How very funny!
Well, There you have it! Allow yourself to bask for one
more moment if the breathless ecstasy of the words that have just
caressed your eyes! And beware of jealous, banjo-slapping men
from the Moan clan! Gossip has it that one of them has actually
stopped pleasuring himself long enough to desecrate paper and pen.
If you come across a copy of his crayon scrawlings, replete with
backwards letters and sentences that end with the word "is", be
sure to use it for the purpose it is best suited...wipe yourself
after visiting the bathroom. I must away! Until my next poetic
interlude, ta ta! And as RuPaul says, "Keep a tight buttocks!"
(a cuffing about the head with the stick of reason)
by Rutherford B. Moan
Hark, do I hear a drum role making my entrance? Indeed I do.... Pseudonyms. Nom de Plumes. Pen names. Bullshit Made-Up Writer's Names. Designs of a writer who cannot take responsibility for what they have to say. I understand that some writers, like Sir Stinky Pants over there, cannot have his delicate ego bruised when people say his point is wrong. However, mark the day when the people rave about his work for he shall come running through the streets saying "Hey! That Sir Beef Wellington guy is me! 'Tis I, the greatest writer in all the land!" If people want to complain about my work, they need only mosey to the iconoclast office and ask for Mr. Moan (I have regular office hours Monday through Friday). Do you who use pseudonyms think that the masses of the world care who you really are? When the world found out the Richard Bachman, the Wizard of Oz and Mark Twain really are Samuel Clemmons, Stephen King and that balding man (not necessarily in that order) the world stopped for a second, everyone said "oh that's nice," and went about their business. My colleague here is the chap who gets his paper read out loud in class, anonymously I might add because God forbid his precious delicate flowery little ego takes some face to face criticism, and babbles on about how great it is. Is Halloween your favorite holiday there, Mr. Sir Duke of Bitch Slap or whatever your name might be this week? Ha! Hide behind your falsehoods. If it's your fancy to prance around like a damned fool doing the Frisky Dance and proclaiming yourself Sir Slappy Stink Monkey, go ahead. I throw down my literary gauntlet in challenge for you to be more concerned about what you write instead of WHO you write as. If you, sir, wish to preach your bogus ideas from a bully pulpit masked by some witty nom de plume, do not do so near me.
And so concluded the voice of reason. I have spoken. Off I shall trot into the
horizon with my esteemed partner (my esteemed partner whom I know the true identity of but shall not disclose out of some sort of respect for him I suppose. It's not like his profound writing would bring the commoners en masse to his door
step with torches if they knew who he really was) to further inform you on the troubles of society another time. Thank you and goodnight.
by Andy Roberts
Killing her was different. The act would be premeditated, barbarous, inhuman, unforgivable. How could he end the life of someone he loved more than himself? Was she awful enough to kill?
As he wrestled with the questions, he opened the black, hard-plastic case. It was lined with gray foam meant to protect the valuable contents. He removed the shiny, black pistol and felt the weight pulling his hand down. It seemed heavier now than ever before. He checked the chamber to make sure it was unloaded. With a full magazine of bullets, he loaded the pistol and checked the safety lever to make sure it was in the RoffS position. The pistol welcomed him and was ready and its weight increased. He slid the top of the pistol back and caused a bullet to enter the cham ber. "Killing's easy," he remembered from the war. With the muzzle aimed at its target, he pulled the trigger. The pain was gone.