Shine, shine, shine, you ball of light

Rise, rise, rise, up on my feet

Shine, shine, shine: I think I might

Charles was pacing as the clocks hands waved goodnight. He stayed up all night, rehearsing the song to welcome the sun, because he loved her more than anything. However, this love was impure. The happy emotion was sadly stolen out of his miserable hatred of the moon. The moon may be a cool son of a bitch, but he’s still a son of a bitch. Prior to the first rays peaking over the horizon, Charles had involuntarily disappeared into a dream.

The sun whispered in her sultry, hiss of a voice, “Where’s my song, baby?”

As she rose a little more, she could see that he was under the spell of sleep. I thought this one really loved me, the sun thought to herself.

“Good night, my sweet Charles….” she said, because she could not speak with tears.

And, like, don’t worry. They totally patched things up the following morning. It was just scary for her for like a second, ya know? Like all of a sudden, boom: he doesn’t give a shit anymore? Charles’ apologized profusely, and she explained that it was an emotional day, and that she like never gets to see him anymore, and Charles was like, “Me too!”, and they were both like, Thank goodness, we’re on the same wave-length!

And then they made out and no one ever saw Charles again, which gave the moon an excess of pleasure.

]]> http://whitemanbrothers.com/2012/05/11/45-aubade/feed/ 0 http://whitemanbrothers.com/2012/05/10/44-mutt/ http://whitemanbrothers.com/2012/05/10/44-mutt/#comments Fri, 11 May 2012 05:52:04 +0000 Christof http://whitemanbrothers.com/?p=1339 If that damn pooch shits on my lawn one more time, I’m gonna take a shit on him. Mark my words! Next dog log that shows up in my lawn, I’m marching over to that house, walk in without knocking, find that little scoundrel, grab him by the collar, drag him outside, chain his arms and legs to industrial tent pegs stuck in the earth so he can’t move but a little wriggle, and I’m gonna pull down my sweat pants down and let it drop. It could take hours, but I’ll be down on my haunches, waiting it out, taking as many sick days as the post office will allow, concentrating hard, waiting as long as it takes – down on my haunches, as I believe I said. I’ll wait all goddamn day and all doggone night for that little shitting trespasser to see things my way. Next day, just watch – that lawn out there will look immaculate for once, and that canine trash is gonna be passing by on the other side of the street, afraid and ashamed. He probably won’t shit in any yard on the block, because he’ll remember, yeah, he’ll remember what happens to mutts that gone mess with the Top Dog.

every 5 hrs with no smoke

=

one line of coke

What no one in the gang can understand is that the equalizer sign (the double horizon in between, in the middle) is like trash and treasure. Or, no, it’s all treasure, but the point is: perspective. How I read that shit:

Permission lies within.

For each five hour period with no smoke, I allow myself to steal one purse. It’s called balance. Look it up. And while you’re looking around, go ahead and look inside yourself, too – to see what code courses through your blood tubes, dude.

`”Before your mother left me…”

~”Left us, dad…”

`”No, girls. Believe me: she only left me…”

*”Really, daddy? Reason I ask is cuz: wouldn’t that mean we’d have a mommy?”

`”No! No – I meant, the only reason she left is because of me — you were the reason she stayed around as long as she did. … I didn’t mean to imply that it only hurts me and neither of you angels.”

~”It’s okay, dad. She’s just confused.”

*”What’s confooshun mean?”

`”At this age? She’s still getting confused? Should I be concerned, Becka?”

~”What do you mean?”

`”Oh, lord: No! Not you too? I’d just die if you were suffering from confusion too. Everyone here seems to come down with confusion more and more. I’m afraid confusion might run in your mother’s side of the family.”

*”Mommy’s sick daddy?”

`”No, of course not, child. :;

:.: Oh, garsh. I hope that ‘No, of course not, child.‘ didn’t sound like I meant you should already know that information. I meant, like: don’t worry. She’s healthy. Know what I mean? Healthy instead of not healthy. Do you see the difference, babies? Lines of Communication are on the fritz everywhere you look. Sometimes we try to repair a given line by using something special; It’s called inflection; However, :.;

:..: this same thing can take some lines completely down altogether, rendering them utterly useless. Just as any tool made or used by man, it is also a weapon. //

/ If I had to pick a specific tool that represents the intangible one, I’d say it’s the boat for your words when you let them sail out of your mouths. How are you feeling? Hungry? Anybody? Pizza bagelers to the rescue?”

