Scene 1: The super smart Government Agent examines the evidence, which he is totally smart enough to evaluate and come to conclusions from. It is evident that super intelligent terroristic organizations are super-secretly conspiring to do really amazingly astoundingly awful stuff; stuff that is even worse than the amazingly astoundingly awful stuff that the Government Agent’s Country does every single day in about twenty-four disadvantaged countries where they are right now doing stuff that is so awful that anybody would like puke if they heard about like the details of how nasty and specifically torturous the torture is.
Scene 2: the super intelligent and interesting terrorist has totally not always been poor and abused and had it demonstrated that nobody gives a shit about him or people that look like him. It’s just because he’s evil that he is planning a vague and diaphanous super-complicated evil plot with gas or bombs or something internety that you can’t hope to understand, but you’ll never have to worry about it because the super intelligent Government Agent will totally end up secretly foiling all those evil plans because he’s obviously super intelligenter than the terrorist.
Theme: The confluence of these two completely fictional constructs will provide a patently false but apparently plausible narrative & colorful distraction as simple morons take everything from most everybody and give it to some disgusting fuckers that will wank themselves endlessly while the whole world suffers.
$34,000 plus residuals OBO
This Plasmotron 3000 was acquired at GRAVE PERSONAL RISK from the scrapfields of Njuursten, deep inside the arctic circle. An improvised human defense weapon from the final battle in the Robot Wars, 1934. Starting bid: $4,213.
This surprisingly upbeat Moist Towelette album from 2007 was recorded entirely in an abbatoir in Uzbekistan. Band members wore special designer feathered unitards for all sessions, which was, by all accounts, tickly. Features songs:
“Towelette Me In”
“Drive-Thru Windows of my Soul”
“Moist of the Time”
Moist Towelette Album Cover #5: “IF YOUR HANDS ARE CLEAN”
Moist Towelette Album Cover #4: “Royal Fingerbowl”
Moist Towelette Album Cover #3: “American Towelette”
Moist Towelette Album Cover #2: “Oo o”
Moist Towelette Album Cover #1: The eponymous album
(Note to editor: I made the first line so that you can post this ANY TIME)
With these latest reprehensible killings, it finally is evident that the mere proliferation of guns is not adequate to provide safety from being shot. Ever since the Days o’ the Wild West, our understanding as Americans has been that: allowing that the people are provided with enough guns including spy-pen-guns and AR-67’s, and those things with the giant bullets that can kill a moose at a thousand yards, allowing sufficient rapidly-reloadable ammunition in case of attack by an entire Bedouin tribe or every cop in town, allowing that weapons can be carried openly over one’s shoulder at the diner or through the GINORMART or secreted blithely in a brassiere holster in public schools and movie theaters, allowing for these quantifiably significant risks to public safety, MAGIC GOLDEN SHOOTERS will emerge that will shoot only the bad people -instead of all of the perfectly good people that currently get shot all the time- by whippin’ out their Magnum .47 MeatMaker and unloading a clip of hot lead into the INEVITABLE bad shooters, who cannot be controlled with any kind of gun control legislation.
That is our understanding, right? I think that’s what we’ve been going with.
But gosh! It’s not working. I have examined the numbers carefully and regret to inform you that although the people killed with guns should be: terrorists, home invaders, rapists, those bankers with the waxed moustaches and black tophats that tie blondes to traintracks, supercriminal scientists, guys that try to shoot you first, pederasts, people that try to take your stuff, street gangs that threaten with switchblades and cigarettes, etc. -instead of those “perps,” mostly, as Americans we just shoot ourselves or our family or some teachers & kids or the receptionist at our office. That’s too bad!
