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Reader Submission #87198528

Posted 7 November 2002, 11.20 pm by Alexander

This is a reader submission from Mhordanis. Never heard of him.

"Unbelievable," he thought to himself as he rode his bike southward down the busy highway. "Unbe-fucking-lievable."

It's not like this was the first time he had done this, either. Just last week he had left it out in the rain at a friend's house; god, was that a fun night. He biked almost 10 miles that night only to spend an hour and a half digging on his hands and knees through his friend's yard. Maurice, who could forget Maurice, with his perfectly shaped face and over-worked body. "The man's going to die before he's thirty," he thought to himself, as he pleasantly recalled the nights he had spent in Maurice's arms.

And there was the time he was at Claire's house; so much money spent for one night, so little to show for the weeks and weeks of pay he spent on the supplies. It probably took him somewhere near three days to come off the high he got from all the acid he took. Car rides seem so much more fun when you're rolling, or tripping, or drunk, or anything besides the ordinary, average, day-to-day task of pushing your self-propelled automobile through the callous streets of the town he lived in.

"Shit. Where the fuck am I?" He suddenly looked around at the scenery he was completely oblivious to not one minute before. This wasn't the street that his friend lived on, nor was it even a recognizable distance from the house he was supposed to be venturing towards. Memories often cause lapse in... well, memories, if you delve far enough into them. He saw a house that looked absolutely the fucking same as every other house in the complex, so he figured that this was as good of a place as any to ask for directions.

Without a care in the world, he strolled up to the front door of a painfully bright white house with aqua green trim. The number on the house read "216", unbelievably premoniscient of the surprisingly different actions that were to take place in such a drab, mundane neighborhood. He hummed a song he heard at the club last night as he knocked twice on the door.

Looking back on the event in the afterlife, he sorely wished that he had been more observant when a seemingly ordinary man opened the door. If he weren't so obsessed with the memories of his past, he might have noticed he blood stains on the man's white collar shirt, or the gun held at his own head.

He looked up into the man's eyes and smiled a warm greeting. "Hey there. Sorry to bother you, was wondering if you know how to get to 9 Cloud Avenue."
The short, bald man who answered the door replied with, "Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"
"Well, sir. I'm trying to get to 9 Cloud Avenue. I have a friend who lives there, and I guess I left my..."

The man who answered the door wished in hindsight that he had waited for the very next word out of the man's mouth before he ended any further speech with a single shotgun blast.

The short, bald man drug the body into the house and laid it on the couch, where he proceeded to rip through the pockets of the man's clothing. "It's not here. IT'S NOT FUCKING HERE," he exclaimed, obviously reaching a hurdle he had not expected. "I watched this one for WEEKS. I watched him throw it around everywhere he went. He didn't already give it to me, did he?"

The man pulled out a PDA and a stylus, and begun tapping furiously on the LCD touch-screen. A few moments later, he threw it down in a fit of rage, obviously not finding what he was expecting. "He hasn't given it to me yet. Where the fuck could it be?"

Suddenly the dead man's cell phone rang.

"Hello?" the short, bald man answered.
"Josh?" the voice on the other end of the phone replied.
"Yeah, it's me. What's up?"
"Well, you left a slip of paper on my table. Remember? You took it out before we snorted that line. I can't read the handwriting on it... looks like it's in some other language."
The short, bald man danced a tiny dance. "Thanks for finding that for me. I'd KILL to get that back. I'll be there in a bit, ok?"
He then hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.

The short, bald man put on a clean shirt, combed over his three hairs, and put on a devilish smile. He grabbed his shotgun and whistled a Led Zeppelin tune as he walked out to his cherry red Corvette, eager to gain an incredibly easy two-for-one deal this afternoon. It turned out that this just may be the day he had been waiting for.

Old people = Shit

Posted 7 November 2002, 2.59 pm by Sickan

I am currently working as a cleaning-robot. Yeah, that’s right, me – I clean people’s houses. And it is, as you probably can imagine, not the most fulfilling and interesting job out there – but it makes sure that I can pay my internet bills and get foo..(yeah right) get more PS2 games.

But even though I don’t like the job I still know how to be polite and nice to the people I clean house for. Now, most of my ‘clients’ (as the company so elegantly calls them) are elderly people who can’t run around in their fat-ass mansions and clean all the crap up that they spill. And I am serious, damn old people are so good at messing stuff up and spread their dust all over the place. Oh well.

Anyway, I had an old bi(a)tch the other day. She was the last one that day and I was looking forward to get home and do much more interesting things than run around with a vacuum cleaner. I was kinda early there and when she opened the door an old smell hit my face and I could see that there had not been people there to clean for quite some time. I politely told her who I was and why I was there and she let me in.