~”Dad, we’re fine. How are you holding up?”

*”Inflexum? The S.S. Inflexum!”

`”That’s right, honey. Good work. /

// Wait, :;

:.: I was telling a story. A moment ago: Wasn’t I? :.;

:..: Or was I? Was I? Hmm? :..;

:…: Wait..? Hmm. Hmm hmm-hmm.“

~”You were telling us the story about seeing her for the first time, in the far corner, straight away and across the room, diagonal-sy from the corner you were in. Corner kitties, you’d say. No – kitty corner from each other.”

`”Hm.”

*”Diametrec oppozishun, daddy?”

::

One day he was tooting and crying on his throne. He wanted to play with a coloring book, but his butt blew all the crayons away with his stinky butt wind. They flew right out the window and landed in a bird’s nest. If he knew they landed in a bird’s nest, he would have farted again, because then he’d be thinking about birds, and that makes him toot, like I said before.

More than cake or remote controlled cars, he wanted a friend to play with him, but do you know any friends who like the smell of farts? I didn’t think so. So he wanted a buddy, but that wasn’t gonna happen, so he figured he’d settle for coloring in the coloring book, but without crayons he couldn’t even do that. It made him sad, which made him fart all over again.

“Wait! I have an idea,” he said and then popped a stinker. “If I dress up like someone who doesn’t cut the cheese no one will no I cut the cheese! Then I can go into town and buy all the crayons I can carry!”

It was the perfect idea! He was so happy he thought of it. He got so happy he let one rip on purpose. He put on the clothes that he found somewhere and it made him look like he was a different guy and he looked in the mirror and didn’t know it was a mirror and he didn’t look like himself and he got scared and tooted and then he realized he was looking at himself and then he got excited and tooted because he knew the plan would work and he was ready and that was that.

The King of Farts walked out of his castle and jumped his butt right on the ground and tooted himself down the hill to the town below. He would toot himself up in the air and land on the ground again, and he’d toot it again, and it kept happening because that was more fun than walking. He stood up at the bottom of the hill and said, “Time for my crayons!”

He went to the street in the town. It was a bunch of people and they all looked pretty poor, but at least they smelled nice, and they were selling each other potatoes and DVDs.

The King of Farts said, “Who wants to sell me crayons for this gold stuff?”

Everybody wanted gold stuff so they ran up and said, “Me! Me! Me!”

Then the King farted and everybody said, “Pee-ew! You smell like the King of Farts!” And they ran away, holding their noses.

The King of Farts cried and tooted. It was sad. Then a lady came up with a handful of crayons and said, “I will share these crayons with you, because I like drawing too!” The King’s butt yelled a happy yell of farts.

“Take this gold stuff and give me the crayons!” He said to the lady.

“No, we are gonna share the crayons and draw together. I don’t like gold. It’s stupid. Drawing is not stupid. Do you have a coloring book?”

“Yes, let’s go!” He was so happy he farted 100 times and held her hand and ran to the castle and they lived happily ever after.

And she had no nose, and that’s why the toots didn’t hurt her.

Backward <> Forward
Wordsward

Katty: Gosh, Juju, I know we just met here, now, at this bus stop, but I feel like I can tell you one of my deepest fantasies. I want to be in a club.

Juju: Well, Katty, I feel like I’ve known you since, jeez, just about forever. Since the day my nipples came in – granted, this was late for most: 30, but considering I’m now 74, that is quite a long time – and to honest with you, for a long time my only wish was for my nipples to come in and when they finally did, on my 30th birthday, I was left with a grand and surprising abundance of emptiness inside of my belly. My chest was full and plush with a multitude of just about the brightest, greenest nipples you’d ever seen, but deep down in my soul’s stomach, there was an absence. The absence of hope. “What next is there for me to look forward too? I have my nipples and they aren’t going anywhere. What now? What’s on deck? More nipples?” That would have been a greedy wish considering biology’s birthday gift that year, albeit a belated one.

