The Daily Snark: Vol. 1


Boy, wasn’t Claude Akins Great in Sheriff Lobo? What a Great time in American TV. Simply Great. I mean who knew he could top his Great performance in the Great F Troop? But he kept changing, evolving and never allowed himself to be content with being a Hollywood Icon. He pursued Great. And finally he emboldened Great. And what a lot of people don’t know thanks to general obfuscation and other proletarian tactics by the LAMESTREAM MEDIA is that he was Donald Trump’s father. So consider this: Claude was an Indian,  Lobo is Mexican for wolf, his deputy on Lobo was a hermaphrodite (at least I’ve been told) and last but not least, is there any word that rhymes with orange? So you see Herr Trumpf had all those bases covered, those boxes checked, way before Killary was procuring sex babies in pizza parlors and secret passageways to ivory towers up and down the Elitist East Coast. So come with me and embrace a Great past that never existed. One catch though, I think all the TV’s are going to be in black and white…sad_frowning_smiley_face_post_cards-rc3c949719fb14aba8fd28854be72ae41_vgbaq_8byvr_512

Searching For Larry Screws


I wake up and feed the dogs. I’ve lost track of a couple of Prozacs so take my dog’s. Same dose. Her’s is cheaper though. Go figure. I have a pot of coffee. Try to decipher my dreams. Am I gay? Will a violent death befall me? Is the dream of falling some atavistic remnant of our primordial primate tree-dwelling days? I burn a stick of incense. Frankincense. It reminds me of Catholic Church. Forgive me father for I have sinned.

What have I done? My whole life. You tell me. Convince me otherwise. My whole life. The entire breadth of it seemed heading in the right direction before swerving down a contrary course. But there are one or two things along the way that I can’t shake.

One was grabbing Adrianna Goodheart’s tit while I kissed her. She slapped me. Hard. No she said. Was that a tongue? I meant to ask her but that was it. The next day her boyfriend burned down our fort and my mom found our Penthouse magazine buried in a toolbox underneath the fake astro-turf carpet we had stolen from the mini-golf range’s dumpster when the firemen pulled it back to make sure all the fire was out.

The other thing was the Penthouse. Two things about that. One, there was a really hot lesbo scene in it.  A blonde and a brunette in Nazi apparel getting it on on a big white shag carpet before a roaring fire in some Gothic cabin in Sudetenland. Who the fuck knows where? They may have been vampires. I didn’t get that blonde/brunette dichotomy but it made me harder than Chinese Algebra. A few years earlier I got my first hard-on watching Raquel Welch in Fantastic Voyage on TV. I was dry-humping the floor so vigorously my parents thought I was having a seizure. My brother knew what was what but he just sat off to the side laughing letting me get psychoanalyzed by those two.

Second thing about the mag was an interview with a writer named Larry Screws. He had a mohawk and taught college in Alabama or someplace or another. Something about snakes, cars and bodybuilders and Southern Gothic. I thought, fuck, if this Gothic is like that other Gothic with vampires and buxom broads in black leather corsets count me in. See, I would finish my work first in school and go read the encyclopedias in the back waiting for everyone to get finished so I learned a lot but can’t necessarily put it all together.  It’s like knowing how a car works when you’re a kid; if you stand up you can steer it but your feet don’t reach the pedals. If you sit down to work the pedals you can’t see where you’re going.

So now I had nothing but an incipient Nazi Vampire Lesbian Fetish and a quest to find all the works or any of the works of Larry Screws. I was 10 years old. Our Republic was 200. Adriana’s hair smelled like some fruit that existed only on the labels of my cousin’s shampoo bottles. Can you blame me? Guess I’m not asking for forgiveness after all.  But what it is I’m asking for I don’t know. Don’t know at all. Sorry.

Copse Is a Small Group of Trees


If integrity is doing the right thing

When no one is watching

Does it make a sound?


Is loving fearlessly

The same thing as

Dancing while no one is watching?


Six is to one

As a half-dozen is to the other

I suppose.


But no one asked me.

I butted in.

Silently as the voices in your head.

Ten Fifteen Minute?


“Write what’s under your nose” –  William Carlos Williams

When he woke up from the night before, always to the new day, to the next dawn until tomorrow would rise again, the first thought that bubbled up from the back of his throat was an acrid burp that mostly got filtered through his dental bridge. The bilious mixture swelled his cheeks. Still too drunk to get out of bed and make it to the bathroom. Instead he swallowed hard.

