I have just begun organizing Read & Destroy, a brand new art initiative with the sole purpose of printing, posting, and distributing visual art, fiction, and poetry free to the public.
For more on the project
check out the blog at
http://readanddestroyit.blogspot.com
And for all the creative folk
interested in submitting to the site you can send your work to
read.and.destroy@gmail.com
We respond and comment to all submissions!
You can send all questions, comments, concerns, inquiries etc.
to my email address ouija.goat@gmail.com
With Good Medicine,
Your Most Humble Goat of Boardgames
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Pink Wheelchair
First some facts then some verse.
Barbie Doll Factoids & Footnotes
* Mattel makes roughly 1.9 billion dollars yearly on the Barbie Doll.
* 3 Barbie dolls are sold every second.
Barbie’s neck is twice the length it should be,
her legs are longer than her torso,
And her feet are freakishly small…suggesting possibly the practice of foot-binding.
Barbie’s features and physique converted into realistic measurements:
Height: 7 feet, 2 inches
Weight: 110 lbs
Hips: Between 30 and 36 inches
Waist: Between 18 and 28 inches
Bust: Between 38 and 48 inches
Based on this abnormal body type,
Having the spine of a prepubescent girl, overdeveloped legs, underdeveloped feet and forearms, and a hypertrophied neck,
Barbie would be forced to crawl around on all fours like a crippled giraffe.
It is worth noting that if such a being existed it would have great difficult avoiding the fracture or ultimately the disassembly of the lumbar spine due to alien joint placement.
Also, based on the converted measurements Barbie would not have the 17 to 22% body fat required to properly menstruate.
Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits
“Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition”
-Dr. Timothy Leary
Zythepsary funk beat-shop swing, I found a home…I’m a lover.
I found paperback romance, enticing in the hourglass configuration and acetylene finish of curving brows twist-tied behind cardboard and finely woven polymers.
The alehouse-taproom taverns of hemp and of hop, where accordion foothills meet behind streams of moist clay and tiger lilies. Where roadhouse hussies work the gallows and plot penny dreadful infidelity.
It was in this sanctorium I rest liquored and salty, prostrating in the wisp of unworldly malaise. The vague discomfort of recent infibulation piercing like Berkowitz…stroking the Bavarian lederhosen of a Bird Lilli villenage.
A miasma of graham cracker pheromones, shambling in six inch ankle-wrap spikes; impressionable coquettes affection control to faceless contrivances drudging through
acrylic Mc-mansion’s in protest.
Teenage fashion supermodels fresh from the leucotomy farm conjugating like Wuornos barflies and flirting up like French-maids in jazz clubs thick with carbon monoxide. I was not busy embalming or honeymooning, I was lurking sinister in the effluvium of Mattel’s cocktail lounge plotting a little bit of heartbreak.
Candy-striping philanderers would labor for the possessive attention of lucrative stockbrokers. Permeating through the enigmatic vapor of July 9th delirium tremens. They are nothing but confounded dishonesty and dissatisfaction in the luscious tyke forms of high society!
You’ve got to thank Ruth Handler, for without her matriarchal devotion your spawnship would have been nothing more than a nocturnal emission.
She appears beloved, blossoming ambivalent with those weak stomachs of rape.
Incapable of reproduction, impeding on digestion and pinched nerves.
Barbara Millicent Roberts bares the delineate proportions prayed for by wishful thinking girl scouts. Busts and wet crotches suffused in polyvinyl chloride. Features that graze all adolescent boys onanistic daydreams, disrupted by the florescent lighting fixtures beaming
“Real living breathing women on sale!”
She is partially crystalline, partially amorphous, smiling at the mercy of that topknot ponytail and tightly curled bangs. Compromising the catheter, cauldron tubs draining…rubber stoppers cool with bottom fear and cotton perverting voices as she scrubs the elastomer from her surface skin. She’s mint in box, one of a kind decaying beneath the lace and wires of royal corsetry. A threadbare chemise corrodes her ethylene core. Distressed by lack of human contact;
soft iris’s distant glom, teary eyes sullen with lobotomy.
She will never grow old and tell me I am worthless, slam the door in a fit of rage or add Draino to my boxcar. She does not demand affection but is grateful to be at the receiving end. She enjoys caressing to nurse but only because she can’t will her limbs out of entropy.
The refrain is sometimes frightening but memories of her and I, and the goose bumps rising sibilating yesterdays maxims like “Come hither”, “Popular with children” and
“This is all for you.”