The place was a mess. Not alone very filthy and dusty but there were scattered papers and magazines, clothes and bed sheets all over the place – even in the kitchen. Now this is normally where I am supposed to tell the old folks that I can’t clean the place if there is messy, and that they have to get rid of all the stuff and I will come back another day – and the leave the place and stuff. But I was in a good mood and thought to myself ‘Well jolly old Sickan, you can help this poor woman out and use a little more time here and get all this fixed.’ (I was in a pretty good mood that day..) So I began in one room and started to pick up her dirty clothes and stuff. She was behind me all the time, chattering as most old people do. She told me stuff about her grandchild and her husband – ya know all these uninteresting things – I just smiled and nodded when I was supposed to. (After a while in the business you just know when to let them talk and not respond).

When I had used almost two hours and 45 min. there I was finished. She had just kept on talking even when I used the vacuum cleaner – I mean she was in the talky corner that’s for sure. Anyway I turned to her and smiled and told her the good news (that I had finished and she now had a clean nice house again). Then she stared at me and I could see something changing in her eyes. She lowered her head and looked at me with her old blue eyes. ‘Empty your pockets and take of your socks’ the sound had sounded like her voice and my eyebrows flew up in my forehead, I smiled and stepped a little bit closer to her, ‘Say again?’ she took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eyes ‘ I saw you take money from my purse, so empty your pockets and take of your socks’. I looked at her and giggled, I had no choice I mean my stomach felt like a thousand bees and my mind turned black. I blinked and she pointed her stupid little finger at me, ‘do it – I know that you have stolen from me!’

Then I realized that she was accusing me for stealing! The muscles in my back turned hard as I straightened it. There was a thousand things that I wanted to tell her – I wanted to curl her up, dribble her and throw her out the window. I just looked down at her. Her crappy face made me realize that she wanted to speak again I said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you accuse me of that? What the hell is your problem? You have been behind me the whole fucking time I have been here!!’ She smiled and said, ‘I am going to call your firm and tell them about this!’

As I took my coat and shoes on I looked at her, that shitty old lady with nothing better to do than bug people like me. I was there to help her out – I was there to make her house look better and be a good place to be, I had listened to all her shit about her stupid grandchild and about how young people today are dumb-asses – I had spent more time at her place than I have ever done other places and I had really made an effort – all with the foolish idea that she would be glad and perhaps even happy. But she had to turn on me – she had to do this – fucking old bitch!

Now you must wonder why I am so upset about this and I can’t really explain it. But I think I just got mad at her for accusing me because that thought has never crossed in my mind, why would I want to steal from old people? She attacked my moral and made it clear that I (in her mind) is an immoral person. And that I hate.

Today when I went to work I was quite worried about this. If she had told my boss and my boss made a deal out of it there were a lot of things I should prepare myself. Like how many money would she say I had stolen from her , if my boss believed her and not me would I get fired or just put in another job. I don’t know why I worried about it but I did. When I got there my boss mentioned nothing of such matter and I hope that the old lady either died later that day (slowly and in pain) or she had forgotten all about her smart idea.

So right now old people very much = SHIT in my world!


Posted 6 November 2002, 9.22 pm by Shaggy

Yes, it is a sight. FartsDotCom . The name states all that needs to be stated.

You can post your own farts on here. Who knows, maybe someone might recognize you........

The Future Is Now

Posted 5 November 2002, 12.44 am by Villager

We are obsessed with the future. Disregarding today, we look to tomorrow, next month and next year for inspiration, hope and intrigue. If we can convince ourselves (or indeed be convinced) that the future holds a marked improvement from the drudgery of present life then things don't seem so bad. Optimism, you might say. Believing that your luck will get better. Alas, it is indeed luck. We seem to place incredible stock in predictions of tomorrow and safeguarding against financial trouble. Horoscopes are a popular way of reassuring yourself that things are indeed going to get better; have you ever read a horoscope that says your in for some real shit and there's no sign of hope for years to come? Others fear the future, and occupy themselves with apprehension and material hoarding so that should awful times strike, they won't be among those caught unprepared; or at least they won't be surprised when it happens.

The future is now. This is your life. As we leave childhood, out of all the dreams and aspirations that once seemed magical and reassuring, we are left with only those within which our material fortune permit, and life it seems will be one long struggle to get closer to what you one day believed you were entitled to possess. Why do we supposedly intelligent beings deceive ourselves as to the promise around the corner? There is no future. I contest its very meaning. What we see as tomorrow is an assumption, not a fact; experience tells us it's unlikely, but if you wake up tomorrow your world could easily be unrecognisable for the rest of your human life. So why do we dedicate today to preparing for a tomorrow that may never come, and cannot be predicted with any meaningful accuracy even if it does?

