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Durex Blender Corporation 009
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E ||==// \\==// || \\ ||==|| || || #009-RT02 -- [08/20/91]
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Irrelevant Prose
Volume Two: Boxer Shorts
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by Random Tox
Televised Executions
--------------------
Everybody died. Everyone. Every single human being on the planet Earth,
Terra, died. It happened soon after World President Yassir Johnston followed
up on his pledge to have a television in every home.
The devastating combination of both the power drain (when three billion
people turned on their sets at 8 o'clock) and the brain-damaging quality of
the plethora of mindless programs took its toll. After one week, only ten
percent of the original world population remained, but after CBS bought out
PBS, Earth's doom was sealed, the last man expiring while watching a "Dallas"
re-run.
In every home across the planet, a televesion blared, the loving glow of
sitcom repeats illuminating the rotting corpses sprawled before each set. The
twenty-four hour emission of radiation left its mark as well, as the growing
mases of proletariat housepets began to evolve.
The Quiet Man
-------------
He was a quiet man. He sat there at the table, not moving, not speaking.
Everyone else was chattering, their American voices bleating, "Whaddaya
know?" and "Lemme tell ya something!" The quiet man said nothing.
For a brief moment, the conversation had a lapse, no one speaking, and
the air still. The quiet man said nothing, and his silence was deafening. The
conversation resumed in a moment, with the occasional sidelong glance at the
quiet man.
Dinner finished, and everyone stood and shook hands, mumbling their
goodbyes and reaching for their hats. The quiet man just sat still in his
chair and said nothing. On the way out, Mister Lapson accidentally kicked the
quiet man's chair, knocking the corpse over.
Irish Coffee
------------
Irish Coffee. There it sat, a rich aroma filling the swiss cafe, the
aroma of coffee and liberal amounts of whiskey and various other alcoholic
fluids. Stan was oblivious to it all, and looked over the cafe table at
Elbrun. He smiled and slid his eyeballs up her slim legs, past the
tight-fitting brown miniskirt and the ribbed black pullover that hugged her
torso like Saran Wrap, accentuating her figure. Stan brought his hand to his
mouth, both catching and concealing the string of spittle that hung from the
corner of his mouth. Elbrun looked up and smiled, sipping her coffee in small
mouthfuls, savoring each one and letting it trickle down the back of her
throat, appreciating the fine Swiss workmanship of alcoholic coffees.
Stan grinned back at her, and in the best tradition of the beat poets,
slammed a good deal of the highly-flammable coffee past his tonsils, feeling
the warmth slosh violently in his stomach as it seared its way down his
gullet. He wiggled an eyebrow at Elbrun and grinned smugly with the knowledge
that he was cool.
Stan leaned across the table, his shirtsleeves crackling merrily in the
flame of the solitary candle as he brushed the wick with his elbow. He looked
into Elbrun's eyes and smiled. Then he vomited.
[Note: Any resemblence to persons living or dead may not be a
coincidence. Then again I'm sure Deviator knows who I'm talking about. And as
a sideline, Elbrun is damn real too, quite attractive, and at the time of
this writing, 12 years old. Yeesh! She doesn't look 12. At all. Not close.]
The First Illusion
------------------
I was walking through the park on a crisp spring morning, quite clear-
headed, the cool, damp air chilling my lungs when I inhaled. At the sound of
children's giggling, I glanced over my shoulder in time to see a small brown
and white bulldog run headlong though a tree, passing through unharmed, as if
the tree was not there.
"Well," I thought. "If it is indeed an illusion, that of a moving dog
must certainly be more complex than that of a tree, so the tree must be an
illusion and not the dog." And with this firm logic I backed up, bent over
and charged headfirst at the tree.
A week later I woke up as the nurse was emptying my bedpan. I was never
very good with logic.
The Real Writer (2B or not 2B)
------------------------------
He was a writer. He had all of the apparati: The black shirt, the dark
beret at a provocative angle, the dark sunglasses that prevented him from
hitting the toilet in the grimy cafe men's room, a smouldering cigarette
hanging from his mouth at an impossible tilt, stuck to his lower lip with a
week's worth of stagnant saliva. The straggling hairs of his goatee were
crusty and brittle with the residue left from all the times he had dozed off
and dipped his chin into his cafe-au-lait. Like a real writer, he no longer
washed. He did change his underwear about twice a month or so, in secret, but
he would never admit it to the other writers, who most likely had their own
deep dark secrets.
So he sat in the sidewalk cafe and smoked cigarettes and drank
cafe-au-lait and fell asleep in his food and was a writer. He was a real
writer. He wrote about the streets, the night, drunk people and the other,
equally odiferous writers, the latter two often being the same. He wrote
about hope, love, getting drunk, sex, and the joy of wearing black
turtlenecks. He liked black turtle- necks, they made him feel more like a
real writer.
He sat in the sidewalk cafe until the bartender yelled loud and harsh
things at him in French and threw him out. The owner locked the doors and
left, leaving the writer alone in the gutter, his beret no longer at a jaunty
angle. He cried and thought about hope, love and the odd sewage stains on
his black turtleneck. Unfolding his legs, the writer returned to the attic
flat he shared with two other foul-smelling people, one a poet and the other
a painter. They got drunk together and he vomited.
"I'm very glad to be a writer." He thought, and wrote it down on a piece
of paper. The wind blew the note out the window. He sobbed and watched a
spider burn to cinders in a candle.
"Two wicks." He observed. He was very glad to be a real writer.
[Note: Some "deep" stuff in here... Email me if you understood the "Two
Wicks" bit... . Literary Schnozzle Supreme, neh?]
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(C)1991 by The Durex Blender Corporation & Random Tox
All Rights Revered. Even yours.
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