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Posts Tagged ‘Fingers Rolly’

I’m Gonna Beat the Piss Out of that Guy at the Men’s Shop

February 25, 2015 Leave a comment
Fingers Rolly

Fingers Rolly

REMONSTRATIONS OF FINGERS ROLLY

I like a normal white button-up shirt. You can maybe sell me on a restrained checked pattern but that’s about fucking it. Don’t even come near me with one of those wild god damn jungle-themed horseshit shirts with the tigers all over it. You do and I’ll kick your dick in, I will that.

So, the other day, I’m just standing around at the stack of dress shirts that sit in the middle of the men’s store like some sort of beckoning pyramid. I’ve got a low wail going because I’m thinking about that absolute whore of a desert, that brown sweeping slut of tumbleweeds and I’m also tearing the plastic wrapper off shirts indiscriminately. I escalated to a medium-level scream after a few minutes.

That’s when this horse’s ass comes over.

“Sir, sir, these shirts must stay sealed. They are direct from the factory.”

He bent over the big pile of shirts and plastic wrap like he was picking up a god damn fancypants tea set.

The Fashion Elephant

The Fashion Elephant

“I’ll take my belt off,” I threatened. He looked at me– he had some little tight suit on, clearly he was a twilighter.

“These shirts will stay sealed. And you sir, can GET OUT!”

He escorted me out of the store and into the mall corridor. Some fucker was there in a clown suit with balloons. I looked down at the little silver strip on the floor– the strip that separates individual stores from the communal corridor.

“The Fashion Elephant no longer wants your business,” the guy added by means of a finale.

But by then it no longer mattered. By then, I was full thrust in thinking of that mongrel bitch of a desert.

I screamed into the clown’s face and don’t remember anything after that.

Holy Christ, I Miss My Puppies and My Beer

January 13, 2015 Leave a comment
By Fingers Rolly

By Fingers Rolly

I had been screaming at that mother of a god damned whore desert for about two straight days and finally a couple of guys in faggot coats came along and told me it was time to go into town. I cussed them both up and down but they insisted on it. We climbed into an ambulance and went along at a steady clip. Still, I could see that fucking desert out the little window like a cracked and brown anus and I couldn’t help but gurgle a little.

They brought me into some hospital where some ninny with a clipboard kept an eye on me through a window. I watched this mooncalf sonuvabitch for the longest time and screamed intermittently. Finally, he came on in the room.

“I miss my puppies and my beer,” I called out. I thought about the desert and started to get out of my chair and then I remembered where I was.

“You don’t have any puppies, Mr. Rolly,” the little jackass said.

Christ as my witness, I wanted to strike him. Or at least yank his shorts down like I used to do back in my physical education days. Course, he wasn’t wearing no fucking shorts anyway.

“You don’t know about any god damn puppies,” I told him. I let out a long, low shriek.

“And as for beer, Mr. Rolly, well, that’s neither here nor there.”

I looked long and hard at the little bitch. He made a mark on his clipboard. I began moaning and then I thought about that desert and made a push for the door.  A couple of guys stopped me.  I don’t remember much after that.

And now here I am back in the kitchen with this fucking leaky tractor transmission on the table. And there’s that brown motherlover out there. Just mocking me. Making an abominable mockery of every damned thing.

I do have some beer now though.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article. Mr. Rolly was assigned on article on the Madison Weather Simulator.

I Ain’t Buying No Ugly Fucking Plush Snowman

December 18, 2014 Leave a comment
By Fingers Rolly

By Fingers Rolly

I had been screaming and cussing at the desert, that relentless brown cracked whore, for about four straight hours and firing shotgun shells off into the distance at nothing and so I figured I better go into town and see about a gift for my grand-niece for fucking Christmas.

I don’t have any idea how I got there. Next thing I know, my truck is up on a curb and the god damn toy store is in front of me. I went in and wandered around for awhile. Fucking zoo, it was. I finally found some little pasty faggot wearing a red vest. I said, “Here– where is that snowman everybody’s been talking about?” He led me over to a low shelf. Must have been about ten of them down there.

Course, I couldn’t bend down to reach them. So, I stood in the aisle and made an angry, low buzzing noise for about fifteen minutes just thinking about that jerk-off desert, that broken brown asshole. When I came to, I called the pasty little pixie over again. “Bring one of them up here so I can look at it, would you?” I wasn’t happy about it none but the little queer didn’t catch on.

