SCRIPT: “Sally BJ.“
TITLE SEQUENCE. Over the titles, a man is MOANING and the SUCKING sounds of a sloppy blowjob is heard.
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To celebrate this momentous and glorious reunification of fingers and keys and blog posts and ramblings, I’m posting some crap scripts I pumped out for some short films that made it as far as a few snippets of myself talking to a tree. Enjoy.
I had a dream that I was human
Whispered to me through parting fingers
Of hands held aloft before my eyes
Through Morpheus’ haze, the nightmare lingers
To be human, to be man
To be that which dare not understand
I am more, I am less
I am the dreamer awake and in distress
Slumber’s machinations, Sandman’s tinkers
I rub my eyes but still the nightmare lingers
I had a dream that I was human
Til dawn dispelled my nighttime illusion
Roy used to skate real well. Had himself some sponsorship and pictures printed on glossy cover pages of some skate magazines. Roy had a real handsome smile and a tucked dick that looked like a pussy when he flashed his pubes to anyone unfortunate enough to see. I tagged along with Roy on his first-ever B&E—not that either of us knew it at the time.
We stopped by Sandra Sossaman’s house for some zah and some pussy. Not that anyone wanted to fuck Sandra, but Sandra was always one to have a pretty friend on hand to keep boys lurking round in case one ever did get sex-nuts enough to fuck Sandra’s furry patch of fuck-no. The door was unlocked—Sandra and her mom never locked the place—and we were inside when we realized no one was home.
Feeling like true rogues we scarfed up some pizza and took a piss in the backyard before making our leisurely exit. It was a funny story we shared with one another on days with no action. A couple weeks later we found out that Sandra’s had been burglarized. What was to be expected to be taken was took and Sandra and her mom started locking their doors.
A year or two later and I saw Roy again after he was away in juvie. He got himself a taste for uninvited entrances and purloined himself a pistol and some jewelry before getting busted. Roy still had that boyish smile I remembered but something in his eyes told me Roy was no longer the Roy who would skateboard and kick cans with me while bullshittin’ about zah and pussy.
A few years after High School and I found out Roy got popped from behind while making hasty flight from a bad case of angry-gun-owner-woke-up-to-excuse-for-gun-usage. Roy got caught with a slug to the back of the skull that scooped out his grey thinker along with that boyish face that used to smile at me when we’d talk about walking into Sandra Sossaman’s and eating all her pizza.
Roy was buried in a Jewish cemetery alongside his mother…
I didn’t even know Roy was Jewish.
If you told me that the best wine was white wine, I’d take your word for it. If you told me God loves all the babies and the little children, I’d probably think to myself that God was a pedophile and I’d laugh and not let you privy to the joke. If you told me that the greatest experience in life is watching a baby being born, I’d say “Fuck—you.”
No, the best experience in life is with a cock in a puss (or a cock in the ass or a tongue in the twat for all you homos and lessies out there) and making a little human is an accidental and detrimental by-product of a very happy, very selfish, and very short-sighted venture into the most ancient of acts.
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You’re gone and there’s nothing left to say.
You’re gone and there’s so much I need to say.
You’re gone and there’s nothing I’m gonna say to bring you back.
I love you, like no other.
Your unceremonious departure seemed too swift.
Your last breathe wheezed for what seemed so agonizingly long.
Your eyes lingered on me as the light fled beyond my grip.
I love you, forever, like no other.
You knew that you were beloved in your days.
You knew I held nothing back when I said I loved you in every way.
You knew that but why do I still feel like there weren’t enough times to say?
I love you, forever, like no other, and I miss you always.
“Son, one day I am going to die and the next time that you see me it will not be as the man who loved you and raised you and protected you but it will be as a demon come to murder you in the most gruesome and violent way possible. I’ve done my best to prepare you for that day, but when it comes I cannot promise it will be easy. I can only promise that it will be hell unimaginable if you do not succeed.”
The deepest cut is that which cleaves
A piece from the whole of identity.
For does a soul in any state but totality
Bear in semblance to infinity?
The deepest cut is that which dissects;
Unravels the tapestry sewn artfully.
To witness spirit incomplete is the perspective
Of the eyes cast down to the floor of a golden palace.
The deepest cut is that which we make
When in the silences of honesty burgeoning, lies we place.
To speak not the truth is not to do and not to be.
To leave wound unmended, silence the truth and truth do not seek.
The origins of the word ‘fatal’ as in ‘fatality’ are tied to ‘fate.‘ From the same ancient scholars who brought us the tragedies of Oedipus Rex and the Odyssey where the characters’ lives were dictated by preordained events that would happen despite the struggles of both mortal and god alike to change things otherwise, ‘fate’ most often invokes two things: death and the struggle. Life is the struggle and death is the secret end known by all men. The knowledge is ingrained within silence pouring through the cemetery row and the secret is the unspoken, unacknowledged agreement that the now is spent living (through laughter, sweat, and sorrow) and some end lies waiting elsewhere. Death lies outside the consciousness of now, lurking on some highly-trafficked side street, the nodule forming within a lung, or the frustrations built within the heart of a misguided soul.
With all things in life, one attempts to create, cooperate with, rebel against, and abandon certain paths of thought and action thus touching upon the markers left to us by our genes (both dormant and expressed), our ancestors (of country and familial), our convictions (both learned and adopted), our vices, our allies, and our opposition. Concluding in our ultimate fate, everything we shall ever do becomes the roadmap to how we lived, would ever live in those circumstances, and shall always have lived as was done. Let there be little to no ceremony when dealing with my remains should I be hit by bus tomorrow or murdered by a cabal of gibbons on my deathbed at the ripe old age of 216.
I wish to be cremated and for my ashes to be spread onto a pile of shit so that I may in death unite with what I most often was figuratively associated with in life. May I be just as reviled post-mortem as was in life by those “civilized” beings and may I be a friend to the dogs, the maggots, the mushrooms, and the trees. If I am to have a marker of any sort let it be as impermanent as my bones; let it be some decrepit rock mid-crumble and if it is to have anything written upon it let there be no name but only the words “So it goes.” And so I go, departed from blood and bone into soil and root and so the world goes, onward ’til civilization crumbles and the stars burn out so that others may take their place.
From pieces comes the complex and from deconstruction comes resources for something new. From organs come organisms, the fossils of an ancient empire of lizards come propellant to send a descendent of primates outside the gravitational bounds of the Earth, and from the corpses and decay of man, country, and the environment come new forms and ways of life.
I was driving down an unmarked country road one night when something bolted onto the roadway. Normally, necessity dictates that one should speed up when hitting country fauna so as not to have a large beast roll up onto the hood and through the windshield. This was far from animal though as it had a vaguely humanoid silhouette. I had no time to steer around this living roadway obstruction. I slammed on the brakes and in the span of a couple heartbeats, the thing came into my view. Illuminated by the headlights of my car, I saw it standing there nearly eight feet tall: JFK.
The former president was a magnificent and frightening defiance of nature. He must have weighed over 400 pounds and had the eyes of a cat that pierced into my erotic soul. The fright that flooded into my heart was too much. Through astral projection, I exited my body and fled to another plane of existence. Along the way I saw a ghost piloting a UFO…
I am the Walrus.