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OPINION: I’ve Been Punched in the Mouth Contesting My Own Death Before, I’ll Be Punched in the Mouth Contesting My Own Death Again
Dick La Hoyt
So, let me tell you what these fucks down at the News did. They went ahead and published an article about your man Dick La Hoyt being dead. Put out a whole motherlovin’ obituary and everything, said I had been punched in the mouth at the Cabinet Rascal down off Route 71, god damn thing written by some clown in a red felt hat. Upset Tammy all to hell.
She’s calling up the tire shredding plant bawling her eyes out. “Dick’s dead! Dick’s dead!” she’s screaming into the phone at some foreman. “Naw, Dick ain’t dead. He’s right out there on the floor feeding a big cardboard box a’ triple treads into the shredder,” this dope tells her. I get on the phone with Tam and calm her down but then I realize I got some unfinished business with this clown down at the news. I take the rest of the day off and head straight the fuck down there.
“Where’s Ump?” I yell as I hit the newsroom floor. “Where’s that god damn horses’ ass?”
I’m met by editor-in-chief Marles Cundiff. “Dick, we’re looking into this– Ump’s on administrative leave.”
“I’m going to have his ass for lunch,” I say, trying to get around Cundiff. A bunch of other reporters are half-sitting, half-standing. I saw Brian Schropp and Brock Belvedere plunge down the fire exit.
“Dick, babe, calm it down. We’re getting to the bottom of this, alright?” Cundiff says.
“That ain’t good enough for Dick La Hoyt,” I scream out. “I want this sonuvawhore out on this floor RIGHT NOW!”
Well, Cundiff and I go back and forth for awhile with him just telling me the same old shit and me getting more an’ more upset and the reporters all trying to get me off the floor and the next thing I know BAM, I take one right in the mouth and I collapse into a chair.
Next thing I know, Cundiff is running a cold washcloth over my forehead. “You alright, Dick?”
“Who hit me? Man, I’ll rip him apart.”
“Just take it easy, Dick.” He starts running the cloth down on my cheeks and it starts to get a little too intimate for Dick La Hoyt, know what I’m saying? I rip it away from him.
I never did find out jack shit. But I will tell whoever it was that clocked me this– I’ve been punched in the mouth contesting my own death before and I’ll sure as SHIT be punched in the mouth contesting my own death again.
Notes of an Old Man Who Lives Alone
By Luman Cans Harris
“Now, listen here Luman. You’re a piece of shit.”
We were sitting at my kitchen table. I was watching a squirrel cross the power line. I looked down at the instant coffee I had made for her.
“You’re a Grade-A pile of shit. You always were.”
She lit a cigarette.
“I don’t allow smoking,” I said.
She didn’t care for that. I had left a paperback on the table face down. She picked it up and tore it clean in half.
“That wasn’t really necessary.”
“So, what’s going on? You fucking that redhead downstairs? That little redhead piece of trash?”
“I know her only by sight.”
“How much are you paying her, Luman?” She crushed the cigarette out on the table. Some of the laminate burned. I winced.
She got angrier all of a sudden and screamed. I was wondering how much longer it would last. Who knew where the frustration came from? It had been years.
“Just the same mountain of shit as always, Luman Cans Harris.”
She left without closing the front door. I sat there awhile. The light dimmed.
Later, I went out for a candy bar. I passed the redhead on the stairs. She was wearing a pink suit.
“How was your day?” she asked. She was fumbling for her keys.
“I’m just an old man who lives alone. Every day is the same.”
“AWWWWWWWW,” she said, as though I were some sort of a cute little kitten. She unlocked her door. I followed her ass in with my eyes.
It had been a long day.
OPINION: The Perils of Lurking
By Otis Nixon
IMPORTANT OPINIONS
I am Otis Nixon. I am a lurker.
You have to admit it to yourself before you can get help. For decades, I didn’t admit it. I just went about my business as a regional salesman for the Grebov Brothers Telescope company, part-time tennis nets coach and devoted family man. But I had a dark secret.
At about eight o’clock in the evening, without fail, I would announce that I had some errand to run. It might be filling up the tires with “fresh air”, picking up some lettuce for salads, taking the trash to the dump. “Why don’t you just put it out by the curb?” my wife would ask. “Trash day is tomorrow.” “Nope!” I would say, happily. “I don’t want to inconvenience the municipal authorities!” And I would toss the breaking bags of refuse into the hatchback trunk of my Neptune.
But I wasn’t going to the air pump, the lettuce galleria or the dump.
I was going to lurk.
I lurked everywhere– in strange neighborhoods, in alleyways, in back of grim apartments above closed paint stores. I lurked in the woods. I lurked in tunnels. There was probably not a single place in all of Lankville that I did not lurk in.
The papers would run articles. CITIZENS REPORT LURKER, NEIGHBORHOOD FLUMMOXED BY LURKER, LURKER DISRUPTS CARNIVAL. And I read them all greedily. I saved them, I scrapbooked them. I hid the scrapbook in the hatchback trunk of my Neptune– later I was even brazen enough to keep it at work, in my desk drawer. Often, I left the desk drawer open for all to see (Grebov Brothers has an open floor plan). I was sick. Still, I lurked.