Why did it have to come to this?
Ray Croc, Walt Disney, NASA, the Nazi party, irregular menstruation, anorexia nervosa, the committee for propagation of virtue and prevention of vice, the republicans and democrats, Malibu American dream disease, half-assed superficial friendships, rabid materialism, and the fashion industry tried to infect and consume you…and you gave in smiling sullen with lobotomy.
Note: Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits appeared in the literary magazine Breadcrumb Scabs.
Barbie Doll Factoids & Footnotes
* Mattel makes roughly 1.9 billion dollars yearly on the Barbie Doll.
* 3 Barbie dolls are sold every second.
Barbie’s neck is twice the length it should be,
her legs are longer than her torso,
And her feet are freakishly small…suggesting possibly the practice of foot-binding.
Barbie’s features and physique converted into realistic measurements:
Height: 7 feet, 2 inches
Weight: 110 lbs
Hips: Between 30 and 36 inches
Waist: Between 18 and 28 inches
Bust: Between 38 and 48 inches
Based on this abnormal body type,
Having the spine of a prepubescent girl, overdeveloped legs, underdeveloped feet and forearms, and a hypertrophied neck,
Barbie would be forced to crawl around on all fours like a crippled giraffe.
It is worth noting that if such a being existed it would have great difficult avoiding the fracture or ultimately the disassembly of the lumbar spine due to alien joint placement.
Also, based on the converted measurements Barbie would not have the 17 to 22% body fat required to properly menstruate.
Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits
“Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition”
-Dr. Timothy Leary
Zythepsary funk beat-shop swing, I found a home…I’m a lover.
I found paperback romance, enticing in the hourglass configuration and acetylene finish of curving brows twist-tied behind cardboard and finely woven polymers.
The alehouse-taproom taverns of hemp and of hop, where accordion foothills meet behind streams of moist clay and tiger lilies. Where roadhouse hussies work the gallows and plot penny dreadful infidelity.
It was in this sanctorium I rest liquored and salty, prostrating in the wisp of unworldly malaise. The vague discomfort of recent infibulation piercing like Berkowitz…stroking the Bavarian lederhosen of a Bird Lilli villenage.
A miasma of graham cracker pheromones, shambling in six inch ankle-wrap spikes; impressionable coquettes affection control to faceless contrivances drudging through
acrylic Mc-mansion’s in protest.
Teenage fashion supermodels fresh from the leucotomy farm conjugating like Wuornos barflies and flirting up like French-maids in jazz clubs thick with carbon monoxide. I was not busy embalming or honeymooning, I was lurking sinister in the effluvium of Mattel’s cocktail lounge plotting a little bit of heartbreak.
Candy-striping philanderers would labor for the possessive attention of lucrative stockbrokers. Permeating through the enigmatic vapor of July 9th delirium tremens. They are nothing but confounded dishonesty and dissatisfaction in the luscious tyke forms of high society!
You’ve got to thank Ruth Handler, for without her matriarchal devotion your spawnship would have been nothing more than a nocturnal emission.
She appears beloved, blossoming ambivalent with those weak stomachs of rape.
Incapable of reproduction, impeding on digestion and pinched nerves.
Barbara Millicent Roberts bares the delineate proportions prayed for by wishful thinking girl scouts. Busts and wet crotches suffused in polyvinyl chloride. Features that graze all adolescent boys onanistic daydreams, disrupted by the florescent lighting fixtures beaming
“Real living breathing women on sale!”
She is partially crystalline, partially amorphous, smiling at the mercy of that topknot ponytail and tightly curled bangs. Compromising the catheter, cauldron tubs draining…rubber stoppers cool with bottom fear and cotton perverting voices as she scrubs the elastomer from her surface skin. She’s mint in box, one of a kind decaying beneath the lace and wires of royal corsetry. A threadbare chemise corrodes her ethylene core. Distressed by lack of human contact;
soft iris’s distant glom, teary eyes sullen with lobotomy.
She will never grow old and tell me I am worthless, slam the door in a fit of rage or add Draino to my boxcar. She does not demand affection but is grateful to be at the receiving end. She enjoys caressing to nurse but only because she can’t will her limbs out of entropy.
The refrain is sometimes frightening but memories of her and I, and the goose bumps rising sibilating yesterdays maxims like “Come hither”, “Popular with children” and
“This is all for you.”
Why did it have to come to this?
