Man in handkerchief shirt.
The pattern foils TV screens.
Your jeans, too long,
Must be rolled up,
For fashion?
Your shoes are the least-
Looking shoes I’ve ever seen.
I thought they were socks
Like athletic socks
Like you are “too cool”
For indoor shoes,
You zen-fueled guy–
But no, they are shoes
Like if a medieval peasant
Made a pair of Reeboks.
Rébocke: a Gentle Man’s shue.
You have the face
That every man from Ohio
Or Iowa
Or one of those Midwestern states has,
Resplendent with short ginger hair
And portly face.
The face of a European king.
Woman in mustard top.
Women alone always seem
More lonely than men,
Their social nature
Seemingly stripped,
Earbuds nestled in their ears,
The latest true crime podcast
Softly wafting into their ear canal.
From her perspective,
A pleasant respite from
Constant attention.
She vigorously shakes a
Plastic tub of salad.
Does she laugh while eating it?
I can’t tell, she sat away from me.
He smokes on a park bench
By the stone garbage can,
Scrolling mindlessly
On his phone.
Probably reading sports things.
He looks like a guy
Who reads sports things
On his phone during his lunch break,
And knows stats on all the players,
Which he memorized in his “man cave.”
The bald spot on his head
Looks like he wore a
Yarmulke too long,
And the hair underneath
Withered away.
It’s perfectly circular.
Man in suit
standing amid park trees,
between the two hill mounds,
on the concrete
where the Aztecs danced
for the white people.
Gray suit, nice suit,
tailored and trimmed,
blue shirt, no tie.
Standing stylishly in the center,
on hold, his phone to his ear.
Standing stylishly because
he is in the center
and someone nice
might walk by and look at him.
Left hand in pocket,
black eyeglasses, short spiked hair.
Broad shouldered
or just nice shoulder pads
in his gray suit.
He left, unable to reach his party.
CCXXIII
dreaded emptiness
fills my vacant lungs
like absent ichor
desperate for nothing–
satiated by
the vacuum of my
loneliness. behind,
an anxious beating
heart continues its
vapid advancement
toward obsolescence.
and submerged in this,
a flailing brain, too
self-absorbed to care.
CCXXIV
indeterminate,
the beats of the heart,
prior to your own
death. impossible
to count, they ravage
onward toward ex-
haustion, and with them,
you. you had no say
in this, no power
over your own heart
and its context. you,
replete with feelings,
destined for the dirt
and meal for earthworms.
CCXXV
happiness eludes
me, perpetual
sand sifting through my
outstretched fingers. i
am obsequious
to lingering doubt,
held in position
by neverending
question, festering
through languid meaning.
i know nothing of
happiness. i trudge
through morose thickets
in eternal search.
TREBEK: Hello and welcome to Jeopardy. As always I am your host, Alex Trebek. Tonight’s celebrity episode is politically-themed, in honor of the upcoming presidential election — and yet, looking at our contestants, I feel certain that this may be the dumbest Celebrity Jeopardy yet. Still, we saunter on. Let’s introduce our three contestants. First, Republican candidate and man of great words, Donald Trump.
TRUMP: Alex, before we begin I just want to say that the other contestants here are worthless piles of human garbage who have never owned a thing of beauty in their entire lives.
TREBEK: That is quite harsh, Mr. Trump.
(TRUMP gives his smug sour face.)
TREBEK: Next we have Libertarian candidate, Gary Johnson.
JOHNSON: Who?
TREBEK: You. Gary Johnson.
JOHNSON: Never heard of him.
TREBEK (dumbfounded): Ah. Okay. And finally, we were supposed to have Hillary Clinton as the third contestant but she declined due to suffering from pneumonia during our taping.
TRUMP (too close to mic): She has a terrible immune system —
TREBEK: That’s enough, Mr. Trump. After Mrs. Clinton declined we offered the third spot to Dr. Jill Stein, the Green Party candidate, but she also declined due to Mercury being in retrograde. We even tried getting a hold of Vermin Supreme, the presidential candidate who wears a boot on his head, but his calls went straight to voicemail. (sighs) And so, unfortunately, here’s Sean Connery.
