dripping old angel thing in the woods

Hah! Well, mother might well have gone mad towards the end, even without the angel’s help. There were walls to every inquiry, a bleak infinity of shut downs from, how about this, a wrinkled up shut-in! Oh, I guess she was just agitated. You remember those meetings, don’t you? She had a thing about those meetings; well, I mean to say that she had a thing about everything, you understand, but… this bit of the picture was painted real deep. I went to the meetings like always, like… since I was a kid. I ate of their food and drank of their drink, in exchange for the only smiles I remembered.

Now, speaking of, these meeting people had a thing about plastic. Yeah, I guess I never told you about what we did at them… Just sort of a meet-and-greet. All the utensils and things were plastic. They loved it, and when you were done you stacked it up in the corner with the other plates and forks and things, and the solo cups. And old “Uncle Boris”(I never learned his real name) would come with a ramshackle old flamethrower and torch it down into a smoldering brick. Then he’d take it back somewhere and… well, who knew. Mother loved that kind of theatrics. “Just like my soaps”, she’d prattle, haha. And she’d give this cold-glowing smile as the warmth of the blaze cast shivers over me.

When we got home, and the keys were on the table and our shoes were placed neatly in the hall, she’d wait around a bit with a worried look. Never failed, the smile would fade and fade until she was the cold statue I knew, slumped spinelessly on the love seat smacking her lemon-lozenge lips at the soaps and fretting her jaw and brow about until I thought her face would collapse in. She was always so worried, thinking of the cars outside, y’know. And she’d turn her quivering eyes onto me, they were raw and watering, generally, and she’d ask to see Pop’s spirit spot again.

And I’d always protest, and she’d always threaten to kick me out of the house that I PAYED for, and that argument would go on in circles a while and then we’d go. I mean, like, as late as one o’clock some nights. Whole big thing, getting on the shoes and coat again, pulling the car out into the pitch black nothing void, all to see the place Pop died at “just one more time”. Once a week, disturbing my night. Along with that of the innocent fauna, mind you. Haha, right.

It, um, it was a little brick structure that lined the shoulder of highway 16. Little red flag fluttering, pale pink and rot-ridden. His shirt sleeve, I’ve realized since. She’d kneel sometimes, or walk a circle around it, whispering a prayer to all plastic souls. The car’s headlights would shine out on a sea of outstretched shadowlines pulled away from the base of every pebble and putrid item of litter. I hate litter like it’s the devil, because it is. Oh, shut up, you know how bad it gets towards the city! Not too irrational if you ask me. But, anyhow. She knew, too, she knew how it hurt me to get churned and passed around and consumed whole by the filthy seeping detail of it. She bided her time there, and I could do nothing but wait.

It agitated me at first, to see the dripping old angel thing come out of the woods. It never failed, that the first hairline stripes of dusk would streak my dark-accustomed eyes. Mother always told me, she always INSISTED that we’d be home before, but we both knew that she was there to embrace her guardian angel. The bulk of it that hung off the sides was some gooey intestine mess of grey matter wrappings. Pinkish tint and dripping with red like some strange and blood-looking sap. Or maybe dew, perhaps that’s more apt to describe it’s feel of a new, uh, self shattering morning.

I admit that I loved it, too. The suspended head was this perfect, round little brain, and it’s intertwining wings blowing in the wind. It walked on the trash where I could not, like the figure of Christ on calming waters. And it’s great, drooping feet taking the plastic up and digesting it. My mother would go to it. And it’s funny, not a single car would ever pass by when it was there. Right by the road, and I never saw another soul. I mean, granted, I was transfixed by it, but I never heard a single car’s roaring in the grey space betwixt night and morning.

I got the feeling that It didn’t want me to touch it. It would have let me kiss it’s intestine form if I had pressed, but I didn’t. There was peace in the look of it for me, but Mother needed more. She rubbed her head in it, held it tighter that she’d even held Pop. She thought it was partially Pop, a Pop transformed or at the very least altered. I can’t say I disagree, to be honest. It’s a funny thought, but strange business like that benefits from funny thinking, I guess.

Anyway, there’s not a lot more to it than that. You asked me how we got through those days, and that’s how. Pretty much just one day at a time. We’d go down maybe once or twice a month. Sometimes once a week, when she started getting really bothered at night. That, and, um, the trips to the grocery. That really kept us both grounded. You have to go out and find your own little comforts, I guess, when things are all coming down like that. Yeah, It was. Really nice catching up. Guess I’ll let you go now, I’ve got work, uh, y’know, like always. Heh. Uh-huh, bye-bye.

Top 10 BEST Catchphrases of ALL TIME!