Lord Christ as my witness, you wouldn’t believe this thing. Huge and plush, ugly as sin, big fucking carrot nose. $39.99. “Are you assing around with this price?” I yelled at the little twilighter. He put his hands up and muttered something about that being the price and him not having power to change it. I dropped the fucking snowman right then and there and eased up to him. “You want to take this outside right now? I’ll kick the piss out of you,” I challenged. He backed off and went away somewhere and I let out a long howl on account of the desert coming into my mind suddenly.

I didn’t get the fucking snowman and now here I am, back at the kitchen table, screaming and cussing out at the desert.

I don’t recall driving home.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article. Mr. Rolly was assigned on article on Christmas cookies.

FEATURE: Getting to Know Fingers Rolly

December 7, 2014 Leave a comment
By Bernie Keebler

By Bernie Keebler

In the past few weeks, the world has become entranced by the writings of Lankville Daily News reporter Fingers Rolly. And yet, I always found myself wanting more. Who is Fingers Rolly? What are his thoughts? Can he even be known?

I made the long drive to the Lankville Desert Region to find out.

Fingers Rolly lives on a patch of desert surrounded by a natural arrangement of lovely pincushion cacti. His home is a series of old aluminum trailers that have been shoved together in a fanciful manner, thereby creating a rather large structure. There are the remnants of succulent gardens along one edge and a well-tended gravel walk but the land itself is cracked and brown, pulverized into dust by a relentless sun.

The road simply ends at Mr. Rolly’s rambling home; it goes no further. A tremendous amount of dust kicks up as I pull to a stop. Upon alighting from the car, I detect a strange sound that suddenly changes in timbre. Whereas at first it had sounded mournful, now it sounds almost demonic. I realize that it is the famous desert howling of Fingers Rolly.

Will he even answer the door? I ask myself. “If he’s howling, you can forget about it,” said an anonymous source, whom I probed for information about the mysterious writer. “You’ll have to try another day.” But I am resolute. I quickly change into a finely-tailored suit (I had been wearing some workout short pants and a lightweight shoulder harness) and make my way to what I presume to be the front door.

The demonic howling suddenly stops. Nothing moves. No sound can be heard from within. “Fingers?” I call out. I tap again at the door and it suddenly swings open. I can perceive only shadows from within.

I enter a mysterious room. There is a living room set (leather sofa and chair, cowboy motif) but large hand-painted plywood signs are stacked neatly against them. I flip through the cracked and warped messages, clearly punished by the desert sun– NO! GO AWAY! LEAVE! I DO NOT WANT YOU! I cross to a bookshelf– more signs stacked on the dusty floor, more strange pleading edicts to persons unknown.

The howling comes again– this time low and somber. I move towards it. It is lighter here– a filthy kitchen stacked with old tins and bottles, covered with a deeper layer of dust. And in a kitchen chair, I find the great writer. He is shaking and moaning. He almost appears to fall asleep at times, then suddenly bolts upright and lets loose a vile stream of profanity.

I gently put my hand on his shoulder and he turns around. He is sweating and his clothing is filthy and ragged. On the cluttered table before him, I find some stationary from a long-defunct hotel– Fingers Rolly is working on his latest article.

“Will you speak with me?” I ask. I find a chair on the opposite side of the table. There is an ancient tractor transmission before me, resting on a yellowed newspaper.

“Didn’t you see the sign you…you little asshole?” he says in a voice that, I am immediately convinced, is possessed.

Before I can respond, he begins howling again, then cursing wildly. This goes on for four hours straight. As the light begins to fade, I interrupt and offer to prepare dinner. Fingers looks up– his face seems his own now. “Go ahead, you fucking asscake. Who’s stopping you?” He looks back to the window but I can tell he is grateful.

I search the dusty cupboards for our meal.

II.

Fingers gnarls at his dinner; he has a strange habit of putting food into his mouth sideways and hunching over his plate protectively.  Suddenly, he will bolt upwards in his seat and, remaining completely still, will gaze for an interminable period at something far off and distant out the window.  Then, he will slowly return to his meal.  For Fingers, eating seems a completely pleasureless experience.

