tales of Paul dorrison
Petit MENSA are a group devoted to the ongoing collection and display of objects, documents and paraphernalia related
to the expression of thought as slightly distinct from the usual. The definitive identity of the group can be traced to circa
1740 in a statement made by Johann August von Starck of the clerical chapter of the Knights Templar, Northern France.
“fils et frère des pères de la famille Sçavans l’Ordre des Sages par tous les generations de l’univers.”
(Son and brother of the fathers of the family of Savants of the Order of Wise Men throughout all generations of the
universe)’.
Following a disagreement centering on whether or not an individual may discharge a firearm at a sporting event in
celebration, a schism departed Europe around 1745 for the Americas, the party comprised of only nine men of mixed
nationality. Among the group which cast off from the French port of Cherbourg little is known, except for an obscure
reference by the eighteenth century English pamphleteer, Edward Beldon, who wrote…
‘May God protect Percival Dorisson, son of Doris Q. Doriss (a notoriously fragile, but highly esteemed matron in the employ
of the Duke of Devonshire) from the untutored ruffians he will no doubt encounter beyond the oceans’
Beldon needn’t have been concerned, within weeks of arriving in the United States, Dorisson had begun to achieve
moderate success as a raconteur, regaling those who might afford his modest fee with remarkable tales of Europe, Africa
and the Orient. However, no evidence exists corroborating Dorisson’s travels in these territories. Some observers have
claimed that Dorisson perpetuated a narrative of cynical commercial deceit, however, Kasey B. Bungberger writing in the
Lascanter Beaver Coon Chronicle, later to become the Lascanter Critter Chronicle, wrote of Dorisson in more sympathetic
tones. ‘If you can talk pretty and get paid, then this is the art of business in its purest form, which is what this country is all
about’.
Following the (North American) war of independence, Dorisson founded the Lascanter Clandestine Order of Savants in 1777,
and commenced production of what many art historians believe to be the first bumper-sticker, albeit realized using
rudimentary techniques and materials, especially when compared to the slick mass-produced examples of today.
In order to manufacture his stickers, Dorisson developed a technique of layering light gauze strips with resin, which
were primed and over-painted with the text ‘I GET MY KICKS FROM 1776!’ the strips were then varnished, and could be
attached to buggies, hatboxes, and of course, the backs of rocking chairs. Chugglers hardware store kindly
donated original sales invoices detailing the purchase of 16 such items to a Mr. Hatherington-Jeffers of West-North Front
Street, Lascanter.
The documentation in question, along with three original Dorisson designs, and a prototype made from gingham
tablecloth and corn syrup, can be seen on permanent display at the museum. Furthermore, in 1949 a delightful discovery
was made by a Lemonade salesman, James O’ Donoughty, in a secret compartment in his antique mobile beverage stall.
The item takes the form of a late nineteenth century vehicle registration plate, and upon the surface, scrawled in spidery
hand, reads the slogan ‘the game of cricket really ticks me off ’, clearly a heartfelt patriotic sentiment, and probably
deemed too incendiary for public display at the time, so was shored-up in the panels of a gimcrack drinks cart.
In late 1803 Dorisson was exiled to Licking County after he was apparently overheard criticizing what he considered the
shoddy and lackluster work of local quilters, after having commissioned a bedspread displaying the heraldry of the Order
of Savants. Dorisson adjudged the work tawdry, gaudy and having ‘sucked’. Later graffiti was discovered at a local hostelry
reading, ‘Those harpies at the quilter’s guild (now Jay-cathy’s) couldn’t sew a stitch at a needle and thread orgy’.
As he was transported across the county lines under lightly armed guard, bystanders are alleged to have clearly heard
voices from the armored vehicle damning conventional chisels in favor of the more expedient steam-driven power tools
which were being imported from the industrial cities of Northern Europe at the time. Even now, conjecture is fierce as to
whether this was a jibe at the Lascanter Masonic lodge, which Dorisson regarded as ‘too Disney.’
Seduction by Watercolour, Repulsion by Collage
During his time in exile, Paul Dorisson lived a hermetic existence, although he did take a wife, literally. One late September
evening in a painterly trance, the story goes, he made a small watercolour image of a family of geese sheltering under the
expanded wheel arch of a utility truck, placed it into his portfolio and trekked eight miles to the nearest tavern, requiring
booze as a consequence of his artistic exertions.