Ray Croc, Walt Disney, NASA, the Nazi party, irregular menstruation, anorexia nervosa, the committee for propagation of virtue and prevention of vice, the republicans and democrats, Malibu American dream disease, half-assed superficial friendships, rabid materialism, and the fashion industry tried to infect and consume you…and you gave in smiling sullen with lobotomy.
Note: Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits appeared in the literary magazine Breadcrumb Scabs.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Who Wants A Bacontini?
I submit to you a interesting recipe for vodka infused with the flavor of bacon.
Revel in the light of orgiastic pleasure pork lovers and alcoholics!
BACON VODKA
Ingredients:
1 liter of 90 proof vodka
1 mason jar
1 coffee strainer
3 strips of thick cut fried bacon
Instructions:
Step 1- Fill the mason jar to the top with fire water and then slowly but enthusiastically submerge the three strips of streaky greasy goodness.
Step 2- Store the spirit urn in a cool dark place for 3 weeks.
Step 3- When you fall upon the last day of the 3 week take your bottle of bacon booze and pop it into the deep freeze, this will solidify the fats so they can be easily strained.
Step 4- Strain the porkish intoxicant until the liquid is clean and insoluble fat renderings are absent.
You will end up with a jar of light brown liquid with undertones of bacony deliciousness.
Drink Suggestions:
The Classic Bacontini
Ingredients:
3 parts bacon vodka
1 part sweet vermouth
Preparation:
Stir into a chilled martini glass, garnish with a strip of freshly cooked bacon and
serve straight up.
Breakfast in Bed
Ingredients:
2 parts bacon vodka
2 parts Bailey's irish cream
splash of real maple syrup
Preparation:
Combine 2 parts bacon vodka, 2 parts Bailey's irish cream, and splash of maple syrup (none of this ms. butterworths shit, only the real deal will do) in a shaker full of ice.
Strain into a chilled highball glass and enjoy.
Stiff Pig
Ingredients:
1 part bacon vodka
1 part soda water
1 part date syrup
Preparation:
Drizzle the inside of a chilled pilsner glass with date syrup.
Combine bacon vodka and soda water over ice and serve.
Antlered Piggy on Fire!
Ingredients:
1 part bacon vodka
1 part Jagermeister
1 part Everclear
1 beer
Preparation:
The bacon vodka, Jagermeister and ever clear are combined in a shot glass in equal parts. They are then ignited with a lighter. The shot is then extinguished in a chilled pilsner glass of beer.
Cheers!
You now know the craft of fine pork ethanol,
drink up piggies and don't set your damned heads on fire.
Revel in the light of orgiastic pleasure pork lovers and alcoholics!
BACON VODKA
Ingredients:
1 liter of 90 proof vodka
1 mason jar
1 coffee strainer
3 strips of thick cut fried bacon
Instructions:
Step 1- Fill the mason jar to the top with fire water and then slowly but enthusiastically submerge the three strips of streaky greasy goodness.
Step 2- Store the spirit urn in a cool dark place for 3 weeks.
Step 3- When you fall upon the last day of the 3 week take your bottle of bacon booze and pop it into the deep freeze, this will solidify the fats so they can be easily strained.
Step 4- Strain the porkish intoxicant until the liquid is clean and insoluble fat renderings are absent.
You will end up with a jar of light brown liquid with undertones of bacony deliciousness.
Drink Suggestions:
The Classic Bacontini
Ingredients:
3 parts bacon vodka
1 part sweet vermouth
Preparation:
Stir into a chilled martini glass, garnish with a strip of freshly cooked bacon and
serve straight up.
Breakfast in Bed
Ingredients:
2 parts bacon vodka
2 parts Bailey's irish cream
splash of real maple syrup
Preparation:
Combine 2 parts bacon vodka, 2 parts Bailey's irish cream, and splash of maple syrup (none of this ms. butterworths shit, only the real deal will do) in a shaker full of ice.
Strain into a chilled highball glass and enjoy.
Stiff Pig
Ingredients:
1 part bacon vodka
1 part soda water
1 part date syrup
Preparation:
Drizzle the inside of a chilled pilsner glass with date syrup.
Combine bacon vodka and soda water over ice and serve.
Antlered Piggy on Fire!
Ingredients:
1 part bacon vodka
1 part Jagermeister
1 part Everclear
1 beer
Preparation:
The bacon vodka, Jagermeister and ever clear are combined in a shot glass in equal parts. They are then ignited with a lighter. The shot is then extinguished in a chilled pilsner glass of beer.
