Farts & Seizures
C1
OCTOBER 2002
Vulture Shark Sculpture Park
Are you feeling zip-zip? Are you ready for
partying? I need your field
trip slip signed by a parent or guardian. But I
understand if they
don’t want to sign it
because most
people find Vulture Shark’s
Sculpture Park a little bit dangerous…
Culture, hark! There’s Bunny
Loafabread on a
Sofabed. Igloo
Turtle leaps a
big blue hurdle overhead. Lil
Orphan Dolphin gets endorphins from golfing. She looks
lucky and reckless
thanks to
her Tumbleweed/
Bumblebead Necklace.
There’s
Hamstergram to
Amsterdam
with a robo-actional hobo satchel perched on an
ampersand. Watch a newborn gorilla dip a blue
corn tortilla chip. Don
Quixote with a Calder
‘stache rides Donkey
Odie. A sign says,
“Don’t Touch.”
Balderdash! As if the
oil in my hands is more destructive
than natural erosion from acid
rain lightning storms.
A bucolic setting. A whole house
made of bedding. It’s getting cold
out. Oh wow, a wedding.
The groom wore a costume, a very goth towel,
a terrycloth cowl.
He said, “I, Hairy Moth
Owl, take you to bite
awfully
headed
to ravish and mould in quickness and stealth till death
or we part. And you?”
The bride, a turtledove,
replied, “You may kiss the fertile
love inside my girdle/glove divide.”
Vulture Shark presided as host and pro-
posed a toast: “Make
your woman a momma,
damn it. Spread more seeds
on the planet than a pomegranate.” He’d copped her a Lepidoptera
Helicopter, a
Dubuffet
table with
butter frogs and
mice, a chopped
liver goose, and
Lincoln Logs of ice.
I said, “Beg pardon. We brought the happy
a couple a Caterpillar Egg Carton.” We had
our fill of turkey sandwiches made from
traced hands on butcher
paper tablecloths with glasses of crayons.
Marriage isn’t an individgin
decision. I ran over a bridge
and explored the park store
run by Rebecca
Pidgeon. She sells
tight terrific site specific environments;
Vulture Shark Sculpture
Park as depicted by
Barman’s Garments.
Obituary
Old Paul
By Emily E. Keylime
Old Paul gave rap a cold call. The
caucasoid had the whole block annoyed.
It took big gilded gold balls to smile at
terror and trial and error. The following
is from a conversation I had with Paul
on the eve of publication of his new
memoir, Don’t Squeeze the Barman
(Househusband Books).
“High school was horse crap. The format
was a forced nap without the floor matt. It’s
pure and simple edutainment. Rap needed
an SG Paul B so I became it at a faster
pace. Left the past erased. Met Master
Ace just south of Astor Place. If it’s not
hip hop, is it the opposite? Rap is scary.
Bout to go pop (a zit) or bust a cap
(illary). But I’m not a square. I’m the
monolith. The guy your girl got in the
sauna with. Yet completely alone in the
hairiest industry known besides the mafia.
My beeper fell off of the belt loop under
the train. I destroyed my cell phone
because I self own.
“People repping clones accused me of
using rap as a stepping stone. I thought
about this crap when I was schlepping
home. Is it ‘cause I go for the laugh?
Because I’m not from the ave? Because I
target the fans that you wish you didn’t
have? Had I made a mockery of a culture
like the Choco Taco? Was
I:rap::France:Morrocco?
“It was a trial by fire. I
smiled at liars with dorsal
fins, went home to the
porcelain throne:
“Of course I’ll
win.” Managed
by a mean
gambler.
Coup de Tat
bought Ad
Slides disguised as a
Screen
Scrambler.
Photographed
Phofo scratching
our gold record. Al Hirschfeld did the
cover. My lover laughed on my hovercraft
and gave me new ideas for another draft. I
changed up my flow but my brain was cold
stew. I pressed Control Q in full view of
my old crew. Instead of hustling cameos
and picking out Grammy clothes, I make
stuffed animals as my family grows—I
mean grew. I dropped out of this foolish
world and married a Jewish girl. And we
had five kids. And we all loved each other.”
The end.