On entering the bar several men shot fierce glances at the black folio, as if to intimate that ‘there better the hell be
something worth looking at in there, bub.’ As Dorisson approached the barkeep he became aware of a presence behind
him, and spun abruptly toward a figure who at first appeared without gender, indeed the body was crowned with some
kind of hat or helmet, possessed of a muzzled grille at the front and brightly coloured with a number at either side, “Hike!
Hike!” exclaimed what now seemed to be a feminine mouth from inside the protective facial scaffold.
“No, I just walked, and I’d really like to sit down,” replied Dorisson, and without thought, instinctively plucked his watercolor
from its case and continued, “Um, what do you think of this?” In response came a sharp intake of breath, no mean feat
given the dubious odours dominating the space, “You could go far with subject matter like that.”
“Thank you” replied Dorisson, “and anyway, what’s with the helmet?”
“It is to stop the men from kissing me.”
The last strains of ‘me’ still hovered in the stale air as Dorisson reached inside his jacket pocket and removed a sable-
haired brush, then with a reassuring tilt of his head slowly moved the tip of the brush through the metal mesh of the
helmet and onto the lips of what he was convinced by now had to be a woman. Dorisson traced the brush over the lips as
if painting them for the first time, creating them.
“I like how that feels. I’m Kiki Beth Loula Rosso, you can kiss me.”
“Good evening, I’m Paul Dorisson.
Dorisson gripped the front of the helmet with his right hand and gently levered it off, he was relieved on two counts,
firstly, the face was pretty, and secondly, during the pre-pre-feminist era in medieval Europe it was a strictly observed law
that all hags wear helmets or undergo make-over without anesthetic. Dorisson spoke,
“Later”
As the helmet lay rocking at their feet, a glob of masticated tobacco arced through the air from somewhere near the bar
and landed with a splat in what was now nothing more than a futuristic spittoon. The thought occurred to Dorisson that
this brown liquid might be used as a painting material and would make an interesting addition to his palette. The
following thought was that tensions in the bar were rising.
“Let’s leave, will you come with me?” urged Dorisson.
“Yeah” Kiki whispered.
Folk tales in the area have for many years recounted the episode of a man who came to town carrying a black portfolio,
and left with the Landlord’s daughter, without even having a single drink. Versions differ as to how Kiki herself was
transported out of town, some refer to a set of clip-on wheels that attached to the portfolio in order to facilitate carting,
other accounts speak of a snowstorm during which Dorisson used the folio as a makeshift sled, pulling Kiki behind him.
However, what is most likely is that in an act of helpfulness two local I.T. supervisors , who were acquaintances of
Dorrison’s, and known to embrace fresh challenges, carried a rig resembling a sedan chair, the portfolio placed on a
borrowed ladder with a man at each end, and Dorisson leading the brief caravan from the front.
Across Southern Ohio and in free-thinking parts of Northern Kentucky it is still believed that the mere sight of a
watercolour painting will cause young girls hearts to flow with infinite love. That is why a law was passed in the early
twentieth century requiring all art galleries in fluffield County to issue women under the age of twenty with protective
goggles when viewing such images.
Regrettably, the union of Dorisson and Kiki would be brutally terminated not one year from their first meeting. In a rage
fuelled by heady measures of borderline obsessive-compulsive disorder and envy, a gang comprising of men drinking at
the tavern the night Dorrison made his solitary appearance vowed to take revenge. They considered Dorisson the man
who painted a spell of coloured water so irresistible as to seduce Kiki on sight, and effectively deprive them of the only
acceptable eye-candy for miles.
According to residents, who have sworn on the New Testament, a mob headed by one Ricky-Joe Schmoeverder, a failed
wheelright, (rumoured to be in the vice-like clutches of an ‘astronomical dill-pickle habit’) managed to somehow guide
the ensemble to the threshold of Dorisson’s residence.
Bouyed by liquor, cucumber in vinegar and carrying a banal arsenal of baseball bats, save for a catcher’s mitt, which in
the interests of gang symbolism one of the party was hell-bent on inserting into the victim, via the mouth or whichever
orifice proved more convenient (or symbolic). From a remote position outside the body the individual in question would
pull-taught the attached strings, which in theory would fan the glove like a visceral peacock inside the ribcage, a macabre
caveat to any future interferers, outsiders or visiting artists.
And so they reached the border to Dorisson’s place, this was a body of butt-kickers no watercolourist would like to see
ambling into their yard, but into the yard they came, a-whoopin’ and a- hollerin.’ Colourful he may have been, but Dorisson
was no fool. He had had a precision Swiss-manufactured ‘a-whoopin’and a-hollerin’ detector installed on his property
within days of his arrival, and it was to prove an exemplary security measure.
