Roused from some prevailing half-world or another, they had taken the streets in the dead of night – as dead as the night can get around here, anyway – but they took it gently. It became clear quite early that this was not a protest. Heads nodding or completely down, eyes in a purgatory between sleep and sight, feet dragging and scuffing already scuffed shoes on the asphalt.
What remains do remain in this burlap bindle? What’s so small that it had the chance to be forgotten and kept without attention?
The mob – if one could call it so – grew voluminous within its overarching genre as it passed by this corner or that alley. The collective pace of the collection of stranger-affiliates allowed for a sweeping silent congregation of like-minds and like-bodies who had made temporary beds of the downtown sidewalks.
A piece of glass – sea glass, polished up proper. Don’t know how she made it so far from home. At least one piece of ABC gum, wrapped back in its foil. The other shirt, of course, but what else? What little things made it?
Cars could not pass. Police had begun to assess the situation as far as standing, trailing, and gawking can assess anything so unique yet mundane. There appeared to be no ruckus, and the wonderment that forced itself to strike any onlooker was enough to keep our blue boys scratching their heads and refraining from asking their ready-made questions.
Bottle caps! Nesbitt’s bottle cappers – collector’s items. Rusty thimble. Mustache comb? Ivory mustache comb – or did I go an’ spend it?
Spilling back out onto the sidewalks, the mobilized faction had reached its greatest potential, and then: as they turned onto Main Street, the cloud of rabble dissipated like that of smoke – pace kept, shoes still scraping. What no one knew: it was first annual Homeless Pride Parade. The last marcher remaining held the center of the street until it led him to the riverfront, where he set down, removed his tattered boots, and untied the knotted burlap pouch from the top of his smooth walking stick.
Hmm. Mhmm. Yep. No comb. No, sir. Hmm. Ohhhhh. Yes, sir. The first penny I ever begged! Feels nice. It’s a good rubbin’-penny. Yeah, it’s the little things, alright.
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“Love handles will be love-handled when you use Generic Weight Loss Pill MAX. Studies show that over 66% of weight lost is pure fat!â€
First of all, that means 67%.  It’s too close to 65 to claim that it’s “almost 70%†– they must reserve that sort of claim for studies that show an average of 68%. If it claimed “over 70%â€, then maybe it could be all the way up to 72% fat loss, assuming they were looking for a good, strong number divisible by 10 to be “overâ€, but this isn’t even close to that as on option. There is something desperate in saying, “over 66%â€, because it’s a technique relying on the stupidity of its viewers. Either that or it is communicating with the desperation in a person not quite that stupid, but overwhelmed enough with their situation that they actively ignore such a warning.
Secondly, what is responsible for the rest of the weight? Water, sure, a little. Muscle-burning? Bone loss? Whatever is being lost cannot be good. When dealing with a pill that mysteriously removes “weight†from your body, it should absolutely not be trusted when boasting a fat-burning rate that’s anywhere below 80% – and in my mind 80% is still desperate, but not as obviously so. 90% would be the minimum for someone like me to actually use this product, but even numbers in the eighties are such trustworthy, happy numbers when applied to ratio. I think many people – myself not included – would respond well to an 82 or even a confident 88%, which I’d trust over 89% any day.
“…and that is why we are offering you a no-risk 30-day Free Trial when you call in the next ten minutes.â€
Listen, I’ll have to call you back. Apparently if I call in the next 10 minutes, I can try this garbage out for free. No risk.
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Phew!
Now that it is all over and done with and almost three months have passed, we can talk about it again. It took a lot out of us Whiteman Brothers to fulfill round two of the Leap Year project: 29 Films in 29 Days – this edition aptly referred to as, 29 Wishes in 29 Films in 29 Days. As you probably know (since everybody is talkin’ ’bout it!), in 2008, we embarked upon a nasty little challenge to make a film a day for each of the 29 days in that February. Because we are never content with how thin we may stretch ourselves, we decided that we would do this EVERY leap year – say whaaaaat?
We had the help of some high-concept genie-baby-magic in this round, where in we were granted one wish for each of the days.
Frequently Asked Question: “Yeah, but, like – what was the first wish?”
Frequently Cringed-Over Answer: “It was wishing for more wishes! Which may only slightly be implied. Shut up! Leave us alone! Don’t look at me!”
Over all, the project was a success! Because for One: we made 29 movies in 29 days. Two: we didn’t hate any of them. Three: none of them make us shudder too much. And lucky number Four: we believe this batch far surpassed the original 29 cookies! Success! Hooray! Fuck, we’re tired! By the end of it, we were so spun out on Red Bull and silly jokes that we rode that tension into the following days, not knowing what to do with ourselves. Elation finally did arrive, thank goodness.