A few years back he got his front teeth knocked out with a beer bottle. Uppers and lowers. New Year’s Day morning at 3 am. A red stoplight. A green bottle of Heineken. A fresh muted gray snow on the ground.

He picked up the receipt from the Chinese place and tried to discern the garbled notes. He had taken to putting a pen and paper on the nightstand to record his somnambulist sonnets, little odes he composed in the nether states between and betwixt sleep and awake. But he never could recall them. He hoped this would help. But that bottle. Shit yes. He felt the teeth breaking jagged and sharp in his mouth. That moment was encased in that early below freezing Pennsylvania morning. But who was interested in that? He’d forget it. He just couldn’t.

The sonnet itself was nothing. Paint by numbers. The meter, the rhyme, the couplet. A subtle tweak to make it obscure. Who the fuck read sonnets anymore? People who wrote sonnets, that’s who. And they’re all willing to pay good hard-earned attention to them. If only he could pay for his groceries with such attention. When he ran out of funds would he have attention deficit disorder? He wasn’t broke or bad with money, he had ADD.

Love is like a bird a light on a wire

Love’s like a bird a light on a wire

Love is a bird alighting on a wire

Love’s a bird alighting on a wire

Goddamn he was hungry.

Then the dog nudged open his bedroom door and eyed him with a doleful, beseeching look.

Oh, Bartleby…

His dog said in that faux British accent You’re going out of your mind You realize that, don’t you? Now take me out. I have to roll a stogie. The Browns are heading to the Super Bowl. Gotta drop the pups off at the pool…so to speak.

Oh Bartleby, “When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my attention?”




He could understand the first two but the last one always gave him trouble. Meh, he said to himself, I guess I just don’t find Commie Jew Fags sexually attractive.

What, think I do? Asked the mutt rhetorically incredulous. There was that time in the rescue kennel but one does what they can to survive, you know? Hey, I really gotta go.

Don’t we all? And he fell back to bed.

Hey, Plato, you’re the one who downgraded me to Soylent Green Puppy Chow. It’s your security deposit not mine.

Bartleby did his business. He picked it up with a blue velvet bag from an old bottle of Royal Velvet his father had given him on his deathbed while imploring him to pour it down his feeding tube. He did as any good son would and feeling particularly magnanimous and shined on by the light of a soon-to-be-disbelieved and refuted God let his father sniff the cap afterwards since it had taken the express into his gut. That was years ago. Now he used the bag to Stay Green and tied it off  on the way to the dumpster. The big, blue dumpster.

Absent-mindedly he began cataloging all the colors he had seen that morning. The few that had managed to slip through the gray so far. Lost in the reverie he didn’t notice that Bartleby had scrounged a chicken bone at the dumpster. Ah, poor people and their dubious meat. They sure ate a lot of bone-in chicken, drank a lot of light beer and ate innumerable sacks of chicharones. No wonder he’d see buzzards settling on the big, blue dumpster. Scavengers loved the poor. Buzzards black as night.

Buzzards black as night a-light the dumpster…

Down on the corner they were lining up the speakers for the day. It was Sunday and this was the new religion. The cathedral shined brightest on the cloudy days. When the sun made its rare appearance one could see the paint flaking. The Purveyors of Truth were heralding a new epoch: “Post-Patina” they called it. The paint flaked nevertheless. Small children gathered the detritus and sprinkled it on their corn flakes. When they ran out of corn flakes they sprinkled it on the bottom of their bowls. When they ate through the bottoms of their bowls their parents slipped them over their necks like e-collars.

The cuddled masses were huddled together breathlessly in the January chill. But the cold weather was a dry cold. The only evidence of any respiration was the indeterminate collective metronomic rasping in and out and the occasional muttered whimsy of perdition allayed for another day. The morning smelled of pennies.

A man approached the podium. Stood on a soap box for verisimilitude. He exhorted the crowd with gestures of a man making shadow puppets in a darkened room.

Put your hands on your hips.

Now swing like this.

Give your selves some space.

Now remember the people who touched your elbows.

They’ll be dead one day.

And so will you.

And though Heaven is our Great Reward who amongst us doesn’t want many miles to go before we sleep?