As the mini-mob advanced onto Dorisson’s property, sensors hooked-up to a tape deck triggered hidden amplifiers
which began to play a symphony of whirring rotor blade and squeak of tank track, and a lot of high-pitched yelling in
various obscure languages. Dorisson had made good use of material borrowed from his local library, specifically the film
section, ‘foreign’ and ‘action’ categories, respectively. He’d created what he called a ‘security sound collage’ by sampling
and overdubbing hostile noises. He’d even added a few recordings of himself bumping his head on a low ceiling fan in
order to elicit an ‘Arggh, Fuck it!’ which he felt added authenticity.
Dorisson had also used sounds of vigorous tooth-brushing, recorded after he’d inadvertently left a live clip-on microphone
tethered to his lapel during his morning ablutions, he felt this sounded so similar to a helicopter rotor that it should be
incorporated, not to mention the hunch that a sound recording of dental hygiene-in-progress would unnerve men
unaccustomed to oral cleanliness.
As the trespassers advanced the volume increased. Men who were given to unhindered group bullying were suddenly
lying prone in a backyard petrified with fear, suspicious puddles emanating from their midriffs, and god knows what else
smudging their upholsteries.
“Ahh, the Power of collage” murmured Dorisson, as he turned to Kiki.
At the cave entrance the handkerchiefed foreheads of the trespassers harbored murder-packed TV
reconstructions, their blunt bric-a-brac held alert, like a nervy lover bearing his expectant bouquet.
Fussy, ruddy and tipsy, they waded into the domestic stone hollow.
afTER A FEW STEPS the men paused at the sight of unfathomable regalia which set a tone both macabre and
jazzy, as if one were to enter an opaque telephone booth only to discover Miles Davis and Charles Manson locked in a
furious thumb wrestle, the musician recounting his three times table in a passable Dublin Irish accent, while the cult-
leader, somewhat typically, is observed giggling at his own joke like a jelly inside a raging heavy metal amplifier. To the
beholders, this was uneasy on the eye.
The caves of film and television often seem so cosy and well insulated. Rarely does the viewer encounter the chattering
precious metal of a Bond villain’s teeth or a shivering Batman (although at times, life for Robin seemed a hopeless
struggle, this however, cannot be attributed to plummeting temperatures). In this den was a chill, the draft didn’t have
any origin as such, and would descend in ripples, piercing their bodies with chilled corkscrews, tickling the inhabitants
with nipping refrigerated hula-hoops.
In addition to the murals, banners of bed sheet proportion were suspended from the ceiling, written-on in a fluid,
seemingly abstracted cipher, although, on retreating several steps, which can be helpful when viewing arts and crafts
which initially appear made to confuse, one could make out the definitive phrase ‘sod off’ rendered in the slap-dash
manner and broad brush technique of the passionate banner painter. The maxim is commonly held to be an old English
term imploring immediate evacuation, but in this case the trespassers were content to interpret it as an aspect of
landscape gardening.
The more detailed writings made no sense to the invaders, so they proceeded in the customary way, as invaders
throughout time have been inclined to do; they defaced, desecrated and dirtied their unintelligible surroundings with a
smattering of the nasty symbols of the day. Swastikas, cartoon penises and single syllable expletives carrying the letter ‘u’.
They made confetti of the cave interior, shredded it as if it were just an unnecessary bank statement, the kind branded
with a two inch numeric soul and sent to a vacant body on a monthly basis, the type of document that requires
destruction every time it makes an appearance. And in respect of renewal, cavernous spaces are unfortunate, no central
troglodyte bank, or cavity insurance to issue new grottos if one goes missing, is cut to pieces, or happens to be eaten by
the machine.
As the gang made their way deeper into the cave, mauling potato chip packets like greasy plastic accordions, a
cacophonous noise given the acoustics. broke the dorisson’s back, frustration burst into anger as
behind him, Shmoeverder and his footsoldiers, upon noticing Dorisson’s virtual union with a woman they innately
thought of as one of their possessions, a fixure of the tavern, began the fateful chanting..
“watercolor kill! watercolor kill! ! watercolor kill!” and revealing a fondness for barbershop a cappella, the bande began to
layer the chant “Side-walk! Side-Walk! Side-Walk! Side-Walk!” over the top, and If this wasn’t enough, A big, bald baritone
bruiser issued the prompt “Yo-gurt! Yo-gurt! Yo-gurt! Yo-gurt! Really hitting Dorisson where it hurt, lyrically.