To view these puppies, still relatively fresh out of the oven (who doesn’t love a good puppy out of the oven!), here’s the 2012-ers: Be CaReFuL WhAt YoU wIsH fOr!
If you happen to want to catch the back story and to gauge any improvement on our part over the years, here’s the 2008-ers:Â asdfjlaskdvknag wafpeyt lsdgjlasdg!
And we’ll see you all again in 2016!
Now who wants to edit a feature length movie? Shit…
Rise, rise, rise, you orb of heat
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 clock’s 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 french kissed and did some on-top-of-the-clothes stuff. And no one ever saw Charles again, which gave the moon an excess of pleasure.
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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 – gonna 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 wiggle, and I’m gonna pull 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 and messed with the Top Dog.
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How do I keep the smoking back to a minimum? So I show the guys the yellow post-it that Gatorbitez left behind for me – may his anti-soul be resting. His guide to life. It’s simple, but profound because of that. How it reads:
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.
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::
`”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?”
::
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Once upon a time there was the King of Farts, who was so sad and lonely in his smelly castle. No one wanted to be his buddy, because he tooted almost all day long. He tooted when he pooped, when he ate, when he read, when he looked at the clouds, when he opened things like jars and bananas, when he fell asleep, when he woke up, when he danced, when he burped, when he sneezed, when he fell down, when he had thoughts about birds, when he had thoughts about graham crackers, when he had thoughts about the circus — pretty much all the good thoughts there are — and he even tooted when he cried. And he cried a lot.
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 know 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: a celebratory fart like odor confetti. 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. You know the kind. 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.
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Wordsward
It went like this – the college professor lovingly nurtured a facade that his priorities in this world went as follows:
1. The Pursuit of Knowledge
2. Teaching Others of this Knowledge
3. Love from a Good Woman
But it goes like this – in an earnest reality that the professor kept secret, the itemized list would read as follows:
1. Absorbing his Students’ Adulation
2. Feigned Ignorance of his Students’ Adulation
3. Oral Sex from any Number of Female Students
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The afterlife lasts for about 10 minutes, but inside each minute is its own eternity.
I had been spending too much time focusing on work, my marriage, the kids, and the seemingly endless number of channels that came with our digital cable package. An excess of time spent being selfishly selfless inevitably splits a person in two – the individual with obligations and the individual without obligations, the latter of which exists, in the scenario, only in a theoretical realm, one that taunts the world of the former until it is time for the active half to shut out the inactive dream, or build a bridge to it.
Once, I had heard something from TV, or from an uncle, or from a mourner, or – unlikely – but there’s a chance I read it in a book. And though my mind – reeling from senescence, atrophying from improper function – could not recall their source, or even a probable context for the words themselves, they had been locked in some healthy synapse for years: Suicide is the most selfish act one can commit.
Out of all the statements I’ve read, heard and uttered that seem to be lost in the fire forever, it was difficult for me to figure out why this particular one was sticking around. Never really deemed it a gem, myself. Wasn’t even really sure if I agreed with it on any level. But when the gap between myselves had begun its ever-widening growth that prodded me into some form of action, these words continued to haunt me. And I felt I understood what selfish could mean, what potential there was outside of the inherently negative manner in which the words were intended when I first chanced upon them.
It was time to be selflessly selfish and give attention to the self I had wanted to explore before obligations began sprouting from every branch in my emerging family tree. My thoughts had never really been devoted to merely themselves, and I this felt a pity. I began doing research on death and found two items of particular interest. First, there is a natural chemical released in each human at birth and once again when approaching death, which can slowly trickle out of the mind when long periods of time are dedicated to honest darkness, but in the bookends of existence there seemed to be a flood of it. But more importantly, after every other part of the body fails, or dies, the brain remains active for 6 to 12 minutes, what I will affectionately refer to as “me time”.
How I did it is not important at this point – whether I dressed my self up or stripped down bare, where and when I chose to do it, what my note read or if I left any words behind at all – and honestly, all of that is quite fuzzy at the moment. Because, after the firefall’s descent and the birth of wings, after the 99 snakes that took me only so far, after the experiments of danger and release, after witnessing all of the colors that the visible spectrum doesn’t want us to know about, I found my way to the mouth of the cave. And the only details and words that matter now are the ones I scroll along these walls in crystal clear blood for no one to see.
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