Errors &
Omissions
Thanks to everyone in the masthead,
on their last legs, in the past, dead,
Garland Lyn, Harlequin, food that’s
got garlic in, my insides, Bill Nye,
Paul’s Coffee Shop’s coffee cup, The
MFs, Grimm, DOOM, Science Guise,
posse cut, Deb, Peter and Mike M at
the agency, Mike F, Mike V, my family, Macarthur Foundation Nomination
Committee, the Golden Age, Golden
Beige, Bronze, Mahogany, Terra
Cotta, Tan, Sienna, and Tawny, DJs
A.Vee, 3D, Yoda, Bimos, and Anna.
Peace to friend, foe, fish, fowl, flora,
and fauna, Len, Moe Love, Lif,
Quasimoto, Phofo, Mofro, Dan
Prothero, anyone who has ever come
to a show, Genevieve, Cute Clerk,
Bob, Ken, Mr.s Dead and Live,
Torcher, Internationalist, Ase, NWA,
DM, PM Dawn, Wu-Tang, 7 Heads,
CDT, milkyelephant, mumbleboy,
Scotty, Lightning Bolt, OKgo, Ben 10,
Major Taylor, AJ Ready Wright, Max,
Milo, Dr. Luke, Steinski, and especially Rini and Prince Paul.
“The Record
of Record”
VOL. I I . . . No. 2
www.mcpaulbarman.com
OCTOBER 2002
A NATION PALINDGED
2002 has been touched by palindromes, words
spelled the same forwards and backwards. Racecar.
Dorming Nimrod. “Welcome to the terrordromes,”
said MC Paul Barman, my non-anonym. “They
defy punctuation and capitalization.”
“If you think about it, palindromy is a language constraint as far from rhyming as rhyming
is from prose,” said Dr. of Deb Bedford.
Uncertain times have inspired passionate
exclamations from celebrities. “Ha! I ram
Mariah a lot, Tom Mottola,” said Luis Miguel.
Brad Pitt? “Not Sinatra. Part Aniston.”
What can be done in the face of political and
relationship chaos? “Red rose’s odor o’doses
order,” said Rev. Love Evolver. “Buy your
woman a flower.”
Anarchist Bookstore Part One
CHAPEL HILL, NC — In a
college town, with olive green
all around, professors and skate
punks rock SG Paul’s wall of
sound. There’s an anarchist
bookstore that has more than
you’d look for.
A core of local folks wait for
a late lift. There’s often a great
drift to the shop for the
Wednesday night five-to-eight
shift. The clerk at work is
the prettiest gal in town.
She cries during the
video for “Allentown.”
She’s a precocious socialist and she’s willing to pal
around. She’s twice as cool as
the kids at her high
school. Every
Wednesday after
French Club she
rides to work with a
stuffed mastodon in the basket
on her bicycle.
Voice Talent, a rapper, said,
“If Noam Chomsky was from
the Bronx, he’d have been
assassinated promptly.”
The clerk said, “He WAS from
the Bronx.”
He said, “You know what I
mean. Ignoramuses.”
“Oh boyee, what a pain this
is,” said the only paid
employee, the manager. “I
came for culture not
accounting,” and a girl
put a flyer up above
the water fountain.
Will Barnes & Noble
harm the global?
Will Amazon.com
be around when
gramma’s gone, mom?
She carried clandestine two dollar mescaline in her blue collar
mess tin plastered with stickers
that said, “Food Not Bombs,”
“Sex Not Proms,”
and “Critical Mass.”
That bastard,
Voice Talent,
snickered. He thought,
“Nice graphics but that’s just
half-assed agitprop to piss off a
traffic cop. Aww shucks. Can it
be I’m too lazy for potlucks? If
not my friends, who am I willing to cook for?”
And they’re chilling at the
Anarchist Bookstore.