I put it to you that as Americans, we aren’t training shooters- we’re training gun holders. The establishment of OPEN SHOOTING ZONES, which I recommend as standard for all American Downtown/ Main Street Areas, would allow us to address this absurd oversight in gun safety policy. As I hear it, there used to be a time a man could yank out his six-iron and fire a .53 bore pure copper slug across the tip of his cheroot to ignite it. A lady might choose to get the disrespectful waiters’ attention by spinning his toupee upon his pate with a carefully-aimed pellet from her derringer. In old movies we can view the lost art of shooting so skillfully that very little injury occurs: bad guns are shot from the hands of malfeasors, hats are perforated as a gentle warning against poor behavior, bottles of alcoholic libations in the horny hands of surly hobos are shattered by the bullets of those who would recommend temperance. As I hear it, in the old days, kids as young as four years old used to have tiny, cute guns that they’d use to shoot frogs and cats. That’s great practice! As I hear it, when a gang used to ride into town and hang old Mr Lipthwaite from the trainhook and shoot up the saloon and rob the farmers of their corn payments, a single man in the middle of the street who’s been PUSHED TOO FAR could unzip his zipgun and fan the hammer to blow away like twenty really despicable individuals that society wants dead from behind rain barrels and up on balconies with fragile railings. As I hear it, two people with a minor disagreement used to be able to agree to attempt to shoot each other to death by way of settling the argument, and sometimes they’d draw and the bullets would collide exactly between the two of them and neither would be hurt and they’d be friends again. That rarely happens anymore.
Sadly, our modern”gun holding” public is not prepared to serve up the righteous rain of heroic leaded Armageddon that our movies and media try so valiantly to model for us. They’ve been ruined for the fun of real-life Rootin’ Tootin’ Shootin’, trained as they are to fire weapons only occasionally at sad sterile shooting ranges, under some supervision, and that don’t give you the true urban experience. If you know what I mean.
OPEN SHOOTING ZONES: Because we need to be able to express our guns freely as Americans! To fire them off to make a point, or for the intrinsic humor value inherent in a chunk of metal travelling at 2,500 feet per second. We need to practice shootin’ tin cans off the top of the fence behind P.S. 37 and never mind what Widder Jankens says. We need be prepared to sometimes take a small calibre bullet in the buttocks as a good-natured joke. We need to practice quickly pulling our guns and waving them around and shooting and using them to threaten everyone, the cheesemonger, the maid, ESPECIALLY the police, the boys at the bar, the gals at bridge club, your boss, the kids at breakfast, shoot out the tires of that bad driver, shoot the prissy concierge in his shiny shoe, shoot! Shoot! WAHOO! Shoot! Kapow! PopPOW! WHEEHAW KaBOOM Peeoww! OBVIOUSLY WE JUST NEED MORE PRACTICE AND WE’LL GET THIS RIGHT
Interested sociopathic monied parties in the Gun Industry are welcome to contact the author to pay me billions of blooddollars to frame out some scalable model legislation to promote OPEN SHOOTING ZONES in downtown America: Because people can’t be safe unless we shoot more people.
I’ve been greatly gratified at the purchases by my friends of my recent book “A Slim Volume of Worse” . Also for people historically willing to immerse themselves in Piggleyland’s dysphoric text. And as always, for those who purchase Exquisite von Borax Prints on Paper or Canvas from Imagekind and Stunning von Borax Cards and T-shirts from Zazzle.
I am keeping a list, and the terrible things I threatened probably won’t happen to you people, now.
“A Slim Volume of Worse” compiles poems, correspondences, and short expository prose pieces of a satirical nature. I guess. Selected works have frequently appeared for free as a public service here on nitrovonborax.com, and now here they are in their final, polished form: as a handsome adornment to your erudite bookshelf, I offer 233 pages of dysphoric hilarity, 36,629 words, for money. Please buy 1 copy for every friend you have, and 2 for each enemy.
What’s in it?
82 Heart-Healthy Ingredients:
- My Doctor Sucks.
