Author - Chris Weagel

I'm told that tomorrow, all the automobiles will vanish. We wake up and they'll be gone. No foul play, no hassle, just gone. In the driveway will sit neat little piles of spare change from the ashtray and a little row of ice scrapers and snow brushes from under the seats.
The cars will not be coming back. There will be no investigation. Nothing will be said about this awful time going forward. Instead, everyone will get right to it: beating each other about the head and neck. Those beaten into submission will carry the victors around on their backs and formally give up on their dreams once and for all.

Trouble is, I cannot find any reliable information about the science of miniature golf course design. I mean stuff about worm holes and particle weapons and greasy guys back at the club house eating pepperoni and cheese sticks out of the honor-system snack tray. If I hit this little red ball past the boy who’s fishing and it never stops accelerating – I mean, look, it’s possible – will it roll through the fence and into the next door Hooters’ patio lounge? All the life-sized, cement, purple panther statues there will ever be – all of them – were created seconds after the big bang. If I’m buying one – can I get a discount? Like if the nose is chipped? If I could just get 15 minutes and a place to sit down, I want to go through these...

Where the hell are your robot arms, huh? You’re such a genius. Where are the robot arms?! You got nothing! C’mon man, use that super brain and all those credentials and enhance yourself. I tell you what, you can open that goddamn beer yourself. Figure out how to open that jar of nuts. Do it!
Shit.
You need a robot arm. You need at least one. And it needs to be powered by your heart. No battery shit. And train it. Keep it away from women. Make it learn how to lift rocks, that kind of shit.
COME ON, GENIUS! COME ON! This guy ain’t nothing.

Leather Juice Recipes – A Note Far too few contemporary Leather Juice recipes allow sufficient time for a heavily-used dump truck to be submerged in the fermenting vat. Some guzzlers are so impatient they suggest merely dipping an old tire into the batch before bottling. Some go so far as to recommend only viewing an unrelated construction vehicle through a tall glass of Leather Juice prior to serving. In addition to loss of robustness, ignoring the truck marination step deprives Leather Juice of its immune system-bolstering properties and leaves it without its distinct sat-upon flavor. How can we, the independent Leather Juice distillers and bottlers demand respect when so many of us deny our product the same? Gentleman – the question remains: Do we wish to drink a sweaty...

January 31st. This is that awful, oddball day Washington Irving warned us about. The day we all spend too much time watching chimpanzee documentaries and questioning our humanity. This is the day everybody gets paid in big handfuls of Canadian coins and pretends the change feels better scotch-taped to the bottoms of our feet than on the front of our faces. Many of us woke up this morning and found ourselves permanently confined to life inside a hospital elevator by the great decider. Math equations across the board, all balance out. No remainders, no .666666666 repeating. What does the American mind make of these irregularities? Half the population is tempted to throw it all away, run into the forest, and take up a life with the bears and bobcats. They’ll have to cut out their...

An old man, hair combed, staring right at you.
Assembling my thoughts with tweezers and mirror.
Drum roll up to the first wretch.
Peel off the masks, one after another.
And biting; biting down hard.
We'll have a bite contest later. Remind me.
Going through the photos in my wallet of each beloved bruise.
Houses labeled, “Liar.”
And a swift denial of the color orange.

More and more people are finding themselves lashed to posts, left outdoors, and forced to sing. It's not so much a performance. Their singing is not for others to view but is a sort of punishment for them to endure. To experience, first hand, culture in its most brutal form.
Resistance, as it does so often in these times, comes through choice of song. Thus we are greeted with the sight of half-crucified peasants yelping out Achy Breaky Heart while volcanoes ignite the sky and pilots lose their will.
The populace has walled itself off from the arts as though they were an infectious disease. It's about time they began acting as one.