuce, chopped jalapeno peppers, grated sharp Monterey Jack cheese, dollops of sour cream and imported hot sauce (optional).
Serve with soft, fragrant steamed flour tortillas.

Serving suggestion: Prepare this dish and a seemingly unending stream of equally delectable recipes for housemates several nights a week, remaining at all times witty, intelligent, cheerful and charming, with strong undercurrent of smoldering sexiness, until all men in house are so in love with you they have blind staggers. Repeat for six months while remaining single. Then meet homeless, out-of-work rock drummer at supermarket and leave town with him next day. Never be heard from again.