- The Visitation
- Work Diary Day 89,237
- Internet Proposition 3,496
- The Cap’n’s Wafers
- Weird Dream
- The Amazon’s Mouth
- Parent Diary Day 1,243
- The Druid
- My Evil Twin
- Intellectual Property 4,215: The Family Tub
- Please Don’t Kill Us, Phyllis
- Feel Kinda Weird, for Some Reason
- Stolen Fruits
- The New Equipment
- Internet Proposition 5,214
- The Lament of the Spoons
- Southside Restaurant Review #1
- Murgatroyd’s Edible Hats
- Internet Proposition 7,298
- There is a Man
- Intellectual Property 5, 222: LatteBucket
- Spacegirl & Caveman
- Internet Proposition 12,651
- Wayne Upon the Wooftop
- So Here I Sit
- Intellectual Property 6,534: Hospicetarian
- Fat Ass on Couch
- Intellectual Property 7,110: Clown Porn
- In Solemn Tribute to the Tortured and Exploited Action Figures of My Youth
- Squidboy on the Ceiling
- Every Creeping Thing
- Dream Diary Entry 3,217
- From the 34th Floor
- Disappointing and Creepy
- Intellectual Property 9,937: PorFu
- What God Likes
- Intellectual Property 11,279: 7 People 1 Bathroom
- Intellectual Property 24,005: Correspondence 2,146
- Correspondence 4,111
- Not My Friend
- The Cereal Killer’s Interior Monologue
- My Children Hate Dinner
- The Way it Ends
- Intellectual Property 25,011: The Kreekside Grille Jingle
- Home Improvement Diary
- Ready for Action
- Ones and Zeroes
- Captain Sugarbeard
- Internet Proposition 87,433
- Dig that Giant Clam
- Parent Diary Day 3,218
- Work Diary Day 23,674
- Dance of the Jungle Girl
- Intellectual Property 32,323: Hobo Couture
- Vomit Boy
- Southside Restaurant Review #2
- She Found her Ex-Boyfriend’s Paintbrush
- Karp’s Scoop ‘n’ Bake Frozen Gourmet Muffin Batter
- My Mistake
- Get ‘em While They’re Hot
- 2 Similes and a Metaphor
- Gas Station Rose
- Internet Proposition 88,766
- Mechanically Separated Human
- LAND OF THE GIANTS
- Her Watery Lair
- Notes from the Whine Cellar
- A Pirate Poem
- Rodent Station Number 9
Isn’t that enough for you, already? I should rather think it should be.
(Piggleyland’s still available, too)
(Here’s my soliloquy song for the hero of a Broadway Musical I have in treatment, who’s engaged in difficult profession as the (hitherto) unsung Carnival Vomit Boy.)
If you notice me when you look at me
If you look at me at all,
If you happen to wonder what I be,
You can listen: Hear them call:
Vomit boy needed on the Tilt-a-Whirl
Vomit boy, vomit boy
Vomit boy wanted at the Shaft…
I drag my ass across this carnival from six o’clock to three
I watch the yokels stuff their gaping maws with stuff they shouldn’t see
‘Cause Carmine’s made the corndogs out of rat, bathes in the lemonade,
The caramel corn is dank and foetid and the pretzels are decayed
I watch these rubes get in machines that snap their flabby bodies ’round
And fling them roughly upside down, leaving lunches on the ground.
Yes they’re throwing up and I’m cleaning up
And the Ralph never ends
Oh they’re blowing chunks as my mop it dunks
And this mop’s my only friend
Vomit boy needed on the Hoist and Hurl
Vomit boy, Vomit boy
Vomit boy to the Roto-Raft…
These lousy rides are old and deadly, there are frequent injuries,
(our main mechanic is a drunken and depressive chimpanzee)
But the gate receipts exceed the payoffs and the lawyer’s fees.
I’ve mopped up tongues and heads and hands and several sets of broken knees-
I’ve found the strangest stuff ejected- I could fill a small novella,
Here’s my tip: don’t go beneath these rides without a good umbrella.
They say from the top of the Ferris wheel
You can see for miles
Here down below, see chicken peels
And variegated bile
They say on the top of the Toss it Up
They’re halfway to the moon
But here below as they rise up
The puke is raining, soon…
Seven People, one bathroom, it’s a zany scene
‘Cause they all have to pee and shave and primp and none of them is clean
Seven people in the hallway waiting for relief
If they’re in the can a bit too long they get a load of grief
It’s the only bathroom in a kooky boarding house
Run by a spooky butler who’s quite mysterious
Seven people hate each other, always in a rush
The line’s so long, they’re back in line the moment that they flush
Seven people, one bathroom, you should poo your mind
With seven anxious quirky goons all waiting in a line!
(…it’s only a matter of time before someone picks this concept up for production…IT’S PURE GOLD)
How nice to see you! You look soooo old!
Well, sweetie, I’m very excited today!
At 4 PM
I go for my new triple-tier eyebags.
I have been scrimping and saving for this operation for months,
Even to the point of curtailing my windsock expenditures.
I had to get a second job, as a reglazer
Of day-old donuts at the “Donut Make You HAPPY”
Drive-Through Donut Emporium.
(You know what my favorite part of the job is? Taste my hand!
It’s still sweet, and I finished reglazing six hours ago.
Which helps with the food budget:
I pretty much just eat couscous and lick my hand sometimes)
With the 2 jobs it’s hard to find the time
That I now have to spend every day penciling in worry lines and eye crinkles,
Maintaining the grey highlights in my beard,
Encouraging my ear hairs to grow,
Putting rheum-drops in my eyes.