CONNERY: Ha ha! We meet again Trebek!
TREBEK: Truly we are like the Sherlock and Moriarty of game shows.
CONNERY: No, Trebek, I’m the Holmes.
TREBEK: Is that so?
CONNERY: The John Holmes! Ha ha! (grabs junk)
TREBEK: Good lord.
CONNERY (off camera, shouting): I HAVE A LARGE PENIS —
TREBEK: We get it, Mr. Connery.
CONNERY: Your mother got it last night —
TRUMP: If I may interrupt, John Holmes had a very tiny penis compared to my penis. My penis, is huge. You’ll never see a larger penis than mine. It’s been documented.
(CAMERA cuts back to TREBEK, who has loosened his tie and is opening a bottle of cheap whiskey. He takes a swig.)
TREBEK: Let’s just get this over with. Here are our categories for Double Jeopardy: “U.S. History,” “Cars That End With ‘-ord’”, “Trebek Answers” — in this category, if you choose it, and I hope you do, I will read the clue and then also answer it and you will win. It’s really that simple — “Potent Potables,” “Current Events,” and “ ‘Ripoff’ Art”. This category is about famous artists and the art they stole from.
TRUMP: What is Led Zeppelin.
TREBEK: I haven’t even begun, Mr. Trump.
TRUMP: They stole all their music, Robert Plant told me personally backstage in 1975 after a six hour cocaine binge. (Sniffs loudly.) It’s all over the news.
TREBEK: Great. Mr. Johnson, you have control of the board. Might I suggest picking “Trebek Answers”.
TREBEK: Mr. Johnson.
TRUMP (to Gary): He’s talking to you, Gary.
JOHNSON: Oh. Me? Yes. Ah, ha ha, of course. (sticks tongue out briefly) If I am elected president I will ensure that our civil liberties shall not be infringed upon —
TREBEK: I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but this is not a presidential debate. It’s Jeopardy.
JOHNSON: What is that?
TREBEK: It’s the television show you agreed to be on.
JOHNSON: “Television”?
TREBEK: Just … please pick a topic from the board in front of you. Hopefully “Trebek Answers.”
JOHNSON: Ah, uh … I’ll take “Current Events” for $200.
TREBEK (reads): “This event, currently happening in the U.S., has its Election Day on November 8th, 2016.” (No answer.) November 8th, 2016. I’ll give you a hint: you’re in it right now.
(TRUMP buzzes.)
TREBEK: Mr. Trump.
TRUMP: Miss America pageant.
TREBEK: No.
TRUMP (close to mic): Wrong.
(CONNERY buzzes.)
TREBEK: Mr. Connery.
CONNERY: What is my penis?
TREBEK: No.
CONNERY: But I’m sure it’ll be having a big erection on —
TREBEK: Mr. Connery that is enough.
CONNERY: It wasn’t enough for your mother, Trebek!
(JOHNSON buzzes.)
TREBEK: Thank god. Mr. Johnson.
JOHNSON: Who?
TREBEK: You.
JOHNSON: Me?
TREBEK: Yes, you.
JOHNSON: What about me?
TREBEK: What is your answer?
JOHNSON: To what?
TREBEK: To the clue I just gave you.
JOHNSON: What clue?
(“Too late” buzzer sounds.)
TREBEK: Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Mr. Johnson, you still have control of the board.
JOHNSON: The what?
TREBEK: The board.
JOHNSON (tongue sticking out): Tha wha?
CONNERY: Ah, trying to impress Trebek with your tongue length. We’ll see about that! (Sticks out tongue.)
TRUMP: Listen, I have the longest tongue, Sean Hannity knows I have the longest tongue, he’s seen my tongue, it’s a good tongue, you can call him, he’ll tell you. (Sticks out tongue.)
(All three of them have their tongues out.)
