busblog

nothing in here is true

  1. Tuesday, December 31, 2002

    the end of the old year 

    the crows came down.

    fuckers.

    what are you doing here?

    why me? what the hell have i done to you and they caw theyre so happy that its me this time.

    theyve been sitting on the light poles, waiting.

    they fly above and when i look they land on a clothesline but theyre so big and fat that the line sags and they flap and then tuck their wings behind their back when stability has returned, cocking their head to the side to get a good look at me and my sneer.

    caw, motherfuckers, caw.

    then another one arrives landing on the statute of jebidiah springfield and then another on a fence post and another on an empty clay pot.

    i pull out my .38 and pick the one off the pot and his brothers scatter, cawing. awaiting the flock.

    i see one on the street-cleaning sign and nail him. then another on a trash can, gone.

    i take off the silencer because these birds dont understand, i am not the one to fuck with. i am not the one that they get to harrass anymore. they are the bringer of bad tidings and i am the bringer of joy.

    bam, motherfucker and its loud this time. im just walking up the block, get the fuck away from me. the gun’s barrel is warm against my lower back and in my wake is the death of sadness and fear.

    talk to me birds. tell me why you’re doing this. tell me before i kill you all.

    but they stalk me. they lurk. theyve got the numbers and still i confuse them. they hear the wiz and if it doesnt register to them.

    it must have been a mosquito but wasnt their cousin there?

    oh, look, he’s on the ground with just one wing flapping and look now its not flapping. who is this dark shadow, why wont he stand still, why do the leaders keep changing?

    whats that he’s got pointed at me?

  2. the other day i had to help demolish one of my favorite baseball stadiums. 

    it wasnt a beautiful stadium.

    it was generic, round, full of crappy astroturf, greecian, dull, drab, white.

    some might consider it ugly.

    but it was the home of the big red machine led by my hero, pete rose.

    i dont care if he bet on baseball. i hope bet on baseball. when i bought options of the dot com that i worked at i was betting on my team.

    keeping pete rose out of baseball based on that antiquated rule makes as much sense as if the catholic church kicked a female parrishioner for dressing like a man. f baseball and f the catholic church.

    friggin catholic convention here in the pits of hell. priests for days.

    turns out that the Good Lord doesnt like it when you change his texts and include nuns no sex for priests and a laundry list of made up shit in the name of God.

    and child molestation is even frowned upon down here.

    they like creativity here more than youd think. which is why they like to punish with repetition.

    poor joe strummer. got sent down here nearly right away. he’s been singing “straight to hell” non stop. i used to love that song.

    it’s not coca-cola

    it’s rice.

    straight to hell, boys.

    straight to hell, boys.

    nothing the demons like more than tearing down buildings.

    lot of times they’ll tie up priests and put the explosives in all the typical places, then arrange the long fuses, set up the cameras and watch it over and over in slo mo later that night.

    please take me home

    the dreams keep coming. last night i was trying to gaurd shaq and it was one of those games where the refs had swallowed their whistles and shaq’s big fucking arm kept pounding me in the chest, and i wanted to flop but how do you flop? shaq will just step on you and crush you and cuz it was a dream i didnt remember that i was already dead. flop fucker, flop!

    so i tried to get in a fight with him.

    i told him that his momma made me dinner and sucked me off real good.

    he just smiled.

    i said she took out her teeth and gummed me good.

    i told him that i said, gum me, grandma, gum me.

    See me got photo photo

    photograph of you

    and Mamma Mamma Mamma-san

    shaq just steamrolled me harder.

    i said dont be jealous, im sure she’ll give you some.

    of you and mamma mamma mamma san

    as riverfront smoldered we smoked menthols nibbled on devils food and listened to the muffled groans of the damned as the sun rose over the river.