I ask him about his last job.  “Physical education,” he blurts out.  “God damn desert high school.  No fields to speak of, just that cracked brown whore dirt.”  He spits on the floor.  “For a time, I enjoyed it.”  “How so?” I probe.  He stares at me.  Then: “It was fun to torture the unathletic children.  But then I’d have to go into my office to fill out grades or something and even with the blinds shut, I knew that god damn desert was out there, mocking me.”

He takes a long, steadying drink of coffee.  This is a rare, lucid moment.  I know it will not last long.

“Then, I took to sleeping under the gym bleachers at night.  I could no longer use facilities because, standing there, I could see that asshole desert out the window.  So, I started going under the bleachers.  The principal called me in after a few weeks.

“What did he say?”

Fingers Rolly

Fingers Rolly

“He said, Fingers– he said, we like some of the work you’re doing.  You’re making important strides in teaching the fatter, unathletic kids how to wear their gym shorts.  But we can’t have this moaning and screaming at the desert.  And now that we’ve learned of this expelling of waste beneath the gym bleachers, well, I’m afraid that’s the last straw.  So, he kicked me out on my ass.”

“What did you do?”

“I went home and made up two signs– I still have ‘em, in there in the living room.  Then, I took up a post here in this very chair and started screaming at that sonuvabitch.  That cracked, god damn sonuvabitch…”

He gets up from the table (his rugged gait now marred by age) and starts towards the back door with a shotgun.  I stop him.

“There’s nothing you can do, Fingers,” I plead.

He breathes rapidly but stops at the counter.  He removes his hat and looks at the floor for several moments, blinking.  He seems near tears.

Then, suddenly, his face changes completely.  The transformation is stunning.  FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCKKKK   OFFFFFFFF he moans slowly.  He tries to strike me but I duck out of the way.  He moves to his chair and begins the deeply unsettling desert moan broken by occasional moments of vile profanity.  I keep out of his way as best I can.  “At this point, he’ll start tearing the kitchen up,” warned a journalist friend.

I dig in and prepare for the worst.

III.

The low moan continues to dusk.  When the desert disappears in darkness, the face of Fingers takes on another stunning transformation.

“There’s them cake hunks in the icebox,” he says aloud.

Indeed, I find a creased and rumpled bakery container filled with asymmetrical hunks of cake.  I push them gently onto filthy plates.  Fingers begins eating almost before the dessert is even before him.

“They had this guy come out and he bought up the earth beneath us,” he comments.  Indeed, an enormous plot of desert land had recently been purchased by the heirs of Ferdinand Buntz, mallows king of Lankville.  Rumors, none verified, were flying around the region.  “What do you think he wants with that land?” I ask.  “The land is an asshole.  What would you do with an asshole?”  He pushes his plate away and then onto the floor.  It lands in a pile of garbage.

“Tell me about your wife?” I ask.  It’s a dicey question; Fingers’ bride had died decades before.

“She was in the stenographers pool at the high school,” he responds in an even, quiet voice.  “They gave her a little cubicle and I used to go in the cubicle and talk to her.  Lovely girl.  Very fat.  But lovely.  She looked like a gibbous moon.”

“And then you moved here, to the desert?”

Fingers slowly shakes his head.  The sweat is pouring off him.  I bear witness to the rising vitriol.

MOTHERFUCKKKKKKKKKKERRRRRRRR.   He gets up and grabs the shotgun again.  I stop him.

“Rest.  Rest in the chair,” I command.  He does as told though I notice that his face has changed again.  I decide to press.

“Why?  Why do you hate the desert?”

But he will not answer.  He is gone now.

For want of something to look at, I find a small stack of old gas station road maps in a heap of floor garbage.  Many are of the desert region.  Opening them, I find a thick series of crude markings in various inks with arrows leading to the margins and annotated with a mysterious combination of letters and numbers.  These markings are virtually impossible to explain so I pocket one of the maps so that it may be photographed later.  It is reproduced here for the first time.

Gas station road map of Desert Region with Fingers’ strange markings.

Gas station road map of Desert Region with Fingers’ strange markings.

Then, I am surprised by the distant sound of a motor vehicle.  Lights flash across the windows.  It seems to be coming surprisingly fast– the crunch of boots on the gravel outside causes me to freeze where I stand.  Then I drop to the carpet and attempt to construct a hiding fort out of blankets and pillows.  They are outside the door now.Hours pass.  My curiosity is insatiable.  I quietly move to the living room and, with the faint illumination of a cellphone, look through the signs again.  Moving to the coffee table, I begin sifting through the mass of papers and letters (many never opened).  Yet, there seems to be no key that I can stick in a keyhole, turn, and, by the rotation of moving cylinders, pin tumblers and so forth, unlock the mystery.