TREBEK: Somebody check the tapes, but I am pretty sure this is a new low for Celebrity Jeopardy: three grown men with their tongues out. Gentlemen. Please keep your tongues inside your mouths at all times.
JOHNSON: Our whats?
TREBEK: Your TONGUES — oh nevermind. Mr. Trump, pick a topic.
TRUMP: Picking topics I am great at. It’s the greatest thing I do. I’ll take “Trump” for one million.
TREBEK: There is no “Trump” topic.
TRUMP: Yes there is.
TREBEK: No there’s not.
TRUMP (close to mic): Wrong.
TREBEK: Mr. Trump, please just say “I’ll take ‘Trebek Answers’ for $1,000.”
TRUMP: I never said that.
TREBEK: I … I know. Just say it out loud, right now.
TRUMP: It’s always the same, the liberal lamestream media, always wanting to put words into my mouth that I never said. Sad! Hold on I’m gonna tweet that. (Goes to tweet.)
TREBEK: … Mr. Connery?
CONNERY: I’ll take “Rip A Fart” for $300.
(CAMERA on “ ‘Ripoff’ Art.” Then to TREBEK’s face, CONNERY laughing in background.)
TREBEK: That’s … Ripoff Art.
CONNERY: Yes. Rip a fart.
TREBEK (overenunciating): Rip. Off. Art.
CONNERY: If you say so Trebek! (Farts.)
TREBEK: Good god almighty.
TRUMP: Hey, I happen to know for a fact that Sean Connery’s farts are awful and pale in comparison to my excellent farts. I have the best farts, you can check the tapes. I eat gold-flaked caviar every day for lunch. Check this out. (Farts.)
CONNERY: Ha, you call that a fart? (Farts again.)
TRUMP: Now this is the type of debate I like! (Farts.)
(They start a farting war. TREBEK sounds an AIR HORN multiple times until they stop.)
TREBEK: FINAL JEOPARDY.
TRUMP: Wait. We need to check Gary’s farts.
TREBEK: No we don’t.
TRUMP: It’s only fair Alex. You give one candidate time to fart you gotta give equal time to the other candidates. That’s how it works. Gary, give us a big wet one you weird-looking dude.
JOHNSON: What?
TRUMP: You look like a claymation golem under a heat lamp. Give us a fart.
CONNERY: Rip a fart! Come on you bloody coward!
(JOHNSON hesitates, then lets off a squeaker. CONNERY laughs wildly, TRUMP makes his sour face and does a “so-so” gesture with his hand.)
TRUMP (close to mic): I’ve heard better, Alex.
(CAMERA on TREBEK, who has a pistol to his temple.)
TREBEK: I’m going to do it. I swear to God I am going to do it. If we do not get a correct answer in Final Jeopardy I am going to murder myself live on air. It truly will be a “Final” Jeopardy.
TRUMP: Now that’s great television.
TREBEK: Your Final Jeopardy clue is: “Draw a shape.” (as music plays) That’s right, draw a shape. Any shape. A circle, a triangle, if you are feeling brave even a square. Anything that is considered a shape will win. Any shape at all. (music ends) Mr. Trump, you are first. Let us see, did you draw a shape?
(On TRUMP’s display: “TRUMP”.)
TREBEK: Ah. (to JUDGES offscreen) Judges, would you consider the enclosed loop in the R or the P a “shape”? It’s kind of like a circle, flattened on one end, wouldn’t you say? Please understand that if you say no, I will murder myself, and my wife will be a widow. (Beat.) I see. Life is meaningless. Mr. Trump, your answer is incorrect. How much did you wager?
(On TRUMP’s display: “STEAKS”. CAMERA on TRUMP, he’s holding a vacuum-sealed steak.)
TRUMP: Trump Steaks are the greatest steaks you’ll ever eat. They are from the best beef in a tiny impoverished village in Cambodia, or Colomba, something like that. I have kids working overtime to slaughter these cows. We slaughter so many cows. We’re the best at it.
TREBEK: You … wagered your own steak.