Keeping up appearances! You know how it is, dear.
And sometimes, when I’m in a hurry, I forget to stoop and shamble like I should.
I’ve been wearing dentures, but sometimes they slip,
And people see that I’m not actually missing my natural teeth, which is SO embarrassing.
Oh, for a pure pink set of plain gums,
Like the very-very-harridan Milvie Spinkle-Thorpe
Was seen chortling carelessly through at the premiere of
“TOO OLD FOR THAT!!!” at Cannes.
I’m going to level with you, honey, it’s hard to keep up
With the cutting edge of couture right now.
That pop musician Squindy Squills can’t be a day over 24 years old,
But with hundreds of thousands of dollars at her disposal
Earned from her hit album “I Got a Little Angina”
She suddenly looks like the most fabulously decrepit codger imaginable, almost overnight.
It looks like she’s had her back humped-
A total ass removal-
And a full face drop-
Wanda Limpe-Forque definitely has new wattles
And from her everplunging cleavage, I suspect she’s had extensive increased-gravity treatments.
You just don’t see natural early droopage like that here on Earth-
(My sources tell me Wiwi Norplebower was actually flown to Jupiter for a month
To attain the wondrous pendulousity
That was so prominently on display last month at the Glorioski Awards.)
It’s hard to afford the clothes!
The price of Sans-A-Belt Polyester Slacks has skyrocketed like you wouldn’t believe.
Gravy-stained tweed jackets
Extremely large underpants
Dingy wigs worn askew
Are flying off the racks.
Bags of cat hair and lint to roll in before you go out to dinner
Cost like sixty bucks
And you only get like an ounce per bag, barely three applications.
I have to shave my scalp thrice daily
Or I get stubble where my male-pattern baldness should be
My knuckles need surgical knobbification.
Though I have almost perfected my spinal S-Curve
And my chest grows more concave daily. My secret?
I’ve been sleeping every night in the clothes dryer with a bowling-ball on my chest.
I hear noted author Horbert Fuuche
Paid a murder of real crows
To roost on his face for two months
To acquire his lauded crow’s-feet.
You know how much a whole murder of crows costs?
I can barely afford a mugging of crows, myself
Incidentally since it’s just us two here and I really shouldn’t say anything
But you remember Melpha with whom we matriculated with?
Who always wowed the boys with her precociously ancient deportment?
I saw her just the other day in the grocery and
You wouldn’t believe the way she hasn’t let herself go-
Her cheeks are all pinkish and puffy
She doesn’t thin her hair at all
She’s got that blank unformed generic look
You’re stuck with before you get a personality
She’s as boring as any one plum on a big plate of plums or something
But it’s unkind of me to say so. She’s not well off-
If I had to say which of the celebrities I personally find most stunning recently,
I have to give it up to Miss Siphia Pimberly
As the hottest starlet of the year.
Oh her chin hair implants-
Oh the constellations of liver spots on her corrugated chest-
Ah the deflated and gelatinous biceps and buttocks-
The cracked and puckered sphincter of her lips- The hook of her nose-
Eyelids crepe-draping suggestively over curranty eyes-
Fairy-dusted in dandruff-
That sexy totter…
That babe is a Stone-Cold Crone.
Oh dear I’m slightly engorged just thinking about it, which reminds me
It’s time for my erectile dysfunction pill
Lest it belie the facade when that occurs
Within my Sans-A-Belt Polyester Slacks
Your erroneous assertions
Have been thoroughly debunked
Now there’s casting of aspersions
And your reputation’s junked?
Come at once to our new shoppe,
We’ll flip the tables on your flop:
at MURGATROYD’S EDIBLE HATS!
We have vegan hats of carrot
And fedoras of pure ham!
Porkpie hats of roasted parrot
Or a crown of rack of lamb!
Are you uncredible, or worse?
Just pull your wallet from your purse:
at MURGATROYD’S EDIBLE HATS!
We have baseball caps of brisket
Peppered turbans if you please
This top hat’s a buttered biscuit!
We have fezzes made of cheese!
Buy some quickly! Don’t you know,
They’re much nicer than eating crow-
at MURGATROYD’S EDIBLE HATS!
At first it was Chef Poindexter’s Edible Hats, and then I realized: that was a silly name for a comestible haberdashery.