“Flatten them,” someone says.  Boots crunching again, then the sound of my tires being slashed by a knife.

“You jus’ let me know when you’re ready,” the same man says.  It is in monotone; a brutal voice without mercy.

I throw off the blankets and pillows and make a beeline for the backdoor.  I pause only for a moment as a deadly shotgun blast bursts through the wood frame.  It seems to have come from nowhere; almost silent, faintly sibilant.

Then, I am running across pitch black scrubland, away from the house.  A booming roar of an engine starts up and I am now being chased by a raging pickup burying everything in its path.

This may be my end.

Bernie Keebler is currently missing.

There’s No Accountability and That’s Why I Scream at the Desert

December 4, 2014 Leave a comment
tumblr_lmlxkw96Fd1qaxor9o1_1280

By Fingers Rolly

IMPORTANT OPINIONS

There’s no god damn accountability anymore. Everybody just runs around with red hair, earrings in their noses and those terrible dungarees. And that’s why I sit in my fucking tin shack and scream at the desert.

Fucking cracked brown bullshit.

You don’t have the morality they had when I was a kid. Back then, you fucked up and everybody knew it. They’d bring a big truck in once a week and that’s the way it was. Not now, because there’s no fucking accountability. It’s a god damn free-for-all is what it is. Nothing left but to scream at that whore of a desert.

I can’t even put down the little awning and sit outside anymore. There’s no accountability. Who even knows what they’re singing about these days?

I scream at the desert regularly.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article. Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on funny holiday books.

Cones Used to Fucking Mean Something

November 5, 2014 Leave a comment
Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

Fingers Rolly    Man on the Street

Used to be, those faggots in orange hats would put out some cones and you’d stay the hell away. It meant something. Now? Don’t mean shit.

Cones have lost their meaning, Fingers Rolly suggests.

Cones have lost their meaning, Fingers Rolly suggests.

They put a cone on the corner of a sidewalk by some son of a bitch bush. There ain’t nothing there- not a goddamned reason for there to be a cone. It just sits there like that fucking desert, just mocking me from my kitchen window. That motherloving cracked brown whore. “You’ll love living in the desert,” the realtor said back in the day. Wish I could find that mollycoddled little asshole now.

Nowadays, people have private cones. What in the hell does that mean? You can just go into Home Dump or some bullshit place like that and buy a whole stack of ’em. You don’t have to show no identification or nothing. Fucking nonsense.

I loathe the desert.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article. Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on recycling efforts in the Lankville Highlands.

You Start Fucking Around With One of Those TV’s and You Might as Well Just Piss Your Entire Day Down the Fucking Toilet

July 30, 2014 Leave a comment

 

By Fingers Rolly  Man on the Street

By Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

God as my witness, you start fucking around with one of them TV’s and you can just piss the entire day down the fucking toilet.   I had one of them big old shitboxes.  Wood inlays, built-in speakers– there was enough room on top that you could put out an entire fucking chuck roast and serve it up– with trimmings. Fucker started to go up– the picture started to slowly disappear.  Thought I was going fucking blind and also crazy. They said, “You’re gonna need another one” and I cursed them out. But the picture kept disappearing so I finally said, “Bring me some new shit and hurry up about it.” So they did.

Used to be, you had a big dial you’d turn on.  Now you have this little shitbird of a button.  I’m pressing and pressing and nothing happens.  So I went out into the kitchen for awhile and screamed at that broken bullshit asshole of a desert.  Fucking brown jerk-off of a desert. I go back in and finally get the fucker to turn on. Just a bunch of nonsense.  I sat and watched the nonsense for awhile and then I managed to hit some other shitbird of a button and some other program come on. It was some foreigner  in her pajamas.  She was sitting on a couch with some big ugly puppet.  I don’t know what the fuck it was about. So, what I’m basically hinting at is that I pissed the entire fucking day away.

 

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on the opening of a livestock fair in Southern Lankville County.