(CAMERA on TRUMP, making his sour face with the steak close to his face.)
TREBEK: Okay. Mr. Johnson, what — where is Mr. Johnson?
(CAMERA on JOHNSON’s podium, no one is there.)
TREBEK: Mr. Johnson seems to have left the stage. Oh well. What did he draw?
(On JOHNSON’s display: nothing.)
TREBEK: Of course. How could I be so stupid. The wager?
(On JOHNSON’s display: “Aleppo”)
TREBEK: I … I want to say goodbye to my wife Jean, and to my two children, Matthew and Emily, whom I love very, very much. Daddy is going to a better place, I promise you. (to CONNERY) Mr. Connery, my arch-nemesis. Only you can save me from the loving embrace of permanent death. What did you draw?
(On CONNERY’s display: a circle with a dot inside.)
TREBEK: Oh my god. Mr. Connery, you’ve done it. You drew a circle. You drew an actual circle! You drew a shape. Oh thank god. (to CAMERA) I’m so sorry Jean, Matthew, Emily, I’m so sorry I’ve worried you. I’m coming home tonight. I’m coming home. (to CONNERY) What was your wager?
(On CONNERY’s display: reveals the circle is the head of a cock and balls. CONNERY laughs wildly.)
CONNERY: Told’ya I’d have a big erection! Ha ha! Ha ha ha!
(TREBEK pauses, then lifts gun to head. STAGEHANDS run in and grab his arms.)
TREBEK (as they drag him off screen): That’s all the time we have. Jean I’ll see you at the hospital. Good night.
[hokoran, inhaler and high priest of padora, lays unresponsive and dying on an altar covered in fresh white linens. ulryaeus stands behind the altar, and in front of him is a packed amphitheater full of padorans and civilians alike. ulryaeus speaks with grave solemnity.]
my name is ulryaeus, exhaler of the north, bringer of peace to the nearly dead. i am here in the breeze of padora’s breath to release the breath from high priest hokoran, inhaler and beacon of light and justice for our people. i have known hokoran for many decades now, many days providing for our sects, many nights arguing philosophy and theology of our goddess. hokoran’s voice was free from pain, free from suffering, as he believed all suffering in this world was merely a tool toward greater enlightenment. for that he is the utmost exhaler in my opinion, but he refused to agree, stating that his enlightenment was directed toward the greater good and the preservation of mankind, and that to await padora’s final exhalation was to find pessimism in a world which required none. in him i found the balance between our faiths, and the true representation of padora–as a divine source of inspiration, and as a living force which feeds us all, no matter if she is breathing in, or breathing out. in her breath we are alive, and in her breath we should choose to live.
it is with a heavy, heavy heart that i remove the breathe from my long time friend and compatriot. hokoran’s duty to padora will be hard to fill. peace be with you brother, and may your own breath mingle with padora’s winds for all eternity.
[ulryaeus raises a dagger and slides it into hokoran’s heart. the amphitheater breaks out in traditional songs of mourning.]
i am very conscious of your body language, trevor. i see you hunched over like that, brooding, like “the thinker” except you’re leaning sexily against a wall. cigarette dangling from your lip. trying to damn hard to make me want you. you give off this aura of mystery, like you’re some kind of enigma, but we all know, especially when we go to bed with you, or when we go to dinner with you, or even five minutes alone at a bar–we know who you really are; a nervous, anxious wreck of a man desperately clinging on to some semblance of humanity. it’s tremendously obvious, and it’s almost funny how dead-set you are on trying to hide it. it’s like trying to hide the stench of body odor with dab of water to the armpits. your energy permeates you, it infuses you, it anchors every aspect of your being to the earth. and we see it. we all see it. we watch you wallow in it while you attempt to give off this concept that you’re okay. well, you’re not, trevor. none of us are. so drop the bullshit and just talk to me.