Although any pleasure or satisfaction had been halted by the tapestry of interference spread over the afternoon intimacy,
Dorisson’s awkward fumblings had yielded a modest pre-ejaculate, enough to contain adequate traces of fertilizer, which
was secreted on Kiki’s person somewhere in the region of her inner thigh, pubis and knee cap, precision remains vague
due to great swaying, wriggling and utterly poor lighting. However, as stated in many family planning leaflets, Cowper’s
fluid cannot be trusted whatever the occasion, and somehow Dorisson’s glob, led by the hirsute signage of pubic fuzz,
made the fleshy expedition toward its target egg, breaking and entering without so much as a raised fist from any
spermicidal security guard.
So Kiki became pregnant, and the babe was delivered by way of Dorissian section, which is a procedure used when the
fetus is just too damn idle to emerge from the womb, preferring to hang around and complain about the terse attitude of
the vulva, and its strict exit policy, particularly laws restricting supply lines to placental comforts.
During the Dorissian procedure itself, no actual incision is made, rather techniques adapted from Thai massage and the
Japanese art of origami are combined to literally, ‘open’ the lower cervix. The kuha ‘yawn’)- manoeuvre in Japanese,
translating as something like ‘yawn’ in English, whereby The thumb of the surgeon is placed along the vulva hood
interior, the outer fingers meanwhile create a false palette which is then carefully levered diagonally, and is subject to a
number of swift and precise manipulations in order to expand the opening, thereby utilizing the well documented
elasticity of the female genitalia, and in doing so, freeing the fetus promptly and with the minimum of trauma. Via this
channel Donny ‘the cushion’ Dorisson was born.
The interrupted cave light cast a clawing shadow of baseball bats forming the heinous B-movie chimera of a giant female
praying mantis fixin’ to guzzle its desert, the resulting ‘fossil’ of which ,was to be found many years later when Police
excavated the rock face after a tip-off, and discovered the fossilized imprints of what seemed to be a barbershop quartet
and some amateur baseball players impersonating a giant insect, along with a man with two erect fingers on his right
hand, forming a ‘v’ sign and wearing a terrifying facial expression, stuck in a crouched, side-on position two or three feet
above the others, almost as if he had surfed down upon their heads on a wave of liquid concrete.
On initial probing, Police failed to notice the hinged conduits, leading through the cave ceiling toward what was an
abandoned trout farm on the higher ground. The tubes themselves were initially understood to be crude ventilation
shafts. However, forensic staff at the scene soon discovered incrustations of industrial resilience lining the interior of the
shafts, like swathes of trans fat sitting pretty inside the arteries of a microwave popcorn eater. “You polyunsaturated
Somfubish!” (mafia-type insults).
Further Police evidence indicated an unofficial ‘deal’ between the former owner of the property and representatives of a
construction company from Mahoning county, suspiciously located halfway between Pittsburgh and Cleveland. An ideal
distribution-cum-retribution point on a major intercity artery. Delegates from the company had arrived in a fleet of unlit,
soil-flecked cadillacs. The eight men, all leaden with conservative male bouffants petrified by impasto hair products,
disembarked the vehicles in un-athletic fashion, and yet still managed to convey the potential menace of a
brooding doorman.
An offer which was initially refused was abruptly accepted by the trout farmer after a Tony Bennet disk was played
close enough to the man’s head so to promote a terrible discomfort of brain curdling magnitude. This was done by use of
a portable gramophone, fitted with a faulty needle, microphones having been inserted into his nasal cavities, enhancing
the effect, and some routine slappy-thumpy on top.
All things considered, things turned out ok for the trout farmer. He was paid roughly the estimated value of the property,
which at the time, realtors had predicted would be about as desirable to potential buyers as a half-eaten candy nestling in
the corner of a leper’s shoe. A combination of the rocky terrain, its relatively isolated location and astronomical
unemployment levels enough to discourage potential buyers.
An unlicenced cement production unit, hidden by dense foliage. Had been operating above the cave for several decades.
The layout of the plant was not dissimilar in conception to that m.o. of the hermit crab or cuckoo, in that the engineers,
ideas man or whoever authored the set up took advantage of a pre existing system. In this case the wide trenches dug for
the purpose of breeding fish were drained and reshaped to the specifications of the conical concrete mixers, detatched
from their original station on the backs of trucks, or as a dorisson might see them, A fleet of genetically engineered
armadillos turning in graves of inadequate depth.