Don’t Tell Me to Have No Good Trip, You Little Shitbirds

July 19, 2014 Leave a comment
By Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

By Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

I hate it when these shitbird women come up to you at church or at some sort of godforsaken outdoor barbeque and, just about when you’re ready to leave, they say, “have a good trip.” Talk about a god damn jinx. What are they thinking, these little bitches with their complicated pastel-colored hats and their shapeless floral-patterned blazers with the wretched whore shoulder pads? I cuss ’em up and down all the way back to the truck and let me tell you something, they deserve it, the miserable little bitch dogs of hell.

I’ve changed churches a lot recently.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article.

That Piece of Shit Ain’t Selling Me a God Damn Couch

April 23, 2014 2 comments
Fingers Rolly

By Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

I’ll tell you that right now.

I went into town the other day because I was sick as all hell of screaming at that mother of a whore desert. And also because I needed a new couch.

“You got something in a Western motif?” I asked the piece of shit who was wearing a fancy pants tie and sweater combination. “But gimme’ something without no desert scene on it. I can’t stand for no desert scene.” I thought about howling but kept it to myself.

“We don’t have anything in a Western motif,” the piss stick shot back. “It’s not fashionable right now.”

Typical western couch (for illustrative purposes).

Typical western couch (for illustrative purposes).

I looked at the piece of shit for a minute and then spat on the floor.

“I oughta’ stick my boot up your fucking ass for talking to me like that,” I said. His eyes bulged real big then and I knew that he knew that I wasn’t gonna’ buy no god damn couch from his god damn popsicle stand.

I picked up a submarine after that and took it home and ate part of it while looking out at that old bitch-dog of a desert.

I don’t recall anything after that.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article. Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on the rise of Challenges in Lankville.

Canaries Ain’t No Damn Good

January 31, 2014 1 comment

File Photo

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

Canaries are no damn good according to Fingers.

Canaries are no damn good according to Fingers.

 

I’ll tell you this right fucking now– canaries ain’t no damn good as pets.

You buy one of these little shits and you gotta’ buy a cage and some seed and one of those bastard-ass water dishes.  And then the sissy clerk in the sweater says, “They like to look at themselves in the mirror.”  So you gotta’ buy a mother-of-piss mirror too.

And what does the canary do?  Nothing.  That’s what it does.

That’s unless I start screaming at that whore of a desert.  It makes a little noise then.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on the rise of Challenges in the Lankville area.

I’ve Had Just About Enough of These Hippies and their Sex Magazines

October 3, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

I swear to the Lord Christ, I’ve had just about enough of these fucking hippies and their god damn sex magazines.

You walk into the drugstore.  There’s Fat Sam with his apron.  You look at the magazine rack.  Nothing but god damn hippie sex magazines.

“Why you carry this degenerate shit?” I asked once.  Fat Sam looked at me kind of funny.  I didn’t press it.

Then I went over to the post office.  A whole wall full of god damn hippie sex magazines.  It’s unbelievable.  I don’t know what the fuck’s going on.  I get home to my trailer in that lousy whore of a desert and there’s the Evening News.  Guess what’s inside?  A god damn hippie sex magazine.

I scream at the desert often.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on the wetlands of Lankville County.

Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part Three)

August 6, 2013 Leave a comment

By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
https://i1.wp.com/www.vintagelibrary.com/pulp/cave/art/hugh.jpg
File photo

The low moan continues to dusk.  When the desert disappears in darkness, the face of Fingers takes on another stunning transformation.

“There’s them cake hunks in the icebox,” he says aloud.

Indeed, I find a creased and rumpled bakery container filled with asymmetrical hunks of cake.  I push them gently onto filthy plates.  Fingers begins eating almost before the dessert is even before him.

“They had this guy come out and he bought up the earth beneath us,” he comments.  Indeed, an enormous plot of desert land had recently been purchased by the heirs of Ferdinand Buntz, mallows king of Lankville.  Rumors, none verified, were flying around the region.  “What do you think he wants with that land?” I ask.  “The land is an asshole.  What would you do with an asshole?”  He pushes his plate away and then onto the floor.  It lands in a pile of garbage.

“Tell me about your wife?” I ask.  It’s a dicey question; Fingers’ bride had died decades before.

“She was in the stenographers pool at the high school,” he responds in an even, quiet voice.  “They gave her a little cubicle and I used to go in the cubicle and talk to her.  Lovely girl.  Very fat.  But lovely.  She looked like a gibbous moon.”