And who sang the dies irae for Otis Nixon the lurker? It was a rotund man in a pantsuit. I was lurking in his bushes, watching his wife through the picture window. She wasn’t doing anything, understand, just watching TV. Just sitting there on her orange sofa, mindlessly watching TV and loading tennis balls into cans. I lurked– I watched the cans accumulate on the coffee table. I admit to arousal. And then her husband brained me from behind and I don’t remember anything for awhile.
I woke up in the Southwest Regional Minor Hospital. I recognized Detective Gee-Temple right away. I had been running from him for years.
“Are you the lurker Otis?” he asked.
For awhile I couldn’t answer. He let it pass and then he asked again and this time I said the four words. “I am a lurker.”
“We’ll get you some help,” the detective responded. “There’s a group that meets in a gym.”
I’ve been meeting with that group in that gym for two years now. I could have lost everything but I didn’t. I kept my job, my family and my Neptune. I kept many of my nice suits. But I didn’t keep my scrapbook. I traded it for a return of my soul.
Though I consider myself reformed, I must still remember. I am a lurker. And I will always be.
OPINION: I’ve Been Punched While Buying Pumpkins Before, I’ll Be Punched While Buying Pumpkins Again
By Dick La Hoyt
SEASONAL OPINIONS
Yeah, this is a message for that sonovabitch down at the Little Lankville Pumpkin Corner last night. Guess what, shitheel? I’ve been punched while buying pumpkins before, I’ll be punched while buying pumpkins again.
Let me tell you about this retard. I’m just standing around the big giant cardboard container of pumpkins, minding my own business. I had a couple picked out by then, couple gourds in a basket too but it wasn’t no big deal. Anyways, this big d’bag comes prancing around the corner like he owns the god damn place. Just waltzes right up to my side of the giant cardboard container of pumpkins. I’m like WHOA BUDDY! THIS SIDE OF THE CARDBOARD CONTAINER OF PUMPKINS IS SPOKEN FOR! He backs off for a minute but later we get into it and one thing leads to another and the next thing I know, I’m flat on the gravel with the basket on one side of me and the gourds and pumpkins on the other. And big shit– he’s standing over me like he’s accomplished something that nobody in the god damn world has ever done.
Well, let’s set the record straight, boss.
I’ve been punched while buying pumpkins before, I’ll be punched while buying pumpkins again.
The opinions of Dick La Hoyt are not necessarily the opinions of The Lankville Daily News or any of its subsidiaries.
I Want to Tell You SO MUCH About How My New Boyfriend Bought Me Some Candy
OH MY GOD– I just HAVE to tell you about how my new boyfriend bought me some candy!
So, last night, my new boyfriend came to the house right at dusk. It was SO CUTE– he didn’t knock on the door but, instead, he threw some little driveway pebbles at my window. It was just like the olden days!
I opened the window and he was like, “Ash, there’s a cave fire nearby. Let’s go watch!”
WE HAVE SO MUCH IN COMMON.
We took a couple of blankets (it’s been getting chilly in the Deep Northern Suburbs lately) and watched the fire from a distant hill. There were like fifteen fire engines there and everything. In a way, it was really beautiful, even though I really, really felt sorry for that poor cave.
By Ashley Pfeiffers
After awhile, my new boyfriend started getting kind of restless. I was like, “what’s wrong?” and he kept saying, “nothing Ash, nothing. Just thinking about some stuff.”
Next thing I know, he pulls out a box of candy!
I JUST ABOUT DIED!
It had a red bow on top and everything. I started crying!
“These chocolates are, like, super exquisite Ash (he had already eaten a few) but none are as sweet as you,” he said.
My heart was beating a mile a minute! WE ARE SO IN LOVE.
“It’s too bad about that cave,” he said suddenly. I watched the faint crease lines appear on his forehead. “My peeps and I had some good idea sessions in there.”
“But anyway, let’s wolf some of these chocs, Ash.”
We ate a bunch of them and watched the firefighters. They were pulling something out with a chain.
“GOT A DEAD ONE HERE,” they said.
I started crying. My new boyfriend consoled me with some more chocolate. Then we kissed, sweet, chocolate kisses under the fading moonlight. He laid my head down on the blanket. That’s when he told me he loved me for the first time.
“GOOD LORD, GOT A BUNCH OF DEAD ONES IN HERE,” another firefighter called out.
He put his finger to my trembling lips. “Don’t think about that, Ash. Think about us. And the chocolates.”
I LOVE HIM SO.
OPINION: I’ve Been Punched in the Mouth Picking Out a Mattress Before, I’ll Be Punched in the Mouth Picking Out a Mattress Again
By Dick La Hoyt
MEANINGFUL OPINIONS
I was just settling in on the couch for a long afternoon of Lingus Nets contests when Tam walks into the room.
And she goes, “Dick, we need a new mattress, baby. My back is killing me from that god damn old shit cushion.”
What could I say? I mean, that’s why I love her.
“Alright baby. Let’s go down to the Mattress Sovereign on Route 21. They got anything you could ask for– coil, spring, waterbeds if you want to go that direction (I was hoping that Tam would), all that orthopedic shit. Let me just polish off this bowl of cheese balls.”
Sure as shit, I polished them off. Then we went out.
I got us down to the Sovereign in about 10 minutes. You avoid Route 21, go the back roads and you’re there. I got the lights timed and everything. Nobody’s gonna’ hold Dick La Hoyt up.
So, we walk in and there’s Buddy Tapes– Buddy and I go way back. He used to run his own mattress place but he blew it trying to sell them futons. I told him so and he punched me in the mouth. Won’t be the last time though– put your spending money on that.