Pregnant partner jettisoned onto exterior elevator, while Dorrison
Dorisson fills entire cave with concrete, made from the rubble of a razed tanning salon, dynamited after a former patron
objected to the excessively orange-hued tinge of his skin, the individual in question was made a laughing stock in the
workplace, subjected to cruel remarks, and would regularly enter his car to find the citrus stowed somewhere inside the
vehicle, whether it be dashboard, or popping up in the mirror having been taped to the upper regions of the backseat.
Installed ex-library elevator onto west exterior of cave face within a framework of borrowed telegraph poles, from this
vantage point, tracks in the snow could be seen, in the pattern of a moboeus strip across the flat plateau in front of the
cave entrance, and then abruptly diverging and vanishing. As if a mechanical toy had been vigorously clubbed and then
permitted an awkward wind-down through its death throes, to be plucked-up and binned. A labyrinthine ankle joint.
A later statement taken by police confimed that the man in question was drunk at the time of auto-shodding and had
put his boots on the wrong feet after removing peanut m&ms placed there as a practical joke earlier in the day by a
network of buddies; thus causing a radical arcing of footstep.
This had been carefully planned over a period of evenings at the tavern, and involved a cumbersome subterfuge in
getting the boots off by allowing him $20.00 worth of free plays on the jukebox, during which time the boots were
stationary long enough so that the footwear could be fiddled with.
The tracks seemed to turn over on themselves, as if the foot was hinged, or sprocketed or the feet themselves had
detatched from the ankles, bored with each others company and gone their separate ways.
Some MENSA –Lite legal trouble…
Mr. Pinhead V Mr. Potatohead
“How the crap could DNA evidence be considered merely auxiliary? Remember Sir, we are in the Americas, where lawyers
are indistinguishable from movie stars or may even pose as hot dog salesman, one cannot be sure even that cheese be
cheese!”
Fair Field Tempo Buddies, who in their moniker allude to the key tenets of honesty, friendship and dynamism.
During the U.S. civil war the group existed as a clandestine order of proto-pacifists, refuting what they considered buddy-
on-buddy violence; a hippie precedent if you will, indeed the group retreated into the Hocking hills during the conflict
and formed what is now believed to be one of the first eco-anarchist communes in the United States
Archeologists have discovered what they believe to be examples of early Tempo Buddy cave painting and object d’art. On
display at the museum are seven lurid murals of what appear to be figures playing air guitar, customizing pick-up trucks
and flipping the bird. Historians believe the latter to be an insult derived from showing ones’ enemy an imaginary acid
tab atop ones’ middle finger in order to imply that ‘I’m gonna fuck your mind-up, chump’. It is worth noting that without
exception the cultural practices depicted in the murals continue as part of contemporary society in many parts of the
United States.
These historic cultural artifacts have been swiftly removed from their original surroundings, while neon plastic replicas
have been installed at the original cave sites, which many visitors have remarked as possessing satisfactory aesthetic
potency.
Moreover, the murals contain nascent examples of spiral patterning, rainbows and perhaps one of the earliest
manifestations of stencil graphics, the stencil itself ingeniously constructed from gopher pelt stretched over a birch
sapling frame, the design having been made using flint and pizza cutters. one fine example of this shows a female figure,
in vapor form, emerging from the end of a shotgun barrel, she appears to be wearing a wet t-shirt on which can clearly be
seen the now ubiquitous bright yellow ‘smiley face’ logo, her erect nipples cunningly protrude directly from underneath
the two dimensional eyes, giving the impression of smiley-faced awe, in fact, recent etymological debate has centered
around the proposal that the current vernacular U.S. term ‘awesome’, used as an uber- adjective to describe just about
everything from finding a lost sock to witnessing an actual supernova burst through the ceiling, began when Tempo
Buddies recorded their awe at the sensual flickering light at their tunnel entrances, and interpreted their experience
through innovative art experiments.
Simten Guraç a linguist at the State University of Arizona, recently published an article discussing Plato’s model of the cave
as a simulated reality filter. The mere shadow caused by an inter-play of light from outside the cave entrance constituting
a micro-reality inside the dwelling proper. Guraç proposes that ‘awe’ or ‘ugh!’ as it was pronounced in the original sense,
emerged as a guttural recognition of light, and therefore of hope, and in turn, power and God. She goes on to suggest
that the ‘awe’ in question is only partial, hence: ‘some awe’ and that the light that comes in through the cave entrance is
only a fraction of the light of God, which outside of the cave is total.