Of course we must make practical preparations; it would be foolish to live each day as if it were your absolute last because experience tells us that it is prudent to make sure we do have enough to survive on tomorrow. But that neither explains nor excuses wasting our lives in a constant state of expectation, an expectation which goes largely unrewarded. Those with religious beliefs will have their own perspective on the importance of the present and the ultimate insignificance of tomorrow. For others, there is only a subtle difference. Those who live for their own sakes delude themselves when they expect tomorrow to come at all, let alone come bearing endowments of wealth, sensual satisfaction and 'happiness'. We exist in a world that provides ever more than we need today, so why are you not happy unless you have yet more tomorrow?

The silent Child

Posted 3 November 2002, 1.33 am by Sickan

She had the eyes.
Old eyes some would call them.
First time they looked at her.
They knew she was different.
All her life they told her,
That she was different.
Different in many ways.
Different because she never spoke.
She was able to speak.
They knew that.
Sometimes she said a few words,
A few well-put words.
They hit directly in the heart.
She was small and fragile.
Fragile as a fly spotted
By a child.
She had no friends and
She even seemed alone.
But she never complained
Or sought others company.
She liked her loneliness
Then the teens began.
No one teased her in school.
No one talked to her,
They knew they’d never get an answer.

Then one day she came home.
She had never cried before.
Why was she crying.
They tried to make her tell them.
She did.
After that she never spoke again.
The sectret she told was horrible.
Her father could not live with it
And he was found in the lake
It was winter.
She did not cry at the funeral.
Neither did her mother.

What was the secret.
We all had to know – we needed it
The stories began humming in the town.
What we could now know for certain
We made up.
Had the father abused her?
Had someone done sometime like that
To the silent child.
What was her name again?
Can you tell me that.
The silent child.
Had he done something terrible?

We never got to know.
We can only imagine.
They left one morning and
They never came back
Their house is still there and
Furniture and plates are there.
But no people.
They went to a new town
A new place a new life.
But the girl kept on being
The silent child.
She knew her father had
Done nothing wrong and
The whispering in the
Old town had driven her
In the shadow of death.
She knew her eyes let her
See things others couldn’t.
She knew that the father
Loved another woman
Not her mother.
That was the secret.
Nothing more.
The silent child
Had old eyes.


Posted 2 November 2002, 7.48 pm by Alexander

This is another reader submission, this time from Kateifer. Enjoyez-vous.

Cautiously she turned the corner on her all to familiar route through the dark ally. Why was there no other way for her to go? Everyday she gave up her money. Everyday she walked more alone as one by one they left. All save He; He took everything she ever had. There was never a bite for her, never a penny to be spent. She was His and she knew it, yet she couldn't stop. She was caught in His trap from the first.

Her first trip through the ally came to mind. She was lonely, sad. Death had taken everyone she ever loved. He was there. She knew where to find Him although she had sworn she'd never go looking. Now, she did. He took her into His arms. They were like steel. Frightened at first she tried to escape but He wouldn't let go. Then suddenly the colors started and it was like nothing she had ever seen before. The beauty astounded her taking her breath away and slowly with each new color, her will was gone too.

Soon, she knows, she'll leave. She'll come to the ally and in His embrace she'll leave. He'll never let her go, she knows that now. After the first trip she just had to go back to the ally for more colors. This time though, He gave her music. He gave her light, joy, and a freedom she never new, and He drew her in tighter. Then it changed she had to go back. There was no choice now. She could not walk another way. She was His completely and it was no longer fun. She wanted to escape from Him, but He was the only escape.

Her final walk down the ally. At the end He waits. He knows. His eyes burn with their knowledge of all the others she brought. He knows where their bodies lie. Slowly she picks her way forward over first one then another. She coes to Him and surrenders. Her final trip ends. She too is lying dead on the ground with the others.

Filipino Box Spring Hog

Posted 2 November 2002, 3.34 am by Jake

It's a link to God.

Tom Waits

I'm a big fan. Yeah, I'm a loser. Go ahead and laugh.

Walking Spanish

Posted 1 November 2002, 12.46 am by Jake

Richie looks down the sinister, dark maw of the shotgun as he pisses his pants in the back of an old convenience store.
5 minutes, if Carlo doesn't show up, Richie's going to get his brains painted all over the pavement by a nickel-plated custom Remington 12-gauge.
You see, he and Carlo had a deal with a certain Mr. Espinosa. Mr. Espinosa is a highly-respected, sickeningly wealthy coke dealer. Mr. Espinosa's so fucking rich, you see, that he's sitting at his desk in upper Beverly Hills, having his dick sucked by a maid while one of his goons gets paid $500 an hour to kill people with a large-bore projectile weapon.
The stakes aren't in Richie's favor right now, as if you couldn't tell.
Anyway, Richie's standing there, sweat pouring down his face, hot tears streaking the dirt and splashing onto his $500 jacket, piss running down the legs of his double-stitched custom silk pants, and splattering onto his $400 roach-stompers. Richie starts to have flashbacks.