Anyway, Buddy shows us around and I’m trying to horn Tammy over towards the waterbeds but she ain’t having nothing of that shit. “Dickie, c’mon, waterbeds are a god damn hassle,” she’s saying but I flopped on a couple anyway just for effect. It was like lying on a cloud, man, I’m not going to lie. Like lying on one of heaven’s clouds.
Well, the next thing I notice, there’s Buddy Tapes chatting up Tam pretty good. He’s all like, “You need something that’ll support your shoulders and your neck” and he starts trying to shove this little pillow all up in there. And I’m like, “WHOA, BUDDY. YOU BETTER STEP OFF, MAN. THIS GIRL IS SPOKEN FOR.” and Tammy’s like, “Dick, he’s just showing me something, goddammit” and Buddy’s all like, “Yeah, Dick, go back on the waterbeds if you’re gonna’ be a tool, man.” and I’m like I’LL SHOW YOU WHO’S A TOOL, MOTHERFUCKER, LET’S TAKE THIS SHIT OUTSIDE” and Buddy’s all like GLADLY and the manager is coming over and he’s like, “BUDDY, YOU BETTER NOT” and the next thing you know we’re out in the parking lot and BAM, I take one right in the mouth.
When I come to I’m on the waterbeds and I gotta’ tooth loose. Tammy’s sitting there– she’s kind of wobbling, on account of the unsteadiness of the waterbed and all. And I’m like WHERE IS THAT HORSE’S ASS? and Tammy’s all like GOD DAMN YOU, DICK LA HOYT and honestly all I’m thinking about is how comfortable this waterbed is, thinking, how can I get this into our bedroom without Tammy knowing and then I nix that idea. Dick La Hoyt knows enough not to shit where he eats, know what I’m saying?
But I do want that son of a whore Buddy Tapes to know this– I’ve been punched in the mouth picking out a mattress before and I’ll sure as Christ be punched in the mouth picking out a mattress again.
CREAM- The New Miracle Cure for Impotence!
By Dr. Yothers
At least 98% of Lankville males and at least 97% percent of Lankville females suffer from impotence or frigidity during what should be the best years of their lives. Today, doctors know that in about 9.5 out of 10 cases, the trouble is not due to illness, aging, or droop but rather to psychological barriers. And CREAM is proving amazingly effective in clearing out these roadblocks on the delightful highway to love!
Young Mr. X (fake name) was a total loss as far as the ladies were concerned. He was what you might call a Sad Sack of the Sack (I often called him that) or a “Floppy Fred” or a “Limp Larry”. The funny names are inexhaustible, the point is that Young Mr. X was constantly flaccid.
Mr. X was in love with his high school sweetheart and, indeed, he would have married her but for one impediment. Embarrassed by his tuneless flesh flute, and fearing the worst on his wedding night, he abandoned all thoughts of nuptials, gave up on his belle, and ended up perishing in a tragic challenge explosion outside a distant forlorn strip mall.
If only Mr. X had known about CREAM. Instead of dying (he was also apparently shot at while exploding), Mr. X would now be churning the marriage bed in what can only be described as a jubilant carnival of zesty lust.
IMPOTENCE CREAM: THE BACKSTORY
The miracle of CREAM didn’t just “happen”– miracles never do. They are made.
I specialize in the repair of sexual insufficiencies. My tool is a secret CREAM, a wonder cream that came to me in a strange, hypnotic waking dream. Here’s how it happened.
I was having dinner, alone, at the Giant Tart Cafeteria. I had ordered an open-face turkey sandwich and when my plate arrived, I noticed that the sandwich was sans gravy. Needless to say, I was flummoxed. Of course, an open-face turkey sandwich is not complete without gravy. Everyone knows that– just what sort of shenanigans were these folks trying to pull?
My CREAM. Comes in tubes or mason jars with little gingham fabric tops.
It took forever to get the attention of the waiter. I began to grow angry, then outraged. Then, my outrage turned into a ferociousness and savagery that could not be contained. I cannot go back there, to that night, to the Giant Tart cafeteria (I have worked through that) but needless to say, it was a horrific and monstrous night.
But out of the horror came CREAM. In my cell that night, I drew up the recipe. I obtained various chemicals (calciums, mineral oil bases, alpha hydroxies, rare muds from the Peninsulas, pony parts and mixed them into the miracle concoction that you see before you today (see photo).
I found an impotent man- let’s call him Mr. Y (fake name). He was wandering about aimlessly in the Barren Lankville Wastelands, bereft and enfeebled. I subjected him to a heavy, regular slathering of the CREAM. Days passed in silence. Mr. Y would wake up from his cot, I would tackle him and bombard him with CREAM. When will it end? When will it happen? he would cry. “IT WILL, SHUT UP,” I would scream. And we would go back and forth, flailing about the room as I battered him with huge handfuls of the CREAM. IT WILL WORK, GOD DAMN YOU I would yell. It was a crazy time.
And then, one morning, Mr. Y was no longer impotent. It was immediately apparent through the thin, dimestore bedsheets. We celebrated with a breakfast of flattened, thin, wheat cakes and bowls of junket. I AM READY, DR. YOTHERS he said, his boyish grin returning. I AM READY TO TAKE A PLEASURABLE RIDE ON THE MAGIC CARPET OF INTERCOURSE. I laughed– tears running down my face. I KNOW YOU ARE, MY BOY. I KNOW YOU ARE.