Katty: Right.

Juju: Then one day, I saw a playing card on the street, like it was a piece of trash. And, sure, maybe it was. But to me it was like a wink from the universe. This card was the King of Clubs and at first I thought what I needed to wish for was a black man in my life who may not be a king, but hopefully may own a crown of some kind, or at the very least, some Crown Royal – and to be honest with you in the here and now of it, yes, I do indeed hope for this and, no, that’ll never change, honey – but as I looked beyond that which was obvious, I saw the true sign in the card hiding that clover’s sexy shape: I should hope that one day I am in a club of some kind.

Katty: Well, okay. Maybe we should start a club.

Before Juju could open her pine-scented mouth, the bus arrived with a lurch and the doors were slammed open to reveal a cat the size of a human at the wheel. He was wearing a uniform

“But, don’t cry, godless Hitchens Atheist,” hushed the omniscient nothingness to the masses. “He died with a sword in hand.”

Christopher Hitchens’ health had been on the decline for some time, and while he was never going to stop hating religion and drinking Scotch whiskey all night long - as he was so instructed by his favorite Steely Dan song – he knew that the worst was on its way and was, in fact, inside him, so this was Hitchens on cancer: “Build up that wall between yourself and the cancer!” He began to try to separate. This began simply by misspelling his name, slowly but surely, by starting with the last vowel, thus: “Christopher Hitchins” – a simple, but bold first step in removing himself from himself, though ultimately not enough. Between being drunk and dying and reserving an allotment of time specifically for flipping off a likeness of Christ on the cross that he himself had drawn, he had little time for the separation. Until one day, in the bathroom, Christopher Hitchens’ cancer finished the job of division and removed itself from the esophagus, unsheathing an ornate sword in the bloody process. Poised for the violent embrace of war, Hitchens’ cancer held the rapier in its tumorous hands, pointing at our antitheist’s nose, as if to say “en garde” (knowing full well that if it were to as-if-say anything else, presuming to debate Hitchens, it would lose such a battle, but a battle of blades, this little shit-bird cancer could possibly win).

Being an advocate of all things related to the death of man, all things that bring man closer to the proof of no afterlife, Chris Hitchens naturally had his own sword in his gloomy abode. In fact, he had at least three swords and up to nine daggers in each room of the house and, daily, Hitchens would double check and do a “head count” on his deadly tools of deathly destruction. Being that this unlikely event was happening on the terlet (toilet), he naturally went for the small sword he kept staved away in the terlet (toilet) tank (tank), flipping the porcelain lid off in a flash, shattering into white embers of non-fire on the bathroom floor, scattering a sharpness of sweepings amongst the carcinoma’s poisonous “feet”.

At this point, it was on: Hitchens vs Hitchens! A dual to end almost all duals. Sparks flew as they commenced to bang their sharp, metal phalluses together. One fighter on the terlet (toilet), the other a pulsing mutation “holding” a sword 50 times larger than the warrior itself. It would have made quite a fun postcard had a photographer been passing by Hitchens’ bathroom (as they often had). But we know how this battle ends, do we not? With the tip of a sword embedded in Christopher Hitchens’ pneumonia riddled lungs. In this final sad moment, with his final pathetic breath, the words:

“What can be asserted without proof can be dismissed without proof,” Christopher Hitchens quotes himself here. A curious and cryptic message to an earless tumor, but cryptic of what?

Alas, the battle is over. Fought, but not won – the latter more important than the former.

What now after Hitchens’ death: it is true that while alive he was best known for his patented Hitchens’ debate your face off skills, those illustrious Hitchens’ YouTube appearances (oh, he went viral; oh, it’s a fact), and of course his Hitchens’ author works, which are called “books” or “page-toothed wisdom mouths” (these Christopher Hitchens books include, “The Trial of Henry Kissinger” and “God Is Not Great” [in which he tried to dispell the popular rumor that God was indeed "great"]), but Christopher Hitchens’ true legacy will remain to be his uncanny resemblance to the great actor Roger Allam, who played the character of Royalton in the best film ever made, Speed Racer.

