A random burble of thoughts

At one point in the day my boredom was so pronounced that I decided to string together random sequences of words to see what post-modern joys would be born. I had one particularly delicious sentence, but, of course, I cannot remember it in its entirety. There was something about poppies popping and wind blowing and other words which makes me want to dance around the room screaming fits of marvelousness. I have a Henry Miller book in the mail and there is no doubt that the post modern style of writing has infected me through whatever distance exists in our glorious mail system. It's almost as if Henry's words have been swept by the arid air and have been taffy-stretched into my waiting mouth.

Yeah, I'm a bit bored, hm?

This is day whatever of my current quandary. I need money to get a car. I need a car to get money. Somewhere, Heller masturbates furiously.

My sister keeps a stack of Cosmo(s?) in our shared bathroom. I'm secure enough in my masculinity to admit that I flip through them while sitting on the can. I take particular pleasure in reading the articles that claim to show what a guy thinks. I always wonder where they find the guys that comment. A typical guy comment is every guy stereotype manifest. I imagine that either the cosmo editors create the comments while simultaneously making guy-like (or perceived guy-like) faces and grunting while pretending to scratch non-existent scrotums. I have vivid fantasies of walking into the Cosmo office and finding a group of women engaged in distorted face play. The uncomfortable silence that follows would likely cause a deaf man (namely I) to crack from the sheer strain of it. Another option which ran through my head is that the Cosmo office has a secret stash of assholes purloined from the mean streets of America. I imagine that there is a crack team of Cosmo writers which, while wearing black jump suits designed by some random french chick, descend upon a simian beast of a human male and kidnap him only to deposit his grunting, hairy figure into the previously mentioned man compound. Whenever comments are needed about the state of the male mind, a brave Cosmo writer throws a steak and a stack of Penthouse into the compound while shouting out questions.

Scene 1

The curtain opens up to a particularly dreary scene. The lights seem steel, which reflects the rather Spartan nature of the stage. On the right, a group of men gather in a primitive circle of sorts. They are engaged in stereotypically male behavior. A few scratch their balls. Others are engaged in boasts about cars and equipment size. One or two are attempting to watch an imaginary sports game. On the left, a lone potted plant stands under a Kincaid painting. A woman enters carrying meat and a stack of magazines. She walks to the plant, which is the dividing line between the male portion and the female portions of the stage. The woman pauses, then throws the steak and magazines into the group of men. The men immediately cease whatever activity they were engaged in and descend upon their prizes.

Cosmo Writer: There you all go! Food and Porn! If you're nice and answer my questions, I'll even throw in a case of beer.

Men: Beer! Beer! Beer! Porn!
Cosmo Writer: Yeah. That's right. Now, who can tell me a secret sex secret?
Men: Beer! Beer! Porn!
Comso Writer: No beer until I get answers!
Man 1: I won't stand for this! This treatment is inhumane! I don't even like beer!
Men: ....
Man 1: Um, Beer?
Men: He's gay! Kick the faggot out!
Cosmo Writer: Guys? Guys? Focus. We'll take care of the queer. I need answers, first.
Man 2: Beer! I'm what they calla butterfly hunter. You know those girls with the tats on their backs? Those are the only kind of women I fuck because I like looking at something pretty when I bend them over.
Cosmo Writer: Thanks! Here's your bud. As for you (She points at the man who doesn't like beer), I have some Dolly Parton for you.


Yeah. I imagine it's something like that.