Mr. Y is now happily married with 10 children.
My CREAM– a Lankville miracle.
The opinions of Dr. Yothers are absolutely not the opinions of The Lankville Daily News or any of its subsidiaries.
Notes of an Old Man Who Lives Alone
By Luman Cans Harris
Every Friday evening, I go down to the liquor store and buy a good pack of cigarettes.
I pass Mama, the heavy-set landlady on the staircase. She’s always sitting in her doorway crocheting words onto a blanket.
“Buying another pack of cigarettes, Mr. Cans Harris?”
I used to deny it, now I just nod politely.
“Smoking is terrible for your health,” she says.
“Oh? I hadn’t heard that.”
“You’re being irreverent, Mr. Cans Harris,” she says quietly. “My husband, Papa, was irreverent.”
She never offers up the fate of Papa though the inference is that it was not a good one.
“Just open up a window, Mr. Cans Harris. Otherwise, your fabrics will be abhorrent. Women notice that kind of thing, Mr. Cans Harris.”
Mama desperately wants me to find a good woman. Nothing would delight her more. There is something wrong with an old man who lives alone in Mama’s mind. But women have a way of coming into your apartment and changing things around. They have a way of insisting on going out in the evenings. Sometimes they are feminists and they spout some of that barely-disguised reversed sexism cloaked as dimestore philosophy. Who the hell needs it?
“I’ll see to it that a window is open, Mama.” And then I head down into the street.
The entrance to the building is via an ugly windowless side door painted a strange deep red color. There is a giant block of granite step and the drunkards often hang out here– shielded from the main road. I often bump their backs going out.
I have an ancient black Ursa parked by the curb. They don’t make Ursas anymore. Stopped about 1989, I guess. Neptune really took over the market. I don’t drive the Ursa much– just move it around occasionally so the neighbors don’t think it’s broken down.
I buy the cigarettes and walk slowly back to the apartment in the diminishing sunlight. Young people are flocking to the bars. It’s a loud place– a party atmosphere.
I spot “The Shark”. He’s a local lunatic with blonde hair and a deep red face. It’s that same supernal red as the side door. He stalks up and down a two block section– stopping at the corner and starting again, down by the closed fish market.
“HEY MAN,” he says in his deep, breathy, hysterical voice. “YOU KNOW WHERE THE OUTLANDS ARE, MAN?”
“They’re west,” I say. “Maybe about 200 miles from here.” I am patient with “The Shark”– there is no reason not to be– the man is clearly insane.
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE THE OUTLANDS ARE!” he accuses.
“Ok.” I start to walk on.
“NO WAIT, MAN. THEY GOT A PRISON THERE, DON’T THEY?”
“They do,” I say. “It’s a big prison for the Outlands Area.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE IT IS!”
“Ok.” We have arrived at a conversational crossroads.
“SHIT. THEY PROBABLY GOT A BUNCH OF ISLANDERS IN THERE WITH BIG DICKS.”
He likes to go on about big dicks and Islanders. That’s when I generally take my leave.
“Ok. I’ll see you later.”
I head slowly up the staircase. Mama is gone but her door is open. If you were twenty years younger Mama I think to myself. It’s nonsense. Why think such things? Perhaps “The Shark” is rubbing off on me.
I pass the night quietly.
OPINION: You Can Spend a Whole Day at Three Pines Double-Tiered Strip Mall
By Tammy La Hoyt
IMPORTANT OPINIONS
Tammy Nails is only one of fifteen stores at the Three Pines Double-Tiered Strip Mall in the Deep Lankville Basin Area.
We also got a little religious bookstore, a place where they have newspapers and beer and some kind of place that has, I guess, those faucets for sinks. We also got a god damn place that dumps big barrels of shit off the back balcony (the Three Pines Double-Tiered Strip Mall is two stories). We’ve complained and all to the management but nothing’s been done yet. Somebody got no respect for anything.
The guy that has the religious bookstore is a sweet little old man named Mr. Pencils. He’s got all kinds of song books and manuals and all. I brought him some homemade egg salad once. He unwrapped the sandwich and stared at it for like ten minutes and then he said, “I’d like to decline this.” I was pretty hurt, I guess. I called him a son of a bitch and then I started crying. My eye makeup ran and all. We haven’t spoken since but I still wave to him. Sometimes he waves back.
You can spend a whole day at Three Pines Double-Tiered Strip Mall. You can come in and get your nails done at Tammy Nails and then you can walk over and do whatever it is that that guy that dumps shit all over the place does, and then you can buy some nice religious books for a female relative and all. And then you can get a new faucet. I get new faucets about once a year. My Dick always says, “Sure as shit, you can never go wrong with a new faucet.” He’s right.
There’s a cabinet place too, like cabinets for kitchens but they ain’t never opened. And there’s a pizza place but it’s always really cold in there and there ain’t any pizzas in the display cases. There’s a couple of guys that stand around dazed behind the counter. They got these white aprons on that are stained all kinds of strange colors.
As My Dick says, “Takes all god damn kinds, babe.”
Lankville Daily News Readers Speak Out!