The term ‘some-awe’, Guraç claims, is phonetically too similar to ‘Samoa’, especially if one hails from some the Eastern
states, and cites cases of psychosis recorded within Samoan communities in the U.S. One article in the Journal of American
Linguistics took a strangely inappropriate, almost slapstick tone in titling their piece ‘Not knowing whether they are
comin’ goin’ or Samoan’. As a result, ‘Some awe’ became ‘awesome’.
Scientists at Ohio University are currently studying segments of fabric which they firmly believe to be a precursor to the
‘tie-dye’ style. Mariners sailing toward the North Eastern coast claim to have witnessed peculiar atmospheric phenomena
as vortexes of brightly colored light, said to have had a desperately unsettling effect on the psyche. The Documenta, a
vessel sailing from the English port of Southampton, for Boston Mass. with a cargo of printing equipment and related
miscellany, encountered winds of gale force only miles from the U.S. harbour. An account from an anonymous deckhand
takes up the scene.
‘Twas hellish, lightnin’ an’ thunder, terrific winds an’ that. I ‘eard an almighty smash an’ crash, one o’ the masts ‘ad
smashed through th’ hold, some of the cargo was thrown onto deck and was hurtlin’ round, like mad devils ‘ad put on a
pantomime show to spite us in the middle of the storm. Anyhow, all the ink bottles and chemicals ‘ad smashed and glass
and water and colored splashes of liquid were lashing around the deck and onto the sails ye’ see. A man didn’t know
where ‘e was, see? Well, when it came to, next morning, we was slowly takin’ account of the damage, then us untangles
the sails from the masts an’ riggin’, well, I never seen such a sight of colorful vigor in me life. The colored ink had mixed-up
with the sea water and doused the sails which were wrapped and bound in an awful confusion of broken riggin, rope and
parts of the ship. How such things of a devine sight could be made from a mess like we ‘ad I’ll never know, but what we
saw when we untangled the sail and layed it out on the deck was the most wonderful spirallin’ of clolor, I tell ‘e.’
When The Documenta was safely moored in Boston harbour the masts were repaired and the sails erected, vivid arcing
hues on the rippling surfaces of the sail dominated the marina. Across the bay, a textile company who were
experimenting with fabric dyes took startled notice. After boarding the Documenta with offerings of food and weakened
ale, the crew happily told of how the sails came to their decorous condition.
Based on the sailors’ accounts of the storm, the textile factory began new tests, which involved tightly wrapping string
and splinters of wood around muslin sacking, and then immersing the material into various baths of ink-based dye. They
generously gave their dyed garments to the crew, who as they docked, from port to port would place orders among
middle-class hippie communities all over the U.S. coast.
Many thanks to the Steak ‘n’ Shake franchise for sponsoring our cave art drive thru project, where visitors may enjoy
plentiful refreshment, both historic and fast-food-based.
“I wish I never critter-sized that fellers shirt/and/or sexual proclivities.”
Methinks Sir, thou shouldst get on up and get on down to Hooters and on entering the establishment deliver a lecture on Virginia Woolf or give a reading from prominent thinker Julia Kristeva, who incidentally, isn’t bad-looking for her age, hasta pronto amigo, and under no circumstances will you tip anyone.
Disguised as sections of sidewalk we crept single file toward the bikers’ club house, in effect surrounding the building. Issuing a single blast from an air horn and settling into horizontal position, we waited. Heavy, badly installed and light peach in color, the metal door awkwardly jerked open, within seconds the bikers gingerly emerged, clutching pool cues, baseball bats, some with bottles and knives, a man from the kitchen had come with a food mixer and rolling pin, bikers making their own pastry? More likely a narco-preparation instrument. Alert and edgy the group began scouring the area for resistance.
It was at this point that our bugler, performing air horn to the tune of Bach piano concerto 1060, signaled our next phase of engagement. Catapillar-like the troupe began to loop toward the door, massing in the frame like some tangled concrete necklace, the bikers now vanquished from their own sanctuary. We whipped out the watercolors. These works intended to introduce the themes of humility and understanding among the stubborn lifeblood of the biker, you see rather than destroy our adversary, the aim will always be to transform him/ and or and female hangers-on who, when appropriate, were presented with current copies of GED study textbooks.
Interior design makeover as a form of revenge-transformation. By now these works, many depicting Harley Davidson motorcycles in pleading negotiations with canoes, rickshaws, sedan chairs, pogo-sticks, modes of transport commonly held to be inferior to the great hog.