Well, the Whiteman Brothers will now begin devoting entire minutes of their years to nonfiction. Christof took the first turn wearing the “Press” cap and managed to cover a real hot story without leaving a couch. Read it here. ]]> http://whitemanbrothers.com/2011/06/29/extra-extra-christof-exclaims-pen-is-mightier-than-the-sword-takes-down-fox-news-in-the-process/feed/ 0 http://whitemanbrothers.com/2011/04/18/sweeping-up-the-head-crumbs/ http://whitemanbrothers.com/2011/04/18/sweeping-up-the-head-crumbs/#comments Mon, 18 Apr 2011 23:00:34 +0000 Sean http://whitemanbrothers.com/?p=495 Recently, during a bout of external (and existential) hard drive spring cleaning, Sean found his HEAD CRUMBS trilogy. In the fall of 2007 he was living in Austin, Texas and working at a delightful movie theater named the Alamo Drafthouse. He enjoyed being a stranger in a strange state but having no friends meant he was left without a collaborator. To avoid artistic atrophy he scoured between hunks of brain meat to find some scraps. With the findings, he put this trilogy together. It takes just-shy of a half-hour to watch them all consecutively.

He likes to claim that they get progressively less embarrassing as the trilogy moves forward – an inverse of most franchise trajectories. He also suggests the audience should try to figure out the origin of his fluctuating-accents (he claims he notices heavy parts borrowed from his housemate-at-the-time and a little bit of Adam Sandler escaping during moments of immaturity). A few thought he had lost his mind in the great state of Texas. He wouldn’t argue, with any degree of passion at least, against such claims.

A friend wrote a wonderful essay extolling the finer qualities of the trilogy. His name is Santiago Vernetti and the title of his piece is: Sean Whiteman is a Man Hating Modernist God Destroyer.

Here are the films:

Watch: Head Crumbs: Part One
Watch: Head Crumbs: Part Two
Watch: Head Crumbs: Part Three

And here is the essay:

Title: Sean Whiteman is a Man Hating God Destroyer
Writer: Santiago Vernetti

I look forward to the day we can all share a hearty nervous laugh in the memory of the long dead and buried postmodern cinema. Most of today’s artists have seemingly resigned from any attempts at cinematic progression, preferring instead to embrace the all too common delusion that postmodernism is simply a passing wave. They’ve convinced themselves that it will soon crest, washing away all the cinematic sequels, remakes and adaptations its waters have carried over the past few decades. While most lay catatonically in this collective stupor, the 2007 summer marks a record high in cinematic unoriginality. Die Hard 4, Harry Potter 5, 28 Weeks Later, Evan Almighty, Fantastic Four 2, Hostel 2, Oceans 13, Pirates of the Caribbean 3, Resident Evil 3, Shrek 3, Rush Hour 3, Spiderman 3, The Simpson’s Movie, Hairspray, Halloween, Transformers the Movie, Nancy Drew, Underdog, Revenge of the Nerds… it seems this wave is more akin to a rising flood. A flood that provides very little evidence to suggest any plans of receding any time soon. Where the majority drown, Sean Whiteman diligently treads for dry land. With camera locked and loaded, and a few dead bears to his name, Whiteman has arguably produced the only thing super about this summer: Head Crumbs.

Structurally and conceptually, Head Crumbs is a true work of avant-garde cinema! A progressive and political action in contemporary art criticism! When applying a psychoanalytic methodology, its narrative can even be viewed as a feminist battle cry in its depiction of male character Super Summer as the exhibitionist, and the female character Flip Flop (“more of a behind the curtains sort of gal”) as taking on the traditionally patriarchal role of the voyeur. Needless to say, this and many other events that unfold in the narrative are worth exploring and can be discussed on a multitude of levels. Yet, in remaining faithful to Whiteman’s commentary on the narrator, we can all agree he’s saying a lot about human relationships… but in the end, the most important thing he’s saying is, “Who gives a rats ass about the opinion of a man hating, modernist, god destroyer?” So let’s all take what we will from Head Crumbs and give our applause to Sean Whiteman, a filmmaker who, unlike so many of his contemporaries, has arguably the most important artistic quality there is – authenticity.