“And then you moved here, to the desert?”

Fingers slowly shakes his head.  The sweat is pouring off him.  I bear witness to the rising vitriol.

MOTHERFUCKKKKKKKKKKERRRRRRRR.   He gets up and grabs the shotgun again.  I stop him.

“Rest.  Rest in the chair,” I command.  He does as told though I notice that his face has changed again.  I decide to press.

“Why?  Why do you hate the desert?”

But he will not answer.  He is gone now.

For want of something to look at, I find a small stack of old gas station road maps in a heap of floor garbage.  Many are of the desert region.  Opening them, I find a thick series of crude markings in various inks with arrows leading to the margins and annotated with a mysterious combination of letters and numbers.  These markings are virtually impossible to explain so I pocket one of the maps so that it may be photographed later.  It is reproduced here for the first time.

photo

Gas station road map of Desert Region with Fingers’ strange markings.

Hours pass.  My curiosity is insatiable.  I quietly move to the living room and, with the faint illumination of a cellphone, look through the signs again.  Moving to the coffee table, I begin sifting through the mass of papers and letters (many never opened).  Yet, there seems to be no key that I can stick in a keyhole, turn, and, by the rotation of moving cylinders, pin tumblers and so forth, unlock the mystery.

Then, I am surprised by the distant sound of a motor vehicle.  Lights flash across the windows.  It seems to be coming surprisingly fast– the crunch of boots on the gravel outside causes me to freeze where I stand.  Then I drop to the carpet and attempt to construct a hiding fort out of blankets and pillows.  They are outside the door now.

“Flatten them,” someone says.  Boots crunching again, then the sound of my tires being slashed by a knife.

“You jus’ let me know when you’re ready,” the same man says.  It is in monotone; a brutal voice without mercy.

I throw off the blankets and pillows and make a beeline for the backdoor.  I pause only for a moment as a deadly shotgun blast bursts through the wood frame.  It seems to have come from nowhere; almost silent, faintly sibilant.

Then, I am running across pitch black scrubland, away from the house.  A booming roar of an engine starts up and I am now being chased by a raging pickup burying everything in its path.

This may be my end.

The story of Fingers Rolly and Bernie Keebler’s possible murder will be continued in future issues.

Every Town Should Have a Hill with a Cannon

July 16, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

I’m not fucking around here.  Put a cannon on a hill in every god damn town.  Stop shitting us.

If you don’t have a hill, build one.  What the fuck are all these yellow fancypants asshole machines sitting around for?  Put ’em to work.

When that sonuvabitch is in place at the top of your new grassless hill, you let me know.  Don’t come out to the house though.  That asshole of a desert.  Best leave it alone.  And don’t send no mother-of-shit letter either.  Those fuckheads.

But I want to feel that aged cast iron.  And then I want to scream at that fuckhead desert.

You let me know.

Screaming at the Desert: A Primer

June 17, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

You set up your chair and put the blinds up.  Needs to be before dawn.  Make yourself a pot of shitbird coffee– that asshole kind of coffee that comes in a god damn big can.  You peel off the metal top and you get hit with that blast of fucking air.  People think that means freshness– I’ll tell you what that means.  It means LIES.

The sun’s going to come up over the butte.  You’ll notice the shadows first.  That’s when you start.

You don’t want to blow your voice out early.  Start with a low, doleful moan.  You need to sell that shit though.  Don’t go half-assed.  Go half-assed and, god as my witness, I’ll take you out back myself and kick your dick in.

Build slowly to a crescendo.  By lunchtime, you should be at full blast.  They should be able to hear you for miles.  Make that asshole of a desert cringe– shake a cactus to its mother of a whore core.  Don’t let anybody get away with anything.  Show that pisspit of a desert what it means to have to account for itself.

Slow down by evening.  Rest.

Then repeat the next day.

To Hell with These God Damn Little Asshole Hills

March 22, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

Everywhere you go now, it’s these little god damn asshole hills.  Just staring at you, the little whores; they know they got you by the balls.  Some of them have these rocks– what in the name of all that is decent is that supposed to mean?

Sometimes you gotta walk all the way around before you find a staircase leading up to the food kiosk.  I oughta’ stop going to that bullshit place.  You can’t put your kiosk on flat ground then fuck you, I’ll take my business elsewhere.

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.