Voice Talent, the rapper, had a
rapport with a stripper whore
who he’d vote for long before
he’d vote for Tipper Gore. He
equipped the store with a credit
card machine and put zines in
their places. He said, “Take
Back the Streets is more like
Take Back Four Parking Spaces
at the most,” and left to
host the Sunday
Showcases. He was all
dressed in tinsel, yo, but
he couldn’t convince his
friends to go. They were
like, “Voice Talent, you put on
INSIDE
It’s Here ...................................................................... A 1
Paullelujah .................................................................. A 2
Cock Mobster ............................................................. A 3
Old Paul ...................................................................... A 4
Bleeding Brain Grow ................................................. B 5
N.O.W. ...................................................................... B 6
Excuse You ................................................................. B 7
Vulture Shark Sculpture Park ..................................... C 8
Anarchist Bookstore part 1 ......................................... C 9
Burping & Farting ......................................................C 10
Talking Time Travel ...................................................D 11
Anarchist Bookstore part 2 ....................................... D 12
A Somewhat New Medium ....................................... D 13
DON’T FORGET THE NEEDIEST!
a minstrel show.”
He said, “Someone’s psychotic. Someone took too much
semiotics.” “Furthermore,” he
thought, “Someone can tzuck
my Tzadik.” But V.T. was the
opposite of T.V. He’d never
accuse someone of being P.C.
because it’s so frigging dumb to
say. The term arose on the
Columbus Day Quincentenary
when the republic was honest
about the conquest and would-
n’t party as previously promised. If someone uses a nonoffensive vocabulary, that person
is considerate, not P.C. If someone has a heavy-handed agenda,
that person is narrow-minded,
not P.C. Unless you mean
Providence College, P.C. is as
meaningless as the president’s
apology for slavery. Maybe P.E.
should be on the radio, not just
in the African American Norton
Anthology.
ANARCHIST BOOKSTORE
PART 2
C ustomers shopped. Discussioners stopped. A rich man
stepped to the clerk, busting her
chops.
He said, “I make more green
than algae. Loop-de-loops with
ice cream scoops now are just
nostalgia. I got coops of wellfed pheasants. I made my web
presence on the backs of dead
peasants. I got all types of cash
and I’ll talk trash like a hyperspazz ‘til my mouth catches
diaper rash.”
Then he left.
She thought, “Can a man
remain posh without being
brainwashed? Is it really all
web sites, tennis whites, and
playing squash? What a jerk,
was he trying to flirt?”
As the clerk got back to work,
another guy went berserk. A
crazy guy with a paisley tie and
one glass and one lazy eye came
in. His brain was spongy Grade
D lunch meat held together with
a scrunchy.
He said, “If y’all are so destitute, how come you’re dressed
so cute? Sometimes it’s best to
toot my own horn about my
idiosyncrasies. I video pink
pussies. I shoot my own porn.
It’s wrong to rape a slut. It’s
wrong to penetrate the paper
cut where an origami truck
scraped her butt. I’m pacing
and passionate because my cupcake had hash in it. Look, a
dopey fairy is chasing a doggy
topiary. I’m’a help her with
catching it!”
He left.
The clerk, she just rolled her
eyes. You could say he told her
lies but she’ll let any old tramp
in. Nothing sold is no surprise
and they’re lamping at the
Anarchist Bookstore.
As the clerk worked on a
blurb about herb, another
berserker jumped in off the
curb, wearing a metal mask.
“May I help you?” she, unsettled, asked.
He said, “Outside there’s an
army of Metal Faces. In several
cases they’re ready to dead all
shtetl places. This is it. Adults’ll need protection.”
She said, “Yeah, but what
changes when you’re done?
Nothing. Like the results of an
election.”
He said, “Oh, so I should just
call it off? Go back to the
house, douse the Molotov?”
She said, “You want to see
our city in flames because
you’re full of pity and blame.
You just want the freedom to sit
at home and play videogames.
Maybe we could drain some
ingrained aggression if you
came for a training session.”
He said, “I don’t want to volunteer. I’m calling y’all in here
to flash some sack and smash
the Mac and get outside. It’s
action-packed. I don’t know if
you are, but all of you look
poor. Now let’s leave the Anarchist Bookstore.”