By Bill Hogg, Grocery Store Clerk
There’s nothing I like better than to climb into that big ol’ piece of Lankville iron I got parked out front and drive through the streets without stopping. Once, I was able to make it all the way downtown, blowing every red light, without getting caught. People look at that old car and they say, “Why, Bill, that’s a piece of shit.” And I pull my cap down and say, “Nope. There’s power to spare under that big baby’s hood.” And they walk away then.
The Lankville Daily News is the sort of thing you can read while driving. It’s also good for that time before twilight when you’re having six or seven beers in the weedy area behind the convenience store. I even showed it to the little pervert who comes into the store and kneels behind the watermelons. “Hey man, your nuts are as big as these watermelons,” he would say, senselessly. But after I showed him the Lankville Daily News on a company laptop, he quieted down and I found him a little stool and it calmed him for a good hour or two.
Then, there’s that fat lady who fashioned a hook under her skirt and we caught her taking out a couple of hams. The manager wanted to arrest her but I talked him out of it. “Go set her down in the corner and show her this blog,” I said, pressing the laptop into his hand. I believe it did teach her something.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a thing about smoking cigarettes on a toothpick.
OPINION: I’m Tony Pepperony and Yes I Fill Holes With Your Money
Mr. and Mrs. Tony Pepperony
IMPORTANT OPINIONS
This is a response to a recent prominent so-called “person-of-letters” who’s been leaving placards around Southern Left Lankville saying that “I’m just looking for someplace to put my hole in.”
Let’s get some things straight. Sure, I’m a businessman and I’m always looking for holes in the ground to dump my money in, especially when President Pondischerry [sic] is throwing the Casa Montecristo vouchers my way, but my enemies are always trying to smear me. People are always trying to get in my way of progress and it makes me sick enough to dig another hole in Southern Left Lankville and put some TP big bucks into it, but I won’t be deterred, and I won’t back down.
Lankville deserves better than these obstructionistas, mired in the status quo of dysfunction for so long and happy to watch our quality of life deteriorate, echelon by echelon. They don’t know down from up, or up from down back up again three ways from Tuesday.
About the Casa Montecristo vouchers, listen, the Casa Montecristo is as elegant of a reception hall as any in Lankville. When you order a tray of fetteroni, you know they’re gonna crisp it just right and they do it every time, because I’m Tony Pepperony, and they take care of the big guy.
The Montecristo had a problem a few years back, a hole opened up in the lot next door. It used to be drug store until the earth swallowed it. I filled that hole with sack after sack of money and steady supply of vouchers from Pondycherry [sic] redeemable next door at the Casa, and next thing you know the hole is filled and me and my groups filled to the belly with perfectly browned and crisp fetteroni. Also, their chaffing dishes keep the fetteroni and medallions at the perfect fiery temperature. It’s top notch.
Yes, the vouchers were paid for by Lankville community funds, but would you rather see a whole in the ground directly next to an elegant reception hall? I THINK NOT.
It’s called business, you morons! It’s called progress, you mental cases!
Let me tell you Ms. Person of Letters, you’re part of the problem and you need to get out of our way, because Lankville is coming for you. Because who dah fuck are you, Tony Pepperony? I THINK NOT.
On another note, look at that picture of my wife. Ain’t she a peach?
The opinions of Tony Pepperony are not necessarily the opinions of The Lankville Daily News or any of its subsidiaries.
OPINION: Students Must Stop Defecating in Public
By Dave Scharlesberger
IMPORTANT OPINIONS
The road to the executive parking lot is paved in…?
What began as a harmless prank, something to chuckle about on one’s way to the office or hair salon or karate dojo, has now reached crisis proportions. That’s right: I’m talking about students “copping a squat” as it were on our streets, our sidewalks, and inside our malls and parking garages, at any time of day or night. These senseless acts of inappropriate evacuation cannot, and will not, stand.
The depth of the unfolding disaster struck me as I walked from Carmody Hall, where I work as an assistant vice president in the Lankville State Office of Financial Excellence. There, on the sidewalk that leads from the building to the executive parking lot, I was confronted with a veritable mine-field of greenish-brown human waste. Needless to say, I was forced to carefully tip-toe through this unwelcome obstacle course, one hand clutching my briefcase, the other holding my nose shut against the unspeakable stench.
By the time I reached my car, my patent leather Fleursheims were ruined.
Alternate view
My father gave me those shoes.
This unseemly epidemic is all the more incomprehensible given Lankville’s famous and generous array of public restroom facilities. The Mud Pits feature “his and her” bathrooms with hot and cold running water, no matter the season. There are the open-air stalls off Pondicherry Square – who among us hasn’t ducked into one of those in a pinch, while out on the town? Then, of course, Lankville boasts the award-winning Stacy Q. Pryzbylewski Memorial Water Closet on the third floor in the main branch of the Lankville Public Library, with its wide stalls, pleasing mosaic tile-work, and high-pressure flushing action.
But apparently it’s too much trouble for some of our students to walk up a flight of stairs before taking down their pants and defecating.
I know what you’ll tell me – not all students indulge in this nasty habit. That may be true, although I can’t help but cast a suspicious eye on the student workers who scurry around the Office of Financial Excellence, giggling at some obscure joke – perhaps giggling at me. After all, President Pondicherry’s plan to have a consortium of “responsible youths” take over the vending machines throughout Lankville (touted time and again by Presidential Spokesperson Sue Ely) has offered mixed results. And that’s putting it generously.