    King Solomon he never lived round here

    Go straight to hell boys

    that broken girl

  3. Monday, December 30, 2002

    hell hath no fury like a woman scorpion 

    not everyone gets to keep their bodies when they get sent to hell.

    tailgaters are sometimes turned into trees. the devil will make them just stand there for a couple hundred years. then maybe turned into a house. then torn down. never burned. that would be too cute. he’d waterlog the wood. warp it. then allowed to float down styx back home to be reassigned.

    some get turned into bugs. some into animals. some into peoples pets. some get turned into dangerous animals. some get turned into fish.

    i used to be afraid of fish and when i got down here and they showed me my file it was cuz a long time ago i was sent to hell and then turned into a fish and had to swim around in the dark cold depths of the atlantic for a few dozen years.

    apparently a while back i was given a reprieve from whatever i was doing and reassigned as a lightskinned black american male born to a well educated middle class family and raised in the suburbs in the midwest.

    now, apparently, the giver of grace was not very happy with what i did with those blessings.

    so there i was banging some girl at the sex palace and all of this was dawning on me. life is all context. perspective. compared to contracting stds nightly in the pits of pandemonium, flying chopper one across the skies of hollywood wasnt so bad.

    and if i didnt like it, it wasnt like i was some old growth redwood, i could go do something else with my life. i could actually take control of my destiny as opposed to waiting on the universe to decide.

    f the universe.

    the universe is 2/3s lost souls doing what some guy more lost than them is telling them what to do.

    i was getting used to my demonic body. my thing wasnt falling off any more. the crowd didnt flamethrow me as much any more. usually they waited until the end when i wasnt looking. then they all laughed and then applauded my incinerated smoking remains.

    that night i went to bed and before i did i heard a still soft voice.

    tony

    yes?

    today is the last day of the year.

    it is?

    yes, do you know what that means down here?

    no, i dont.

    it means that you can be judged again.

    it does?

    yes, are you sorry for what you did to get here?

    yes i am.

    do you think youve learned some valueable things here?

    oh yes. definately.

    do you think youd make a better person if you were given another chance?

    oh yes! yes i would!

    and then i woke up.

    still in hell.

    it was just a dream.

    and then my dirty rag of a pillow said.

    nobody gets out of hell.

    dumbass.

    Jack Bogdanski of Portland, Oregon

  4. there are no days off in hell. no holidays. no personal days. no vacations 

    but the kids like to keep a nice sense of humor so on mondays people stand around the coffee maker and ask each other how their weekends were.

    banged a cheerleader by the tire fire.

    sure she was a woman?

    i dont ask, they dont tell.

    everything ends up nightmarish anyway, so if you open your eyes and that playmate is really a mountain goat, it wouldnt suprise me. i dont want to say im jaded, i guess ive just grown used to the horrific hallucination that is this hellish afterlife.

    grits turn into maggots. beer turns into light beer. a vote for gore turns into a vote for bush.

    a lot of time if youre trying to eat a steak it’ll get right off the table and run back onto the carcass of the dead beast.

    and people really dont know how to cook anything medium-well here. it’s either rare or burnt.

    Heaven has all the best chefs.

    thanks to the xbi, on earth i never dreamed that much. here i dream all the time. its how they torture me. i’ll be in a meadow having a picnic with a french girl. the sun will be shining, the blanket will be spread out. the wicker basket is buldging with goodies. i uncork the wine without even a corkscrew. the wind is blowing out to left gently. no ants anywhere. no bees. no crows.

    shes naked.

    her girlfriend appears over the dale with an armful of freshly picked wildflowers. nude, except for her big floppy sunhat and a wet tshirt that says busblog.

    a string quartet comfortably sitting under a weeping willow goes through several of aerosmiths greatest hits, their melodies drifting away in the breeze.

    a mexican icecream man pushes his cart and rings his sleighbells and calls out in spanish that he has some sort of frozen treats.

    a lion lays down with a lamb

    and they rot in fast motion

    the mexican icecream man scoops up the mess and puts it into his cart, it freezes and he sells it to the children for seventy five cents.

    the french girl’s friend seems to be skipping closer to us but she never makes it over the dale.

    the quartet is playing Incubus.

    theres no food in the basket.

    the wine is non alcoholic.

    my breasts have developed.

    fimoculous

  5. the tv in hell sucks. 

    sunday evenings i like to watch the sopranos and the simpsons. the sopranos are over for a while, thats fine, but i still have the simpsons.

    not tonight though.

    pissed my ass off.

    my mom has been reading Blook and she says that it’s very visual. she also says she cant put it down.

    that makes me happy again.

    right before i was gruesomely murdered i had just sketched out the rough draft of For Your Ass, the long awaited sequel to Blook.