Cheers!
You now know the craft of fine pork ethanol,
drink up piggies and don't set your damned heads on fire.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
To Hell with Prosody!
So i figured i'd post some poetry... rather befitting a doctor of bloated-alien baby verse tee-hee.
This piece first appeared in an untitled tome of poems (the green book) i put out in the summer of 06.
Donald Lev, the bearded archon of New York coffeeshop epigrams was kind enough to publish this ditty
(minus the music in this and all contexts in the name of all things holy) in his quarterly publication
"Home Planet News."
Enjoy my delicate snow flakes.
Amid the flowing rapture, full bodied caramel.
Sky is hell red, dreamy eyes stranded.
We’ve got to bury this hatchet, It’s getting old.
We’ve got to bury this red-light before it seesaws you raw.
We’ve got to get back our fingertips,
and bury these sooty meat cuts in the patio section.
Thinking of things that can top each others miserable company;
Like no-doze ronin demanding sweet rice, refuge and beer.
Something soft and somehow slightly wet caressed the inline of your temple.
The serum of your injury ran down your rundown torso.
And you said “mankind suffers the little children, sucking joyfully.”
And your words became you.
A snow white leper riving watermelon steaks,
Setting up and sending out wakame sake and love bites for the lady boy geishas.
And you said
“I like to play with my food before I swallow” and so you did.
Carrying your broken English like a handbag.
I see so much of myself in you.
Your dotty to call that the “breakfast of wastrels“,
It’s obviously a “broadband brunch” with violent comedy options.
Your clothes are all ripped up, your moneys in the streets. Your in the end inessential, but it’ll be just fine by me.
Accommodating a bunch of sportsters with their punch-perms and swords, sifting through the refuse for their disconnected pinkies.
And through all of this human sushi, not a single female body.
A thousand years of cold handshakes, just within reach.
I like to sneak in at night and lay down on the table saw...
They fine-tuned insomnia for the yakuza!
Honeyed integument---sweetmeat gaudy redskins had taken them,
nailing them naked to colored.
A small rustle of wings in sacred woods, In singing phosphorus,
muzzles low hanging speckled emerald.
And all these worlds lead back to her rosy navel and rows of deep ocean.
© Justin F. Parrinello (August 2006)
*- Exiles Human Sushi appeared in Home Planet News issue #63
This piece first appeared in an untitled tome of poems (the green book) i put out in the summer of 06.
Donald Lev, the bearded archon of New York coffeeshop epigrams was kind enough to publish this ditty
(minus the music in this and all contexts in the name of all things holy) in his quarterly publication
"Home Planet News."
Enjoy my delicate snow flakes.
Exiles Human Sushi
Amid the flowing rapture, full bodied caramel.
Sky is hell red, dreamy eyes stranded.
We’ve got to bury this hatchet, It’s getting old.
We’ve got to bury this red-light before it seesaws you raw.
We’ve got to get back our fingertips,
and bury these sooty meat cuts in the patio section.
Thinking of things that can top each others miserable company;
Like no-doze ronin demanding sweet rice, refuge and beer.
Something soft and somehow slightly wet caressed the inline of your temple.
The serum of your injury ran down your rundown torso.
And you said “mankind suffers the little children, sucking joyfully.”
And your words became you.
A snow white leper riving watermelon steaks,
Setting up and sending out wakame sake and love bites for the lady boy geishas.
And you said
“I like to play with my food before I swallow” and so you did.
Carrying your broken English like a handbag.
I see so much of myself in you.
Your dotty to call that the “breakfast of wastrels“,
It’s obviously a “broadband brunch” with violent comedy options.
Your clothes are all ripped up, your moneys in the streets. Your in the end inessential, but it’ll be just fine by me.
Accommodating a bunch of sportsters with their punch-perms and swords, sifting through the refuse for their disconnected pinkies.
And through all of this human sushi, not a single female body.
A thousand years of cold handshakes, just within reach.
I like to sneak in at night and lay down on the table saw...
They fine-tuned insomnia for the yakuza!
Honeyed integument---sweetmeat gaudy redskins had taken them,
nailing them naked to colored.
A small rustle of wings in sacred woods, In singing phosphorus,
muzzles low hanging speckled emerald.
And all these worlds lead back to her rosy navel and rows of deep ocean.