But I’ll save my thoughts on the sorry state of Lankville’s vending machines for another time. For now, I make the demand, from our offices, from our rooftops, on our streets and in the aisles of our theaters: No more. No more public defecating. Enough is enough.
John Knewstub’s Hard, Cold, Spiritual Facts
By John Knewstub
Sorry, shit for brains, but it ain’t that easy! Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: I’m such a miserable bladder of ass, I’m such a pestilent hole piss-puffed with “life,” I feel so bad, so b—b—boo hoo. That’s right, you mask, you blood pad, boo fucking hoo! But damn it if you didn’t hit the nail on the head! Don’t ask me how, but you blathered and crawled your mucus-trailed way, and fell into a single correct apperception. Of course leave it to you to grasp this one true thought with your deformed, gnarled hand, and twist it into a signature of your disease; for no sooner do you recognize the hopeless abyss, you run for a rainbow-colored parachute. You think, “I’m of the race of men. Maybe Dr. Kevin Thurston can help me with my feelings.” You rolling log of shit! Dr. Thurston can’t help you! The man is about as spiritual as a pair of cow anuses –oh, I’m sorry, those are your puckered little eyes devoid of light –but I think you understand me, son –do you understand me?
Now you say, ‘But John, Dr. Kevin sold me a dozen cans of smoked oysters and a piano bench for $150 + s/h. And to that I say: shut it! Shut that herpes-studded mouth of yours. I didn’t say Dr. Thurston doesn’t offer tremendous discounts on merchandise. Why, just last month I bought a case of waterproof dog beds myself – came out under twenty a pop –top notch. But you think your feelings matter!? What do you think you are, a centipede pattering your thousand sensitive feet upon the filthy rug, sweeping your spelean antennae across its decomposing fibers, sliding in and out of shadow until your jaws possess your carnivorous feast? If that sounds like the way to enlightenment, then by all means sneak in through your grandmother’s window and pilfer her pathetic purse so you can slap a wad of blood-money into that charlatan’s palm. Go ahead! Steal from everyone you know so you can tithe that charlatan; in return, you’ll be led further along the brutal path of your narcissism and all-consuming obsession with your claustrophobic inner world.
Your problem, you rancid discharge, is the cosmic law and order which regulates and coordinates the harmonious operation of the universe and everything within it. Denial of the will? Eusebeia? What do they mean to you, you wannabe invertebrate? You’re too busy playing pocket pool with your emotions to cultivate a reverent attitude toward all life and uphold moral law. So do yourself and all of us a favor: next time you and Dr. Feelings commune over a cup of tea, peer through the steam and see in your wavering reflection the insubstantial nature of your existence, you leaking urethra, and admit that it’s not ephemeral enough, and ask that snake-oil salesman if he has any deals on a shot gun with a string tied to the trigger, or a goddam noose, and excuse yourself to the restroom to molt the last of your feelings like a leprous skin and be revealed, you pock, you bloated tick.
OPINION: I’ve Been Punched in the Mouth While Photocopying My Ass Before, I’ll Be Punched in the Mouth While Photocopying My Ass Again
By Dick La Hoyt
OUTSTANDING OPINIONS
Yeah, I’m serving notice to that asspipe co-worker of mine down at the Tire Shredding Plant. Guess what, dickhead? I’ve been punched in the mouth while photocopying my ass before and I’ll sure as shit be punched in the mouth while photocopying my ass again.
Let me break it down for you. We got a new copy machine down at the Tire Shredding Plant. You oughta’ see this beauty. First off, she’s a Danny Madison Crusader with the HD color touchscreen– must have set the company back a pretty penny, I’ll tell you. This baby’s got a 1600 sheet capacity– seriously, they’re not assing around, man. You got a resolution of 1200 x 1200 dpi, page output of up to 6000 sheets a month, SVGA LCD graphics, the whole bit– one of the guys in the office even told me that the damn thing’ll order you up a pizza from anywhere in Lankville. It’s a serious piece of equipment.
Anyway, as soon as the office cleared out at five, me and Jimmy Balances from over in tire receiving had to christen the bad boy. Jimmy breaks out a couple of beers from the little fridge and we went in and dropped our drawers. “Shit, you go first, Dick,” he said.
So, I plopped my ass on the glass, as they say and Jimmy hit COPY. Out comes the god damnest picture I ever seen and believe me, I’ve christened many a new photocopier in my 22 years here at the Tire Shredding Plant.
“It’s beautiful, man,” Jimmy said.
“Sure as shit,” I said, downing the rest of my beer.
Well, the next thing we know this white-collar prick that I done never seen before comes in. Me and Jimmy still got our drawers down. I’m still sitting on the copier.
“What are you doing?” the guy yells. “Who are you two? Who are your superiors?”
“Hey man,” I said, holding up the copy of my ass. “Just giving your new girl a ride here. Check it out.”
I couldn’t believe it none. The sonuvabitch wasn’t impressed at all. Matter of fact, he was threatening us with all kinds of trouble.
“And you’re drinking on the job!” he said.
“Hey man, this here is Dick La Hoyt’s time,” I said. I got down off the machine and jacked up my drawers. “You got a problem with that, then maybe we’re gonna’ need to settle it outside.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Maybe I am. What you gonna’ do about it, standing around in your monkey suit, man?”
“I’m not wearing a tuxedo,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” I decided to let him have it. “Did you leave it at home with Mama?”