    i emailed it to courtney love, but it might have bounced back. her mailbox gets full a lot.

    drudge was on the radio tonight.

    in hell they love drudge.

    he was going off about how the movie industry shouldnt be so happy because they had a decent year.

    he said that in 1959 people went to 40 movies a year, today they only go to 5.

    but back then tickets only cost like a dime. so your annual expense to the movies was $4?

    you know what, forget it. he was annoying. everyone laughed.

    they hadnt laughed that hard since when trent lott said that the reasons the democrats are after him is because he’s a Christian.

    thats one of the little jokes down here.

    most of the guys down here werent Christians till they got sent here. but now it’s too late. plus its not even faith any more. we saw him.

    it’s easy to believe in someone you can see.

    so if one of the demons on earth want to throw out a little ironic bitterness, they identify themselves as Christians.

    trent lott a Christian?

    not everyone has to spend eternity in the pits of hell shovelling lava and being whipped by hooved taskmasters who have chariot wheels for hind legs.

    some are allowed to spend time in Earth.

    of course theres a catch.

    you will either be superdeformed.

    or dumb as a rock.

    or blind and smelly.

    or a chicago cubs fan.

    or the enivitable victim of a horrendous attrocity or tragedy.

    and even though you’d think that some of their life would be better than a day in hell, youre wrong because they know something really super terrible is going to happen, so dont enjoy the good because it might happen right when your mouth is open and your eyes are closed.

    and this terribleness is from the hometown of evil.

    a name you can trust.

    fast hard deep

  6. Sunday, December 29, 2002

    there is a newspaper here in hell. 

    it’s pretty bad.

    i think it’s called the Los Angeles Times.

    These people have the opportunity to talk to and write about some of the most fascinating people in the world, and they dont.

    All the coolest people in the world stroll through this here every day. Is that represented in the newspaper? no.

    its the capitol of entertainment. is the Calander section that incredible? if it were, there wouldnt be soooo much room for variety, the hollywood reporter, the la weekly, and eonline.

    but what do i know?

    today they had me sending off spam.

    apparently theres big money in penis enlargement cream and university diplomas.

    it was my job to write fake-out spam. the idea was to make an email that didnt look like spam but that would make someone click it so that theyd go to the webpage, which of course would launch a half dozen pop up ads.

    unfortunately i was a little too good at this, so sorry if i got you.

    anyway the Times chose to interview me yesterday morning.

    i caught a breif glace at it on the newstands today, but with all the fire down here, newpapers last about 10 seconds after the newsboys toss it from their trucks.

    how have you enjoyed your stay in hell so far?

    this is a terrible place. i hate it.

    whats your favorite part of hell?

    hmmm thats a good question. probably the freedom to be creative.

    was it what you thought it would be?

    sorta. i didnt think you would be able to eat so much, or that youd be able to have sex, and i never imagined it smelling so bad. fuck!

    did you leave a will on earth?

    yes, i gave everything to the united negro college fund.

    what do you miss the most?

    are you kidding me?

    no, really, what?

    ice cream.

    are you sorry for the things that you did that brought you here?

    yes.

    how much?

    lots.

    you dont sound like it.

    maybe you should listen closer.

    what do you want to accomplish here?

    i want to meet a nice girl and settle down.

    sometimes i feel like im just chasing my tail.

    1000 journals

  7. Saturday, December 28, 2002

    one of the strangest surprises of being in hell is the fact that you can have sex. 

    of course you cant always get it up.

    and your schween isn’t very big.

    and most of the only girls who will do it with you have hair in the wrong places.

    and bad breath.

    and oozing sores.

    and sometimes spare testicles

    that ooze.

    but it is sex.

    only place you get to have sex, however, is in the sex palaces.

    people pay big money to watch people have sex in the sex palaces, because it is the the strangest show in the universe.

    everyone in the stands are given flame throwers.

    if the fans don’t like the “performers”, they get to flame throw them.

    the winners get flame thrown too, but the couple get to kiss first.

    ive had sex twice at the sex palace.

    the first time i got flamethrown right away cuz i couldn’t get it up.

    if you had seen this “woman” you would understand.

    she tried to pretty-up her donkey tail with a pink ribbon but her ability to swat away the horseflies was not only disconcerting but distracting.