A1
THE JEW DORK RIMES
Founded in 2002
MC PAUL BARMAN, Publisher 2002-2002
IT’S HERE
(P. Barman, M. van Olden) / Produced by MikeTheMusicGuy / Recorded by
Phofo at Superswell Studios, NY / Published by Horn Implant Music (ASCAP)
/ Hoosier Daddy Productions (ASCAP) / Mixed by M. van Olden at The
Electric Bedroom, San Francisco
PAULLELUJAH
(P. Barman, M. van Olden) / Produced by MikeTheMusicGuy / Published by
Horn Implant Music (ASCAP) / Hoosier Daddy Productions (ASCAP) /
Recorded and mixed by M. van Olden at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco
/ All instruments by M. van Olden / Bass by Fabrice Quentin / Snare rolls by
George Sluppick
COCK MOBSTER
(P. Barman, M. van Olden) / Produced by MikeTheMusicGuy / Addtional
Production by Dan Prothero / Published by Horn Implant Music (ASCAP) /
Hoosier Daddy Productions (ASCAP) / Recorded and Mixed by M. van Olden
at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco / All instruments by M. van Olden /
Scratches by DJ A. Vee / Guitar by Brandon Arnovick
DrOp dEd Op Ed
OC TOBER 2002
N.O.W.
(P. Barman, M. van Olden) / Produced by MikeTheMusicGuy / Published by
Horn Implant Music (ASCAP) / Hoosier Daddy Productions (ASCAP) /
Recorded and mixed by M. van Olden at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco
/ All instruments by M. van Olden / Genevieve played by Mara Gerstein /
Crowd chants by Diane Tani, Marissa Simoncini, Karl Ackermann, Eun-Ha
Paek, Terrac Skiens, Steve Best, Felicite Russell, Siamak Khoubyari, and
recorded at Tarrac’s place
EXCUSE YOU and BURPING & FARTING
(P. Barman, A. Weitz) / Produced by Phofo / Published by Horn Implant Music
(ASCAP) / Superswell Music (ASCAP) / Recorded at Superswell Studios, NY /
Mixed by M. van Olden at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco
VULTURE SHARK SCULPTURE PARK
(P. Barman, M. van Olden) / Produced by MikeTheMusicGuy / Published by
Horn Implant Music (ASCAP) / Hoosier Daddy Productions (ASCAP) /
Recorded and Mixed by M. van Olden at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco
/ All instruments by M. van Olden / Guitar by Brandon Arnovick
ANARCHIST BOOKSTORE parts 1 and 2
(Paul Barman, D. Dumile) / Produced and mixed by MF DOOM /
Published by Horn Implant Music (ASCAP) / Lord Dihoo Music (ASCAP) /
Recorded by Cocheese at In Ya Ear, NY
TALKING TIME TRAVEL
(P. Barman, M. van Olden) / Produced by MikeTheMusicGuy / Published by
Horn Implant Music (ASCAP) / Hoosier Daddy Productions (ASCAP) /
Recorded by Dan Prothero at Kevin's Tinker Shop, San Francisco / Mixed by
M. van Olden at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco / Accoustic guitar by
Etienne deRocher
OLD PAUL
(P. Barman, A. Weitz) / Produced by Phofo and MC Paul B / Published by Horn
Implant Music (ASCAP) / Superswell Music (ASCAP) / Recorded at Studio G,
NY / Mixed by M. van Olden at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco /
Additional vocals by Nick E. Tobasco and Sybil
A SOMEWHAT NEW MEDIUM
(P. Barman, M. van Olden) / Produced by MikeTheMusicGuy / Published by
Horn Implant Music (ASCAP) / Hoosier Daddy Productions (ASCAP) /
Recorded and Mixed by M. van Olden at The Electric Bedroom, San Francisco
BLEEDING BRAIN GROW
(P. Barman, P. Huston) / Produced by Prince Paul / Published by Horn Implant
Music (ASCAP) / Prinse Pawl Musick (BMI) / Recorded and mixed by Prince
Paul at Paul’s Coffee Shop, NY
MASTERING by Mike Fossenkemper at Turtle Tone Studios
SEQUENCING by Scotty Hard
DESIGN and OLD PAUL PORTRAIT by Garland Lyn / Ecstatic
WRITING and ILLUSTRATION by MC Paul B
Theater
N.O.W.
(Enter Transgender Organizer.)