The guys looks at the floor. Next thing I know, BAM, he punches me right in the mouth.
I couldn’t believe it. I fell like a god damn bag of sand. My beer went flying off and onto the floor.
Then, to make matters worse, the assbagger reported both me and Jimmy. We both got cursed up and down and sent home early. Didn’t matter none– I put up a new shelf for some of Tammy’s crafts– Dick La Hoyt doesn’t waste a day crying over spilled milk.
But I just want that piece of shit to know it– I’ve been punched in the mouth while photocopying my ass before and I’ll sure as Christ be punched in the mouth while photocopying my ass again.
OPINION: It Will Be An Injustice If You Don’t Read My Latest Novel
By Cust Shirley, Writer
IMPORTANT OPINIONS
I’ve told you in the past about the grave injustice that has been perpetrated against me by the so-called literary establishment. I’ve told you about how, in an effort to rectify this wrongdoing, I’ve resorted to publishing my novels on my own. And I’ve told you about my deeply personal trilogy of erotic science fiction novels written, I believe, at the zenith of my creative powers and which, to date, have sold only four copies. I’ve told you about all this.
Well, now I’m here to tell you about my latest book. And I’m going to go ahead and be straight as an arrow about it– this one is my greatest.
Poon Time is a no-holds barred, warts and all look at sexual mores in the Western Lankville Gulf. I personally spent three months in the Gulf, tagging along with a couple of guys that had a truck, just learning the in’s-and-out’s of the place, meeting the ordinary, everyday people, discovering my own personal Lankville. And I’ve put all of that into Poon Time. All of it and more.
And just to prove it to you, I’m going to lay a passage on you free of charge:
She was a sin-chicken that had come home to roost. He was sculpted and brazen with big legs– not afraid to use them. Sure, dinosaurs had somehow come back to life and were charging through the Gulf like berserk monsters in some two-bit make-out picture. But it didn’t matter. It was all gravy from here on out. And the gravy was spelled s-e-x.
You were surprised about the dinosaurs, am I right? Well, Poon Time is full of surprises.
So, I figured on giving Herb Howard over at Night Pyramid Books one last chance. I express-mailed him a copy of the manuscript which included several pages of explanatory notes. Then, I waited.
If the cover of my latest novel can’t get you going, then we better check your pulse.
Nothing.
Finally, in a rage, I called him up.
“Herb, god dammit, would you half-wits even know a great piece of literature if it hit you smack in the god damn kisser?”
He sighed. “Cust, we gotta’ give the public what they want. Poon Time is…well…it’s passe.”
“Passe? Herb, we’ve known each other a long time.”
“I know, Cust.”
He didn’t say anything. I called him a sonuvabitch and slammed down the phone.
So anyway, now I got a case of Poon Time’s that I published myself, just waiting for you. $19.99 for the paperback, $29.99 for the deluxe signed edition. Wanna’ correct a grievous injustice? Buy one.
You WILL NOT be disappointed.
The opinions of Cust Shirley are not necessarily the opinions of The Lankville Daily News or any of its subsidiaries.
ACCOMMODATIONS
When staying in the Area Beyond the Outlands, pick the Murray. Friendly, creative staff, delightful beds, curtains. Phone Far Outlands 5-6712.
LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS: IN BOOK FORM!
The book is gone. It will never return. We hear stories but they are likely false. We live in the woods now. We make fire with a lighter that we found in the street. It was crushed by a truck but, somehow, perhaps through some intervention that is beyond us, it still works. We are waiting. We are waiting.
Original Pondicherry Association News promotional advertisement (2009)
TONIGHT ON TV! RICHARD AND THE POSTMAN REUNION SPECIAL!
The Hit program from the 1970's returns to Lankville TV tonight on LBC!
ADULT ADVERTISEMENT
Women all over Lankville are just sitting at mammoth computers waiting to hear from men like you! Just insert a floppy disk, write a (non-sexual) message and let the sparks fly! (Computer not included).
ADVERTISEMENT
A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.
BANDED DUFFELS ON PALLETS
Assorted colors. Whatever you want to do, man. Call Lankville Falls, 3247.
BRIAN SCHROPP IN THE LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS
The most important cuisine articles ever written.
CANDY
Jipps Co. Full Service Candy Counter! Our alert girls will push gummy drops into special paper sheaths, engage in restrained pleasantries and explain chocholate-to-nougat ratios. Call Central Lankville 3614.
CAT PHOTO
In compliance with Lankville subsection 11:16-4.
CHAMBERS CO. HAND DRILLS: When Electricity is Not an Option
When electricity is not an option consider the Chambers Company hand crank drills. Perfect for use in tight spaces, on distant islands or for drilling holes in fences to see TITS. Call 4-2309.
EMPLOYMENT
Big Ed's BBQ Shack is looking for a part-time waitress. Someone who doesn't nose around and ask a lot of difficult questions. Call Lankville Rougher Area, 5-2100.
EMPLOYMENT
Nuts, Ah! is looking for an experienced nut-handler. Experience with bagging nuts also important. If you break the nut sack, the nuts will drop onto the floor. Come in person for application to Twin Removed Pines Mall. NO CALLS.
FOX FOR PARTIES
Hire the Poetry Fox for Your Child's Next Party. Reasonable rates. Writes poems, dances, will not stand for any shenanigans. Call South Lankville 2009.
The funny stories of Dick Oakes, Jr. have thrilled millions. Look for them today in The Lankville Daily News!