Two years old, sitting point-blank to a television. He only understands a few words at a time, but the people on there are bright and do funny things. There's a knock at the door. He jumps up from his spot and clumsily toddles over to the door. His mother, Carmen, rushes in front of him, snatches him up into her arms. They both giggle, and Carmen cradles her son in one arm and opens the door.
It's Ruben. Ruben is a supposed "special friend" of Carmen's. Young Richie has already learned the man’s name, and shouts it gleefully upon the man's arrival.
"Wu-bennn!!!" Richie hollers.
"Richie!!" Ruben responds, with a beaming grin.
He kisses Carmen upon entry, and grabs Richie from her arms. He quickly tosses her a small bag during Richie's fraternizing with Ruben. She catches it and pads over to the couch, pulling out a mirror and doing something that Ruben doesn't particularly want Richie to bear witness to. After going to the kitchen with Ruben and getting an apple, they go back into the living room whereupon Carmen whispers something into Ruben's ear.
Ruben strolls across the room and to the couch, while Carmen takes her son to the laundry room to fold laundry and talk to him.

She says sentence after sentence to him, and he just nods his head and says "Yeah, Mama." Suddenly, there's a crash in the living room, and Carmen gasps and dashes to the living room. Richie is worried, so he follows her intently. He runs in and sees Ruben on the floor, shaking. His mother is sobbing and rubbing Ruben's head while babbling into the telephone.

Last thing Richie remembers is the paramedics rushing in and taking Ruben off in the loud trucks, and his mother cradling him and crying, saying in Spanish, "Lo siento, m'ijo." After that night, he never got to see his mother again.

A quick slap to the head with the barrel of the shotgun breaks Richie from his quick vacation. "Oh yeah, back to the fuckin' task on hand," he murmurs.
"Shut up, you piece of shit!" says the big guy. "You've got 2 ½ minutes to live, After that, you'll just be a little grease spot on the back of the Nu-Way."
Richie shakes his head, and closes his eyes again.
His mind starts to wander, but the sudden roar of an oncoming car breaks his moment of closure.
Thank God. It's fucking Carlo.
Carlo comes screeching up in his nice little Cadillac, hops out and strolls up to Espinosa's guy like he's the epitome of cool. James Dean and shit, just a Chicano.
"Hey, fuckface!" he belts, undaunted by the idea that Richie was two and, ah, say 1 ¾ minutes away from dying.
"Having fun?"
"Yeah. It's a lovely goddamned tea party. Get this fucking gorilla to drop his guns and let me go."
"Afraid I can't do that, Richie."
A burst of fear and a twinge of adrenalin rushes to Richie's furthest nerve endings. Kids, this truly sucks.
"I didn't stutter, Richie. I can't do that. You see, I owe Mr. Espinosa a favor. And in this case, the favor is setting up a little rat bastard such as yourself to get whacked."
"WHAT? You fucking piece of shit! You can't do this to me!"
"I can't?" Carlo whips out a pistol and shoots Richie in his knee.
Richie collapses like a ton of bricks, and begins to pray.
"Ay, Dios, yo hacia muchas cosas malas,"
"Shut UP, Richie. I warned you once. Don't make me do it once more, where it counts."
"Pero ya quiero que yo arrepiento a todo, y..."
Carlo shoots Richie in his other leg. "Kid, I already told you."
Richie looks up and says , in a halted manner,
"You know, I didn't really get it last time, either. Tell me AGAIN."
Carlo stares into Richie's deep brown eyes, and squeezes off a round right into his forehead.

"Can't say I didn't warn the little fuck. Now let's go get our money."

The big guy laughs and slaps Carlo on the back. They both get into Carlo's Cadillac and drive away, leaving Richie in a heap under the yellow, buzzing streetlight behind the Nu-Way Stop N' Shop.

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A year or so ago I undertook a study entitled 'Faces of Death'. I produced a quite substantial body of work concerning corpses, and faces in particular. I concentrated mainly on victims of murder. This image was produced by rolling a thick layer of ink onto a steel plate and rubbing, scratching and soaking it off with turps. The plate was then pressed onto paper, and this is the result.

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80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

Yo ! Does this work ?


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