did anyone see that meteor in the sky last night? god it was huge! and so bright, it nearly lit up the sky like daylight for a second there. amazing. what do you think it means? i’m not, you know, into astrology or any of that, but a meteor is a special sighting. it’s gotta mean something. maybe it means i’m finally going to get that raise i’ve always wanted. maybe the light from the meteor entered mr. perkins’ eyes and showed him just how good of an employee i am. maybe at any moment he will walk into my office and say, “sally, you are the best employee we have. here’s a 10% raise.” yeah, that’s gotta be it. this is the cosmos telling me my time is now, that i have opportunities to chase and grasp, that i have people to find and use for my own success. that sounds awful but it must be true! it must be. i have to go, i need to get back to my desk so that mr. perkins will find me and give me a huge raise. i’m sorry i implied you were worse employees than me! bye!
what do you do when you’re checking out a lady’s fine ass titties or fine ass booty and she catches you? huh? i don’t know i’m asking you. the other day i was walking down olive st and i see this young lady walking my way. low cut shirt, booty shorts, the whole deal. damn she was good looking, but i’m a man of today, you dig, i’m a man who respects a woman when she’s walking down the street. i ain’t gonna mess with no lady on her way. so i let her pass, but i’m wearing sunglasses, see, so she can’t see me looking. she don’t know, i mean i think she don’t know. so she walks by and i’m staring at her tits. my god they were amazing. she wasn’t wearing a bra, even, i mean look i’m a modern man but when a lady walks by without a bra you gotta look, just once at least. you gotta! it’s like an instinctual thing, man, you just gotta do it. you don’t have to stare, or catcall her or whatnot, but man, you gotta appreciate a lady’s fine ass titties.
so but here’s the thing: i turned around. i looked back. i wanted to check out her ass. and oh man it was so fine, it was finer than a handful of sand, boy. but she looked back too, and she saw me look, and she got this look on her face like, “shame on you,” and i said it before but i’m a modern man. i’m a feminist. i think women are great but you can’t fault me for wanting to check out a nice booty. so she caught me and i felt bad. i apologized and she just said “mmhmm” and walked on. and i felt bad! but see i’m a modern man so i can’t just chase after her and explain, “well let me tell you why i’m not such a bad guy.” i can’t do that. all i can do is walk on and feel bad until i stop feeling bad. and obviously i’m telling you this two days later. so i still feel bad.
(slowly stirring beef stroganoff in a pot on the stove throughout the monologue.)
beef stroganoff. hear me out, gil. i’ve got beef stroganoff on the stove and i’ve got a hankering for beef stoganoff. and this … beast you put inside my womb really, really wants me to eat beef stroganoff. so we’re making that. but since i don’t know shit about beef stroganoff–hell, i don’t think i’ve even eaten it before–i had to go to walmart and buy chef boyardee. i had to. you come in here with that “i’m a foodie” swagger and i saw your nose crinkle when you smelled what was cooking in the pot. i get it. you hate it. you’re probably upset that i bought 20 cans of the stuff. call it an impulse buy because of this abomination slowly expanding in my stomach. this is their fault. (to womb in babyspeak) isn’t it? isn’t it your fault? yes it is, yes it is! (normal voice) a week ago it was toilet paper. gil i was taking a piss and i had the toilet paper in my hand and some god damn wiring in my brain broke, just broke right there, and i had to eat it. i had to eat the toilet paper. and i couldn’t just shove it in my mouth, no, it was a meal. i tore little pieces off and let them dissolve on my tongue. i had to taste it.
did you know that since women have two X chromosomes, if one has a defect it reduces the severity of the defect in general? meanwhile guys have XY so if their X chromosome fails, they’re a fucking wreck. this is the tradeoff to having a kid, gil. you have more of a chance to go crazy because of your genetics, but women, we always go nuts when we’re pregnant. my mom drank a bottle of bleach, three months along with allen, because she was thirsty. my neighbor’s mom would eat the stuffing out of a couch cushion when she was pregnant, and she had three kids. each time, couch cushion. couldn’t help it.
long story short: stop giving me the stinkeye and let me eat this fucking stroganoff.