Hi to you whose belly rubs the ground! I love catch phrases. I like moms. I love me my chicken lard. Ten to one, it’s a whale of a time, matey!

Number 10- “Boy Howdy”

I love boy howdies in the sunshine. They make my heart hurt for howdy man plan dings. I like their… subtlety. Genius, mama.

Number 9- “Darn Tooten”

More than all the other little catch boys, I think in my mind that darn tootman is my fave of the low class pass masters. It takes me to my summer home in the suburbs. It borders a rock. It makes me put my closed eye face to the sun and smile with all my teeth. And, how!

Number 8- “Slip Skippy”

Now HERE is a baby boy that makes my ache pay. I like it’s brash nature. I like it’s stubs. Electrocution mama gonna drag me down. Do I understand all it’s meanings? No, man, don’t you kid. But it’s nuance is enough to bring even a sad sack daddy McGee to his knees. Needless to say, it keeps my jimmies unRUSTLED. Props, baby, props.

Number 7- “Sack It Up”

You killed a man by accident on his own lawn. What’s a few friends to do with that cadavman? Why, sack it up, of course! This rad blurt will give you lady numbers by the infinity, stud! And clean your pool.

Number 6- “Bring Down The Government”

They take our power and corrupt our children. They spy on us at work, at home, at church. Is nothing sacred? We can’t take their tyranny any longer. REBELLION! REBELLION! DON’T LET THE OPRESSORS STIFFLE OUR UPRISING!!!!

Number 5- “Demonic Presence In My Laundry Room”

“Look, Diane, all I’m saying is I heard something. The dog was in our son’s room. You were at Linda’s for the weekend. It’s suspicious is all I’m saying.”

“Hhhhh… What if it was someone breaking and entering? You know there are teenagers in this neighborhood…”

“But what about the handprints? In BLOOD, Diane. It’s sick. I’ve talked to our neighbors, they don’t know anything. Their kids were accounted for last night.”

“It’s a big suburb. It could have been kids from the north side. It could…”

“It could what? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing, I… I just…”

“You were going to say our son. You were going to say Billy did it, weren’t you!?”

“Look, he’s getting older now, he might feel like he should lash out…”

“He wouldn’t, Diane! How dare you imply something like that!?”

“I just… WHAT IS THAT?!”

“Diane, what’s wro… HGGHHH!!!”

Number 4- “Awww, shucks”

What else can I say about this classic? What else that hasn’t been intoned by all the others, the horde, the talk people of the inter webs. Skippy!

Number in the 3rd- “What the heck? This is bizarre. It’s… It’s crazy! What does any of this mean? You can’t put this on your blog!”


Number 2- “A birds in the foot is worth two in the bushes.”

My mom keeps asking why I grow my hair out. If she must know, my head is just SO darn heavy. It feels like I’ve got about a ton crammed into it. It leans forward like a son of a gun. So what I’ll do is I’ll grow my hair out really long and then tie it to my ankles so my head doesn’t put too much strain on my neck. The only problem is that maybe I might get accustomed to it too much and then if I get into a bar fight, my opponent will just have to cut my hair in the middle and I’ll topple.

Number 1- “D’oh!”

I love the Simpsons, and I think it’s more than fair to say that no catchphrase has had as much influence on pop culture as Homer’s famous annoyed grunt has. It’s even in the dictionary, believe it or not!

Well, that’s  my list of the top ten best catch phrases. I hope you join us next time for “Top Ten Reasons to Despise Art and Dignity.”





100% Pure Distilled Cynicism

Hello to the twelve or so of you I managed to blackmail into coming here today. This post marks the first in a horrific, diseased mass of meaningless thoughts that I have used, along with several tons of cardboard and corrugated siding, to create a filthy little shanty town that all of you can come to when the outhouse seems too fancy. Here you may unbuckle your pants and relax as you comb the society out of your beard. Here you may let your children roam free among the cynical, embittered opinions which populate my mindscape. Open the makeshift doors and adjust your eyes to the diffused trash fire light, and inside you will see waiting the makeshift hobo blogspot that is Shanty Town.

With that out of the way, let me introduce you to myself, the mad, tyrannical mayor of this bizarre website. While my name is unpronounceable by the human tongue, I have adopted for myself and my readers a human name. You of my squalid kingdom may refer to me as Will. This blog, alongside various miscellaneous thoughts and musings, will consist of several different sub headings of content including discussions on film and society, short stories and art that I have made, and reviews of random crap I bought from the back of a Goodwill. I post whenever I can, but at least once a week. Until then, disinfect that shank wound with some moonshine, fill the gaping hole in your psyche with more distrust for the government, and make sure to stick around for the latest drippings from the Shanty Town still.