TG ORGANIZER
RU486ing injustice? If so, then get on the bus
this moment. Let’s foment dischord in the District
of Corruptia. Show your vital signs. It’s up to you
to keep Title IX’s impact intact. No jest. And
whichever man has the balls to come to the prochoice protest is going to get so sexed.
(Enter Genevieve and Man.)
DrOp dEd Op Ed
Make No Mistake
Expose the fake foes and those that take. Mad dough's at stake.
W
ar is hell. Let's withdraw in
our tortoiseshells, retract our
antenni, and pull in our feelers. Make comparisons realer than
Garrisson Keilor's in Lake Woebegone.
Not Obi Won Kenobi on Cineplex
Odeon's silver screen. Channel Thirteen
spreads the good word like Woodward
and Bernstein. Why belabor truth? We
killed off the sabretooth tiger and next
is our neighbor, Ruth Bader Ginsberg.
I'm terrified, scared, yet with a rarified air. Mankind's suicidal. Those who
decide all the bombings need bridals
plus a muzzle. There, that does double.
Wuzzle scuzz bubbles and commence
the snowballing. My friends, I'm so
calling you out like a recognaissance
scout. "I hope that you die and your
death'll come soon," but ours will come
first because we're only civilians. The
bazillion fazillion quadrillion squintillions are earmarked not for us but for
the fearmongers. They'll be here longer
than a mere singer-songwriter/ harbinger/wrong-righter.
Bared witness. Scared spitless.
Pusilanimous hit list. Banker war.
Cancer sore. Hanker for more. I'm in
feebler health. You can see for yourself.
I'm small, green, and live in trees like a
Keebler Elf. Ooh la la, what a brouhaha. Bared witness. Scared spitless. It's
probably just business for a banker war.
Cancer sore. Even the anchor's sort of
gullible too. What a hullaballoo.
Break the stranglehold. Don't let
them mangle whole villages. Detangle
cold war info. We don't know what
we're in for. It's sinful. The news is
home to censors who write Choose
Your Own Adventures. Turn to page 20
for something strange. Andre? No way.
I'll never "obey." I'm low like my
copay. Kosovo's OK. There's no excuse
for heroics.
Who's responsible for the predictable
results of our actions? I only know
fractions of facts and theinterested factions don't use flags. They use logos.
We'll know the real rogues by
wherever the dough goes.
Gnostic Illicit Song
Paullelujah
Parents. Teachers.
Groundskeepers. Guests.
Correctional Officers.
Fellow parolees.
What shall we do when
we have our own kids?
Give them twelve year
bids after the bars come
off the cribs? Work within the system? Make
them listen to the darkest
lecture in the architecture
of a prison full of purityscarred security guards?
It’s sure to be hard.
Recess! Rush hurriedly
to the yard.
Back-to-school nights
are visitation rights and
boredom is the warden.
They’d be less ignored in
private schools but can
you afford them? Even
then they’re fair to middling. They fiddled with
inmates’ diddles and now
they’ve got the Ritalin.
A.D.D.: Another Dumb
Doctor’s complicity. I’m
about to Sub. Stitute
teach? No, T.R.A.C.T.
So when the states fail
and they can’t make bail,
we’ll hold a jailbreak
fake bake sale. Slow on
the uptake? Well, below
in this cupcake, there’s a
paint. You can take your
budgetary constraint and
fudge it up your hairy
taint. That means you,
Principal Asswipe. You
Dip dip dive. Not taught.
So socialized.
file a mile wide with St.
Assisi’s SATs and a
reviled style guide.
Current Events.
Comparison/Contrast.
Cause and Effect.
Embarrassing bombast.
Five Paragraphs each get
a topic sentence or
“hook” for pop ascendance. So much plop, of
course people stop attendance.
This court loves to
drop defendants. Allow
me to leave an illusion
dispelled. 98% of the
graduates matriculate
because it doesn’t count
the kids expelled.
We could rehabeducate
with art but we ain’t got
were worse for class than
sass or grass in a glass
pipe.
This isn’t hyperbole.
It’s reality verbally. And
we don’t want weekends.
We need every day
between. If you might
die when you’re twenty,
then you’re old when
you’re fifteen.