At the center is a 3 ½ x 4 meter oil painting of a wan emaciated chikldlike figure in a hospital bed, drip fed and clearly at a disadvantage. In his left arm he holds a lance on which are skewered six full sized Harley Davidson sportster motorcycles, held aloft and leaking oil like it were balsamic vinegar on a motorized kebab. On a hook in the corner of the room hangs a Yellow beret.
The insult.
I walked into the bar on the corner with its castled add-ons on top of the ill fitted cylindrical shoulder, one might anticipate blow pipe action from hillbilly pygmies scampering about up there in paranoid protection of their crappy lot.
As those who once attacked castles face to face, now pass side on, partially
hidden behind distinctive fabrics stretched across ever twitching foreheads. Their napkin sized flags wrapped taught around their faces permanently cast in the hard-man facial mould of the day.
I enter and sit at the bar, a man in a boilersuit sits two spaces away. He asks the barmaid for a pen, and proceeds to detonate the implement’s nipple by jabbing it into the middle of his forehead. This passes for tough juggling or something. The tip emerges from the surrounding shaft, a miniature turtle head, ink running through its single vein.
The man looks familiar, “I think I’ve spoken to you before.” I prompt.
“Ssssuh possibility.” He replies, with a don’t-you-dare-address-me-directly-again-or-I’ll-pop, he continues to stare ahead, as if watching a compelling screen. “A very real possibility.” I venture, well, in fact, I catapault salt onto the cancerous pudenda ramblers absailing down from the twisted and rusting hook that is your mother’s clitoris, they are without breathing apparatus and are caked in decaying cells, wearing them like slippery berets at a freaks caberet in an underground Berlin perverts den during the great war.
I cackle at the skulking opportunist thieves who remove pubic-flecked raisins of excrement from her matronly anus, with it’s veins of electric cable running through the pouting car tyre of a sphincter, desperate pilferers of bad carrion,’
the charcter rose abruptly and began to leave the bar. Let’s exchange multiple numbers so this insult may be continued across a range of communications systems, see ya.
Looking through the veil of the sliced white braced peanut butter sandwich.
Let’s pretend we’ve got Cowper’s fluid draining away along the fold of our angled passports. When jobs are under threat I feel a sense of lite-ness.
The entrepreneurial spirit. Dreamed of a half submerged horse shoe shaped trellis in a lagoon, a man-fish, Caucasian head and torso, perch tail. Stood human half visible, facing inward, his domain it seems, cheap shelter for mermen. It so happened that he had a unit full of fire damaged plastic trellis, which had only slightly melted on the bottom section, and when submerged would resist rot and be disguised by the murky water. The lock-up contained roughly fifty of these amphibious pockets. This resulted in a boom in portable mermen hang-outs in rivers and estuaries, as men-fish at a loose end would gather to play waterproof cards They became cool, a documentary film was made, narrated by Clive Owen, which lightly touched upon the scene, and uncovered and affiliations to the yeller berets
And, after carefully studying incredibly specialized journals, a niche in the market for a particular type of fishy homosapien lederhosen was devised, though after enjoying initial success with sales to secret societies, the design was scrapped in favour of a two tone waterproof sock with lapels.
Said to women in leather boots who’d plonked themselves directly in front of me, with her back turned to see the band… ‘Excuse me, would you mind moving, you’re blocking my view of that step ladder on the other side of the dance floor?” The step ladder was probably there to un hook madams who got their blouses caught up at the top of the dance pole. Fuckin’ hell that things going to snap soon, it’s bending as if in the hands of an Olympic vaulter, determined to shatter a personal best.
Amount of total floor space covered with children’s toys currently stands at 23%.
Myth-busters, No. 1: Minotaur yolk. During a breakfast stint at Bob Evans, the thing was served sunny side up, and he barely touched it, preferring to document it, preserve it in a mixture if formaldehyde and cowpers fluid, and donate it to the Mensa-lite museum, department of embryonics. The attendant staff member was tipped handsomely, although the shell was lost in the collaged stew of refuse textures, and their mis-matching odours.
Minoutaurs are milling about with balls of string around the drive thru channels of strip malls, encircling eating establishments with yarn attempting to keep heat in the building and save on such costs.
Tri-polarism rendering attempts at furniture re-arranging of cinema seats futile. One extreme to the other, and then a point of relative calm in between on a ledge, where the sufferer may take stock of shifts and swings. Mixed episode of mania-lite, it’s not too bad and can be controlled by simply taking one’s time over swilling the litest of lite-beers. From the ouside. The appearance of the polar maniac to hapless acquaintances sitting in the same room trying in vain to enjoy good cheer and a few glasses of wine. Why-ne.