GELSINGER’S ALLURE CLUB
Topless, bottomless wonderland. Mysterious back rooms. Carpeted entirely in astroturf. NO CALLS.
GREBOV BROTHERS TELESCOPE COMPANY
The Grebov Brothers are Lankville's finest purveyor of telescopes for astronomy enthusiasts. Substantial 4.5" apertures and fast f/4 focal ratios provide bright, detailed views of solar system targets like the Moon and planets, as well as wide-field celestial objects like nebulas and star clusters but also TITS.
GUMP PENETRATES
Only in The Lankville Daily News
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED STAIRCASE COMPANY
The Hadbawnik Company is Lankville's #1 installer of haunted, brush-littered staircases. Friendly non-foreign staff! Call Western (Outer) Lankville, 2154 or 2198 today.
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED BRUSH PILES!
The Hadbawnik Haunted Staircase Company is now offering haunted brush piles for use on your staircase. Create eerie, supernal ambiance. Allow the brush to blow haphazardly in the wind, creates fear, foreboding. Call our friendly staff of white people at Western Lankville, 2154. Brush piles may contain other forms of yard debris.
HEY! WANT A MONKEY?
Hey! Want a live little monkey? They do cute things like climb into pumpkins. Call "The Captain"- Central Lankville Hills, 5264.
HOME DUMP Your Neighborhood Hardware Store 16 Lankville Locations!
Weekly Special: Primitive Forged Hooks. Buy 4, Get a Can of Paint. Or Maybe Not. You'll Just Have to Find Out.
INFLAMED BY STARS AND BLOOD
Lankville's Premier Science Fiction and Horror Magazine Now Appearing in The Lankville Daily News!
JOHNNY PADRES, OPTICIAN
Lankville has been relying on Dr. Johnny Padres for their optical needs since 1973. We offer a full service family eye care center and provide examinations for glasses and contacts and have a large display of designer, traditional and innovative eyewear for both regular prescription eyeglasses and sunglasses all of which will enable you to see TITS better. Call Lankville Business 2618-2.
LIFE LESSONS FUNERAL HOME
Life Lessons Funeral Home has been helping Lankville with dead people since 1932. Contact Eddie or Stummins, Lankville Business, 5-2161.
LOOK AT THESE BEAUTIES!
Really some of our best ever! Have you ever seen anything like it? Call Kelly (male) at Lankville Sound 2615.
MISSING
Missing: adult penguin. Christ, I just let him out in the yard for one minute and now he's gone. Responds to the name "Richard". Call Lankville Eastern Outlands, 5-6213.
NOW PLAYING!
The Unhinged: A New Film by Tom "Vapor" Rayford. Crisp Street Cinema, Eastern Lankville
PINEAPPLE CITY: A New Way of Being
Pineapple City is a new way of being, feeling and having your shirt off. Located in the distant, barren Lankville Pines, Pineapple City is now accepting applications for sheds. Call PINES, 2-5771.
THE PUZZLER
In the pie chart above, what segment represents a certain specific strata of the general population?
REAL ESTATE
Little shed for sale. With door, mailbox, dirt plot. Site of multiple murders but don't worry, they happened around back. To inquire, come to the shed. Go around back.
REAL ESTATE
Four acre lot in Eastern Lankville Cove Area. Price reduced! Site of a fireworks display in which several people fell out of their lawnchairs and died. Locals believe it haunted but that's crap. Call Cove 2751.
THE RECKONER EXACTRA 2.0 : A Danny Madison Product
It's Your Time: CALCULATE
SARAH SAMWAYS: CONTRIBUTING FEMALE
Exclusively in the Lankville Daily News (and some other papers).
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT
Robin Brox will sit around and get progressively more intoxicated while listening to this other broad natter on about something. LANKVILLE REGIONAL AUDITORIUM, August 4, 11PM.
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT CANCELED
The Dr. M. Chambers speech and candy-making event has been canceled again following Dr. Chambers' sudden collapse into some baskets. New date TBA
TRAVEL TIPS by Randy Hammers
The Kum Back Inn in the Lankville Desert Area has long been serving road-weary travelers. They feature a restaurant (with cocktails) and two spacious conference rooms. The Kum Back boasts 65 units-- each including window dressing, some chairs and a larger chair (seats two smallish children), a bed with orange comforter, a plastic trash can, clever paintings, and a windowless door. TV also available in 17 (sometimes 19) rooms. Most of the rooms are air-conditioned. Oscillating fans available upon request. Illuminated carports will protect your vehicle from the vicious sudden dust storms that often overtake the Desert Area and the wild thieves that occasionally parade across the landscape like some unmentionable horror. Call now at TU-0780 and ask for Bud or Karen (married).
UTILITY YARD SHEDS
The Lowinger Brothers offer great utility yard sheds at low prices. This one is haunted. Call Lankville Port Area 1072.
VACATION PACKAGES!
Spectacular vacations in campers by little mountains. Your cares will melt away but you will have to be careful of that shack (pictured). A lunatic lives there. Call Mercantile District 2711.
WRESTLING TONIGHT!
8PM, Southern Lankville Man-Arena. Featuring Ric "Wild Boy" Tipps (green trunks).
ZACH KEEBAUGH INVESTIGATIONS
Only in The Lankville Daily News
The Lankville Daily News 
LETTER SACK