I know! I’ll reopen the
Black Mountain School
and bring back to us the
abacus as a counting
tool. Y’all know what
time it is. This is my
Bauhaus. We run around
when it’s nice out and
nobody kowtows.
WHOEVER FINDS ALL THE PALINDROMES
HIDDEN IN THIS RECORD, GETS A PRIZE.
GENEVIEVE
What do we want? And when do we want it?
(She has a whole henna sleeve that says, “Who cares
what men achieve?” Under her arm: America’s
Wrong by Erica Jong. Leaning against the bus.)
No blood for oil.
MAN
No cud for soil.
GENEVIEVE
No bills for spills.
MAN
No swill in gills.
GENEVIEVE
Think globally. Act locally.
MAN
So your frontal lobe’ll react vocally?
GENEVIEVE
(She has tits. Two of them. Makes her WFMU
shirt look like Wu-fm. She wears hot shorts, lets
out some sort of snot snort.) You like my belly
necklace? You want a smelly breakfast?
MAN
Okay, Miss Fish Filet, shall we stay at the Suisse
Chalet off I-495? (Breaks out the travel size
Astroglide. There’s no proof the paper told the
truth that Castro lied.)
MAN AND GENEVIEVE
One size fits all. Buns, thighs, tits, y’all. Moist? Yup.
Hoist up. Me first. Now twirl. Reverse cowgirl.
Crikey. Sploosh! Nike swoosh up the dykey toosh.
MAN
I put my minibig skinny twig in her guinea pig
camel toes. Baw bana naw bananana da nanow.
That’s how the sample goes. Cliterally? Went from
red to green—literally. Vaginally? Drenched with
sweat and the stench of pet. Finally, Frenched the
wet whooseywhatsits. Blew through her oozey butt
zits. Not a modicum—a lot of come.
GENEVIEVE
I want more come.
MAN
Don’t worry. There’s more of the same come where
that come came from. I follow politics to ball all the
chicks. Cross-pollinate then call it quits. Hey, hey.
Ho, ho. The girl I just slept with has got to go.
GENEVIEVE
Hey, hey. Ho, ho. The guy I just slept with has
got to go.
(Exeunt.)
OCTOBER 2002
Science Rimes
B1
Bleeding Brain Grow
Plato Got a L.P.
Let’s have a discussion about bussing larval racists to
the ghetto and make them let go their carpal braces.
Bronze them, then glue them to a plaque. Where’s the
outer city? I think inner city means black. Did you
notice both black women and jewesses wore wigs?
What a coinkydink. I’ll put my hands down their pants
and make my pinky stink. I want a sista, not a shiksa.
Yes, I am from a rinkydink town full of
Republicrats. They take half a step forward and then they double back. They speak
with a gay lilt, tilted their grey kilt, spilt on the AIDS quilt with the dregs of a keg
plus eggy smeg all down the leg. You make my karma puke. You, who refuse to disarm a nuke. And keep printing Marmaduke. More anger than Margaret Sanger sitting
on a bloody coat hanger.
I built a Planned
“Roam home to a dome on the crest of a
Parenthood out of transparneighboring hill. Where the chores are
ent wood and fiberglass.
Cybercast from the Tigris
all done before they’re begun and eclecand Euphrates to the
tic nonsense is nil.”
Khyber Pass. Geronimo!
—Buckminster Fuller
There’s no such thing as
anonymo to the I.R.S.kimo
and things are getting worse. There was laughter after NAFTA because it can’t be
reversed.
Little thought in my knot. Ooh you make it hot. Send a puff of steam out the ears to
make the bleeding brain grow.
Since when is shaved the norm? I’ll take these depraved deformed enslaved conformed wedge letter bed wetter cuneiform. You call them hirsute? Fur’s cute.
Smoothness: a trivial pursuit.
I hope your ova’s kosher like lox from Nova Scotia. Breakfast in bed. Twists in the
bread. Pretzel dough model. How much does the challah cost? Grandma worshipped
Quetzalcoatl and Gramps
made a damn nice lampshade.
They stretched his tanned
flesh out like a bandaid without the sterile pad. As a feral
lad, did you feel in peril,
Dad?
What’s that on your
beard? A tiny ivory black
power fist facial hair comb.
