Last night I found a small cardboard box inside a crumpled brown paper grocery bag on the top shelf of the hall closet. Inside this small cardboard box were five, unopened, untouched packages of Mallo Cups. They were two-packs. It was a Christmas gift I had received from my Uncle many years ago. The gift was so perfect in conception and execution - the cardboard box was recycled from some incomprehensible electronics parts company, with its order form invoice and label still stuck on the lid - that I didn't dare disturb it. Eating the Mallo Cups would've ruined everything. In its simple, unsophisticated manner the gift summed up a thousand dark, cold, slushy November weeknights spent waiting for my father to pick me up from Catechism and making due with a single, unwrapped, Mallo Cup in...
Archive - May 2011
Clawson Citgo. Carries the full line.
The Bread King was more than just a tyrant made of those inedible, twisted, multi-colored bread sculptures on the display counter at the bakery.
He was also a poet. And I saved his journals from the looters' flame. I will be publishing his until now lost work here on a regular basis. Below, an untitled piece from The Bread King.
TEETH OF BREAD, TEETH OF BREAD.
HOW DO I CHEW WITH THESE TEETH OF BREAD?
How do I see with these eyes of bread? How do I learn with a brain of bread?
I'M MADE OF BREAD, GODDAMN YOU. BREAD!
The lizards don't care,
they only despise me
and my bread legs.
HOW I WISH BREAD WAS STEEL!
On Friday we received a nasty letter from Reader's Digest Magazine. It practically ruined the entire holiday for us. I don't want to go into the details of the letter - they're very ugly. Let's just say it used extremely inappropriate language when addressing an 11-year subscriber. The tone was foul and the references to foster care crude and uncalled for.
Our family did its best to salvage the weekend and honor our country with ample grilling, but looming over everything were the unexpected, unjustified accusations of the Digest's editorial board. Awful.
The upcoming Memorial Day holiday reminds us to step back and take stock of all the furniture we've destroyed - accidentally, intentionally, or otherwise - over the last year. Remember the end tables, the emergency cots, the love seats, the deck chairs, the ottomans, the hassocks - all shattered and splintered and piled in the front yard and burned after each of the year's many debilitating personal defeats. And as a tribute to those coffee tables that have gone before, use an electric hammer to nail your remaining furniture to the ceiling and abandon house living altogether. Retreat to the forest where the furniture began as simple trees. Lose the ability to speak in coherent sentences and stop cutting your hair. Burn your clothing and throw rocks at any friends from your former life. Do...
All of the forty-three people named Delbert currently standing in my office behind me are doing fine.
All of the forty-three people named Delbert currently standing in my office behind me are also imaginary.
Badminton’s world governing body now finds itself on the defensive, accused of trying to sell a sport by showing more leg and skin.
NYTIMES.COM SOURCE
I'm still waiting on the Human Dog legal department before issuing any formal opinions on this recent controversy in the world of High-Stakes, Professional Level, Mixed League Badminton.
But I will say this: Badminton was conceived as a social activity centered around the violent thrashing, back and forth, of a simulated bird corpse. It is intended to bring people together, not drive them apart.