© Justin F. Parrinello (August 2006)
*- Exiles Human Sushi appeared in Home Planet News issue #63
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Animus
Really what is the point in all of this?
Animus
Animus
The answer, I have absolutely no clue...
Submit to me a thoroughly informative and imaginative assemblage of assertions outlining, defining, and summarizing the functional purpose and intent of this reverse-chronological log of thoughts, verse, and blundering about in a clean crisp grammatically correct description paragraph and I will send you your choice of either a mint condition
Zuni hunting doll fetish
or a freshly shaven almost certainly purblind mogwai
or a freshly shaven almost certainly purblind mogwai
free of charge...just pay shipping and handling.
No really. I'm serious!
U.S. Patent # 5,063, 163
Who knew it was the counterfeit detector pen?
The funny money super stylus!
The currency-discoloring imposter-detecting amalgamation of simple ink and iodine.
Yellow or clean and its the real Mccoy, brown or grey... and its bullshit.
Tough rap my man.
I read recently that a band of Hungarian counterfeiters had developed a complex method of reproducing U.S. water marks and security strips. And they're using expensive fiber woven papers to avoid reaction from detector pens who only pass judgment on wood-based parchment. Good stuff!
We'll have to voodoo conjure Willem Dafoe from a thespian sepulcher in Appleton, Wisconsin to reprise his legendary role as Rick Masters!
"19th Century Cameroon, yes? Your taste is in your ass."
Followed by a volatile blast of a 9mm Glock with a water-cooled suppressor into Carl's cranium and through his prefrontal cortex and onto the Persian rug and dilapidated Venetian blinds.
I just got all 1985 crime drama nostalgic on ya ass.
Perhaps the first and last time I will ever use the pronoun "Ya" in place of your... i cringe at its utterance and yet i have allowed its careful composition in my first post at that.
To Live and Die in L.A. is a wonderful film though, if you haven't seen it immediately stop what you are doing put on some ill-fitting pastels , grab your snuggly (sinfully ugly) cabbage patch kid cinema companion, and take a swing in your 2-door Chrysler Lebaron over to the local VHS rental outlet. Don't forget to pop "I Ran" by Flock of Seagulls into your cassette deck.
This is what I have to show for by the way,
after an assiduous half hour of deep cerebral contemplation.
What new and exciting, visionary and profoundly interesting mass of subject matter will i hurl onto the wandering monitors that stumble across the concertina-wired cobblestoned
brick-ways of my first official blog entry?
Effortless movie plugs,
Banter about counterfeit money, and the word Falanouc...which is the name of an awesome carnivorous mongoose-like mammal native to Madagascar.
The funny money super stylus!
The currency-discoloring imposter-detecting amalgamation of simple ink and iodine.
Yellow or clean and its the real Mccoy, brown or grey... and its bullshit.
Tough rap my man.
I read recently that a band of Hungarian counterfeiters had developed a complex method of reproducing U.S. water marks and security strips. And they're using expensive fiber woven papers to avoid reaction from detector pens who only pass judgment on wood-based parchment. Good stuff!
We'll have to voodoo conjure Willem Dafoe from a thespian sepulcher in Appleton, Wisconsin to reprise his legendary role as Rick Masters!
"19th Century Cameroon, yes? Your taste is in your ass."
Followed by a volatile blast of a 9mm Glock with a water-cooled suppressor into Carl's cranium and through his prefrontal cortex and onto the Persian rug and dilapidated Venetian blinds.
I just got all 1985 crime drama nostalgic on ya ass.
Perhaps the first and last time I will ever use the pronoun "Ya" in place of your... i cringe at its utterance and yet i have allowed its careful composition in my first post at that.
To Live and Die in L.A. is a wonderful film though, if you haven't seen it immediately stop what you are doing put on some ill-fitting pastels , grab your snuggly (sinfully ugly) cabbage patch kid cinema companion, and take a swing in your 2-door Chrysler Lebaron over to the local VHS rental outlet. Don't forget to pop "I Ran" by Flock of Seagulls into your cassette deck.
This is what I have to show for by the way,
after an assiduous half hour of deep cerebral contemplation.
What new and exciting, visionary and profoundly interesting mass of subject matter will i hurl onto the wandering monitors that stumble across the concertina-wired cobblestoned
brick-ways of my first official blog entry?
Effortless movie plugs,
Banter about counterfeit money, and the word Falanouc...which is the name of an awesome carnivorous mongoose-like mammal native to Madagascar.
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