I’m building geodesic domes.
Calling Rick O’Casek
“Homes.” Ma, origami magi
roam. Eve, Mika, Rza, Evil
JD. Nasir is Osiris and JLive, AZ, Rakim, Cormega,
Cage, Mr. O.C.: I’m anomie.
I, mon ami.
It’s abundantly clear.
There’s profundity here. It
tickled Pickle Clowns and
comics when I liberated one
of those fancy meshy office
chairs and called it “Trickle“How much does the challah cost?”
Down Ergonomics.”
BURPING
& FARTING
Burping from slurping the carbon dioxide.
Farting from digesting gaseous intestines.
Burping’s from slurping the carbon dioxide in sugar water. Sodalicious, yet less
nutritious than a booger snotter. Gas burps
from fast slurps and come back in
blast/chirps through the esophagus. It
smells like a sarcophagus.
Chewing gum swallows air and straws
add air too. Did big bro ever burp shotgunning homebrew? Too much makes you
puke and so does the flu. Purging’s great.
Never urge a date to regurgitate.
Farting’s from digesting gas in the intestines. When gas spurts my ass hurts and
blows back my grass skirts and tartans.
Don’t be disheartened if you fart in a
crowd. Silent but deadly: The cloud wasn’t
loud. If you got more gas than Gulf, I’d
cull fried foods or else emit some sulfides.
Pass me a charcoal pill. Scratch that.
Give me that thar whole grill. “Coming at
you, mate!” You flatulate the gas that you
ate. It’s really just doody in vaporous
form. Mine is so fresh the paper is warm. I
took a peek in my dookareeka and found a
lentil, a diamond, and corn. Eureka!
Letter to the Editor
Excuse You
To whom it may concern:
I make def tunes. Take from MF Doom
and Jeff Koons. No one left for the restrooms when I got on stage. I can rock the
mic to silence by Jon Cage with the arty
flavor. I shoot the gift like a party favor.
Flip the script and make it do cartwheels.
Feel smart, steal hearts and start meals with
chocolates. I drops gems like I’ve got holes
in my pockets.
Why talk? Heck. Oh fu*k. I catch
wreck like a tow truck, silly kid. I’m
iller than the Iliad and show more than
Shoah while you’re so corny you’ve got
to SOHCAHTOA. PEMDAS EFX, the
number one skirmisher. I’m in the house
like furniture, pessimist. I push the envelope off a precipice. I push the envelope
so hard, it goes, “Excuse you.”
WWW.COCKMOBSTER.COM
Take two and pass. Make you spin on your
ass like a green paint sprinkler on white
grass. I’m rapping, son. If you think you
think outside the box, you’re trapped in one.
I’m advancing the art form. Depantsing a
fart storm. Some people don’t like thinking.
Guess it’s too hard for them.
My dope duds don’t touch soap suds. I
keep it realer than a rotoscope does. I keep
it more Gully than Jonathon Livingston.
Brag rhymes have no lag time. Accrostics,
narratives, Fibonacci challenge poems,
declarative palindromes, manifestos. My
five fans can attest, yo.
Coming soon: Morse Code, Origami,
Kirigami, Krikigami. Bombard you with
retardulous wordplay. Rhymes come so
easy, I issue harsher restraints. And if I had
any rhythm, maybe you’d finally faint.
The way I communicate can make a dang
eunuch mate. I write first person light verse
in a white hearse and I’m the ne plus ultra
of B+ culture. My goal is to make you go,
“Holy frijoles! Jesus H. Christ,” where
“H.” stands for “Holy crap.” To boldly rap
into the outer reaches. This doubter teaches
defining God as aligning a divining rod
with a hot chick’s reclining bod.
Life is fickle. Hellish. Anemic. Sickle
cellish. Dude. You’ll get chopped up like
pickle relish. And when we perish, we’re—
what’s the term, dude?
“Worm food.”
Worm food. Friends’ memories fade.
You’re remembered by what you’ve made.
So I intertwine my mind and my rhymes in
a braid. I bungie jump into my grungy
dump and come up with a trust fundy dust
bunny spongy clump.
Yours truly, Voice Talent