    first they laughed while pointing at me

    then i was fired upon with a bukkake of flame.

    i was allowed to beat off on the stage of one of the sideshow tents, but still i consider that sex.

    terms change here.

    there are 41 different words for agony.

    theres a bunch of guys who run around telling you that they believed in God their whole lives, why would He send them to this pit?

    and i tell them that i don’t know.

    and these men cry right in front of me.

    and i tell myself, it’s probably an illusion. your mind is playing tricks on you. it could all be a big fakeout. don’t trust don’t trust.

    how do these people buy cotton candy here on the midway?

    i don’t even have pockets.

    or pants.

    everythings on fire. i walk on hot coals and it hurts and my feet blister, but i just let the tears flow. it’s almost like photosynthesis.

    the fire creates pain, the pain creates energy that gets released in locomotion and cooled with tears, which keeps the body moving.

    its pretty fucked up.

    the music is good though.

    dan the goose

  8. Friday, December 27, 2002

    i did pretty good on the college girl. 

    made her seriously reconsider some of her dreams, and i broke her spirits in a few places.

    so then they sent me on the team that was working on the Associated Press.

    the AP was deciding who was going to be their Female Athelete of the Year.

    we didnt want Serena Williams to win. satan doesnt like it when young Black girls from compton step into the lilywhite world of women’s professional tennis and completely dominate in spite of her agressively original style, form-fitting outfits, and colorful family.

    satan wanted the sexy swedish golfer annika sorrenstam to win.

    he felt sorry for her that shes been so overlooked despite clearly being the most consistantly powerful womens golfer over the last few years.

    and shes hot.

    so it was my job to join the chorus of whispers into the ears of the associated press female athelete of the year committee.

    some of the things i said were:

    you cant name a black tennis player the athlete of the year.

    if you give serena the award, youre also awarding her creepy parents.

    serena’s too black and too proud.

    how you gonna give a sista with dyed blonde hair an award? sheeeeeet.

    you know venus throws the games against her.

    steriods., the girl is on steroids.

    of course big black girl like that is gonna beat the hell out of a little cute frail white girl like… jennifer capriatti.

    dont encourage them.

    didnt mia hamm do anything interesting this year? oh yeah, she got engaged to nomar, give it to her.

    youre going to hate yourself when she poses nude in playboy in a few years.

    liberal press!

    didnt matter.

    serena won by a landslide.

    when we got back to hell, we were punished by having to watch the lakers lose to sacramento.

    then we got jabbed at with long pokers that reached all the way into the heavens.

    true boy

  9. Thursday, December 26, 2002

    i was in hell. i was dead. 

    i had done well as a santa claus and then word got out that i was a writer when i was alive. so i got a new assignment.

    before i knew it i had shrunk to the size of a gnat.

    and then i got shrunk to half that size.

    and then they turned me invisible.

    and then they put me into the ear wax of a college girl.

    and this is what they made me whisper.

    youre no good.

    youre too fat

    youre too ugly

    theres a thousand girls prettier than you

    your boobs are too small

    your zits are too big

    youre not smart enough

    you dont look good in your clothes

    your scars show in your pictures

    your daddy was right

    you fuck weird when you fuck

    nobody likes you

    your friends only like you for your money.

    you need to stop lying about having money.

    you’re such a liar.

    your car is going to die on you any day.

    not even the lesbians want you.

    youre going to be homeless soon.

    you’ll never get married.

    your sisters are so much cooler than you.

    i had to do that all day.

    i didnt want to do it but something inside me was making me do it.

    the devil was making me do it.

    i wanted to cry, but i couldnt.

    arizona jailbait

  10. hi kids 

    kurt kobain here filling in for tony while he’s in h-e- double hockey sticks.

    me and some of the angels took a little tour of southern cal yesterday to whip up a little photo essay love for your deserving butts.

    then we got some of the cam girls together to show us what’s what.

    enjoy, rejoice, be merry.

    Blook sales were really good over Christmas. odd, since the author has been dead for a little while and since theres been very little advertising. there might be 5 more left for sale, so if you want it go get it. i doubt there will be a second printing.

    happy holidays.

    feel free to use the comments to send any wishes to Tony that you might have.

    i plan on seeing him soon and i will print them out and hand them to him personally.

    your pal,

    kurdt.