Trying to be not very clever.
Keyed in the email address baabaaboilersuit326@hotmail.com
While doing this, considered the ditty as follows…
‘Baa baa boiler suit have you any oil, no Sir! no Sir! just tin fool, I mean, foil, one for the housewife, one for the pain, and one for the heroin addict who lives down the lane. Well, hand it over I need it to entomb some tuna salad sandwiches, Now!’
In the subject heading tapped “insult continued”
I’ve just been leafing though a dossier on roadkill viscera as it relates to Viennese action art, which somehow prompts the inquiry, does your Mum continue to use fart-spray as perfume, dog-shit for toothpaste and dried cat turds for brooches? Seems to be the case, where was I, tell you where I was, I was witness to a formation of unicyclists making their way across a single nipple hair rope bridge which sagged across the cleavage of her extracted and abandoned junk yard car seat breasts. They were transporting sacks of layabouts’ toenail clippings heavily cut with petrified diced donut as generally found scattered around police squad cars, with the intention of creating a mosaic on her external titty face based on the architectural domes of popular religious structures. Please find attached several draughtsman’s plans of the proposed site.
Ps. Why do you wear jeans, the legs of which seem to be styled after wind socks? I’ll see you on Wednesday at the open mike night.”
Tawdry brutalist efficiency In your mother’s mouth, an identity parade of tawdry miniature buildings, those often seen in developing countries at the sides of roads in no man’s land; project abandoned. The sections of crappy concrete doddering together, caught in mid shiver by reinforcing iron rods poking at skewed and tilted angles, rusted, jutting like untrimmed thread at the end of a cobbled butterfly stitch running from jaw to cheek. Rusty puddles of frog spawned water ripple in fright where gold plated coffee table dentistry should be.
And a tonsil wavers in the background, it is a headless decomposing goose hanging from the throat ceiling, some before and after celebrity mag pages stuffed into the Rothko-hued neck clotting the putrid patter of effluent onto the kind of tongue a prolapsing hyena suffering from bloody diarrhea, has been arse-surfing back and forth upon in its virulent death throes. And someone is on the tongue in a Fiat 500 practicing three point turns and emergency stops for their upcoming driving test, the conditions are of course rather treacherous. Further down the throat stuck fast is a phlegm-coated chandelier, having once served as an ornamental tonsil during a totalitarian regime of the inner mouth, and symbolically wrenched down by oral revolutionaries, now functions as a filter separating unchewed food fragments, fish bones, pips and stones from the digestibles.
And by the way, having consulted you mother’s toilet cam, I couldn’t help but notice that the toilet paper cupboard was bare, I saw fit to replenish the dispenser at least with an ox tongue perilously close to its expiry date. Anything I can do to help, you know.
I can smell syrupy fresh guts, bad manners and mad banners.
Outside the bar a bull had been tethered by some hunters who demanded they be given time on the mic, the lead was plentiful enough to reach their spot outside. The quintet spoke of having captured the animal alive, I wondered whether it was in fact bull season or if the men had simply acquired the beast at a livestock market.
The gents wrestle the doped up bull around for a good fifteen minute period. This is reminiscent of beginners’ attempts at ice skating. Except there’s no danger of excreta catching one out on the ice rink, unless it is part of a prepared assault.
Some guy has begun to power hose his utility vehicle in a drive opposite the bar, as if to exploit his right-bare-arms or in this case, hose. The contrast disturbs. The particular qualities of artificial materials, the metals, glass, plastic and rubber, visually crash and embed themselves in the panicing angles of the beast, a thoroughly necessary contact improvisation doomed to fail.
The splicing together of Christain/Islamic ceremonies animal sacrifice/car washing.
Car cleaning island, there’s a lot of soap around
Twitching sinews and the pathetic flapping pulse of six or seven sewing machine engines trussed together with knuckle and pink cable, winding down now, having had it’s tree trunk neck ineptly opened by a dude using a pen knife as if he were playing a castanet. It doesn’t look like this in the medical illustrations, what with clean shaven side-parted gentlemen bulls displaying neat aspects arrowed and labeled. Innards out of synch, battling the prat-like street air.
As a display of machismo they had stripped to their relevant college football shirts and using an arsenal of Sheffield steel spoons, nail clippers and library cards with the edges filed to razor like sharpness.