Remake of The Matrix that’s security cam footage of me drunkenly breaking into a Best Buy and passing out with a VR headset on.
Remake of Memento where I’m stoned in a room trying to remember what I was talking about.
Remake of Batman where I walk around at night in a cheap mask hitting cops in their ribs and shins with a bat while shrieking dementedly.
Remake of Life of Pi where I fall off the raft and drown in the first 5 minutes and the rest of the movie is a 2-hour shot of the ocean.
Remake of Bloodsport where I spend an hour and a half trying to do the splits and rip open my taint and bleed out on a gymnastics mat.
Remake of Say Anything where I show up uninvited at my father’s funeral holding a boombox over my head playing “Hippa to da Hoppa” by Ol’ Dirty Bastard. Continue reading
Some asses were built by the devil just to haunt you. Aoudad, named after the Barbary sheep that roamed his oil-wealthy family’s vast ranch along with a gallery of other exotic imported game they’d hunt, was keeper of the fundamental rump that left an indelible dent from whose negative slant of flesh I’d choose my future fucks. It wasn’t long after I met him, and it might have been before or even at the same time we were introduced, that I saw Aoudad’s bare soft divided push of orbs jiggle solid and pale in front of a locker row’s glossy red grates still tacky from the multimillion dollar renovation his father funded for the school’s football program, himself a former pro turned petroleum lord who had framed movie posters signed by celebrities in his mansion in the hills behind gates with the neighborhood name on them—an obscene degree of memorabilia shelved and locked on display behind sliding plate glass with signs that all had the same illustration on them of a hand holding a revolver pointed at its viewer that read: ain’t nothing I got is worth your life. Continue reading
hunt youths hunting the environment s, the creative thinker to itself and can look into its backwash ringing in overfond basic cognitive process of former used ballgames, take a shit out, take a excited imagine, the curved shape countrys on you this correct, and we all get laid what that capital, designate breathless property tarnished in the watercourse for indorse sneak of delivery caseings shoot disconnected fling out of the room in liquefiable canvas, whew, Continue reading
Football Night in America
“Who are those voices?” the girl asked.
“Those are commentators—they say what’s happening in the game.” The boy dragged his finger across a tiny lizard in his hand. Continue reading