Perhaps that person next to you?

Get your lottery tickets here…

Just another shill. He bought one anyway. Bartered the Blue Velvet bag for it. The tickets were Scratch and Sniff. Had to smell like money to win. His smelled like the room where they found his Grandfather dead in his recliner, redolent of True cigarettes and his Ike Jacket pock marked with holes like a  many-eyed monster in a child’s nightmare or pissholes in the dirty snow.

Fuck it. If life is just a copy of an idea time to flip the script. He and Bartleby headed back to the hearth.

He returned to the sonnet. Birds and wires. Love. Love was a kick in the nuts at 2 a.m. as it crawled into bed smelling like oil-based deceit after a night out with “the girls, painting sunflowers and drinking chardonnay…what you don’t believe  me?” Love had the canvases to prove it.

No, that’s not love. Never was. Love is looking till you find it. Then not knowing what the fuck it is when you do. Ah, shit, hangovers made him hungry and cynical, terse.

He turned over the sonnet/ receipt. Picked up the phone.

China Garden how may I help?

He cupped his hand over the phone and whispered to Bartleby Thank god for the Chinese.

Taiwanese most likely.


Taiwanese. I was reading online the other day…

That’s it, I’m changing all my passwords.

How many combinations of our birthdays do you think there are?

Returning to the call he said King Kong plays ping-pong in Hong Kong with his ding dong


Cupping the phone again he turned to Bartleby All these fucking questions.

Bartleby licked his balls.

No. No MSG…Wait. Yes! Yes, please lots of MSG, on a scale of 1-5 make it a 27!

Ok. King Kong plays ping-pong in Hong Kong with his ding dong. MSG 27.

You got it pardner. He sniffed the empty bottle of Blue Velvet on the nightstand. They had buried the cap with the old man.

Ten fifteen minute?

He wasn’t sure he could hold out that long. But what the fuck. Did he have a choice?

How Many Mules Does It Take to Drown a Donkey?


By then wouldn’t you think we realized that we had all pretty much gotten what we deserved?

After all, closer inspection showed Justice’s blindfold to be nothing more than a nylon from some Pre-WWII Kresge’s (it felt shamefully arousing on manifold levels so we passed it quickly from one to another)  and not the well tanned buffalo leather mask our forefathers’ forefathers slaughtered the great herds for on the expansive whispering prodigal plains until their bones bleached a particular shade of European white. We felt like lemmings pushed off a cliff. This was the sudden stop?

Is this the sudden stop? I asked

Wait, I got one of them blindfolds in my trunk, it will be a restorative relic! Cartwright exclaimed and bounded off the reservation.

Whoa  whoa I tried to assuage the murmuring masses My cousins and kin didn’t name this. They used words like yoke, chicken, bread of life. Filibuster was something to suffer after Uncle Stash got into the potato wine.

Are we not all linked inextricably like schoolchildren on the playground of life playing crack the whip?

But they were having none of it. The Cartwright returned.

Sorry, its imitation crabmeat cocktail. Nibbling a small bit he announced, Nope, hasn’t turned yet…but it’s getting there. The melange swarmed like seagulls far from the littoral lips of the great salt waters. Some of the unsated chewed their fingers off.

Look Look I said strapping a few of the sticks over my brow. They do wonderful things with imitation meat these days. Not to be Platonic but it’s the idea of the thing that matters, yes?

I jumped headfirst into the frothing liquid that had stolen surreptitiously up the street like an ocean of tears mingled with puddles of piss. I banged my head on the crumbling asphalt. The depth was only ankle deep.

Ferguson said See, proves my point. Besides how do we know what dinosaurs looked like if we weren’t alive at the same time?

The salt tickled my nose. At least I hoped it was salt. A woman was videotaping me with her phone. It may have been a cookie sheet. No shit, it was that big.

I was overcome by nostalgia for snickerdoodles. This is going to go viral she said to me. Snickerdoodle bubbled up in my tepid reply.

But I couldn’t let it go. I struggled with it like a pitbull from a puppy mill trying to sink its canines into the jawbone of an Ass. I rifled through the imaginary rolodex in my head. Engage them. Engage them with anything. Or die.

Marco? I said turning my head so my mouth was above the meniscus puckering like a catfish singing into the void but my ears had already flooded so who knows how it sounded?