And death i think is no parenthesis

Into the poorly lit kitchen I go. Right into the trash heap, that's right. Senseless, trying to keep these counters clean from grape jelly and mayonnaise. And of course, the skillet is dirty. It's always dirty. Sometimes I think my roommates crouch in the darkness of the pantry, sauces at the ready; and as soon as I clean the skillet and go on my way, they spring into action: dumping, frying, and caking as much nastiness onto the pan as is humanly possible. I think they just want to make me feel hopelessly and utterly defeated. And I do. I feel defeated by entropy. So I clean the pan, feeling a great existential weight resting on my shoulders. The work will always be there. For me. For those who come after me. We're all Sisyphus, after all - the collection of us, that is. Humanity. The pan is clean, so I grab the egg carton from the refrigerator. I just despise that word: refrigerator. Nothing graceful or pleasing about that word. I wish we could call it something else...

He strokes his chin gently and stares intently at Webster's Big Book of Grilling . The suspense is killing me. Oh no, he's moving those steaks are behooving. The pan gently tipping the sauces, all dripping down the sides of his cutlets. We just had a time shooting bottles, sublime and stress-melting entertainment. And now, a well-deserved break, some salmon, some steak, and a smoke to boot. "Hey, why don't we shoot a movie for Scott?" "I quite like that idea. I like it a lot." It's a great idea from my friend Stuart.

The bullet took the man rather by surprise. Why, just a moment before, he was sitting in the park, working feverishly on a crossword puzzle. The last thing that went through his mind, besides the speeding death-bean, of course, was the answer to 11 across: "having escaped or left without permission." Nine letters, long, begins with an a... Ends in ed, obviously; past tense and all. Aha! It must be 'abscon-- Dead. The bullet killed him instantly. Shot from a gun held by a man believing himself to be Harold Bloom reincarnate. (It mattered little to the man that Harold Bloom was still alive). But this story is not about the delusional Bloom aspirant. This story is about the dead man with the bloody crossword puzzle in his lap; his name was Harold. This, however, was pure coincidence. As a matter of fact, the delusional man wasn't even aiming for Harold; he was aiming for a pigeon. Harold felt himself falling gently yet swiftly, as if being lowered by stage wir...

front exterior of house. suburbs. night. side exterior. murmuring voices. thin wisp of smoke from around corner. back exterior. four college-age boys standing in circle. it is a still, dark night. they  talk openly and pass around a pipe. they laugh. something funny has just been said. Boy 1 (after laughing subsides): Yeah... It's coming. One of these days. Boy 2: Dude, when the zombie apocalypse happens, I'm going right for Josh's house. Have you ever seen his stash of guns? Boy 1: No. Boy 2: He has an arsenal, man. An arsenal. Boy 3 ( pantomiming) : When it happens, I want a shotgun. Headshot. *boom!* Headshot. *boom!* Boy 4: Baseball bat. Don't have to worry about ammunition or reloading. That's when they get you. When you run out of ammunition, or when you're reloading. You're totally exposed. Boy 2: I want that gun from Zombieland that freakin', uh, uh, uh, Woody Harrelson uses, dude. That thing is so bad-ass. short pause. everyone ponde...

One Winter I walked through the park An hour or two before dark, And as I put on both my mittens - behold! - A litter of Communist kittens. In Springtime I traveled to London. I saw bridges and buildings, all golden. But even amidst all those Britons - again! - Those Pinkos! Those Communist kittens! The kittens you usually tickle are stamped with a hammer and sickle. Do not let yourself become smitten by a litter of Communist Kittens.

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It's 5:30 in the morning; I'm awake: I'm awake because my bed's begun to shake. There exists, though, no seismic activity, just two people's passionate proclivity. While the waking world washes around me, my dull brain starts sensing some sound, see? So I put down my ZZZzzzZZZ's and perk my ears up and hear an erotic heave-ho thup thup thup. Damn him, my roommate, so callous to those he affects with his actions, those slumbering souls. Their sleep is suspended; their rest ends in vex. And for what? So XY can join with XX? Oh hey, but gee, bro! Lucky for me, though: Dostoevsky distracts me from him and his she-beau. The Brothers : I love it - delicious, complex. No morning quite like it: Dostoevsky, and sex.

Edward Boxingtonmann was an ordinary man, perhaps just like you or me. He didn't want much out of life: a modest, steady income, some friends to spend time with, a pretty woman to kiss on the mouth. Nothing unreasonable. But fate had dealt Ed a pretty heavy blow. You see, in his early teens, Ed had noticed that his tongue was longer and more bulbous on its end than those of his classmates. By the time he graduated high school, his classmates had also noticed, and began talking about it behind his back. By the time Edward was celebrating his 21st birthday, his tongue had grown out of control. Whenever he opened his mouth wide, it shot out at amazing speeds. Just a little red boxing glove, punching it's way out of Ed's oral cavity, and he had no control of it. This trait caught the attention of local law enforcement when, in college chorale, Ed knocked out Caesar, the Italian baritone who stood in front of him. Caesar spent six weeks in the hospital recovering from his h...

The man did not know how he came to be in a cornfield. But there he was. It was nighttime, and the man couldn't see very well. The glowing pallor of the distant city's faint, humming lights washing hazy over the southern horizon helped him navigate around the soldier-like rows of corn. The city scared the man. He didn't know why exactly, but he felt it best to walk north, toward the peace and melancholy of that black sea. The cornfield wasn't too cold. It wasn't uncomfortable, either. It would do well enough, he thought, to just walk around in it for a while. But the serene stroll was cut short. Just as the man's mind meandered to pleasanter places, a bad feeling caught him across the jaw. I'm being followed, he thought. The Russians are after me. The man started to run in diagonals, cutting through rows every so often to correct his direction. The man ran into a clearing. The Russians were waiting for him there with a space ship. The man knew there was...

One of life's biggest annoyances for me is trying to find something in a pile of junk in the car. I get the feeling that the entire pile is conspiring against me to hide whatever it is that I'm looking for. And so it was on this Spring morning in California, I was feeling bullied by this mountain of road trip knick-knacks in the passenger seat, working it's hardest to tumble down around my arms whenever I attempted to push it aside. For God's sake, I just want to find this book. Stuart and Scott are probably in Scott's house drinking or watching a good movie, or eating breakfast. "Sir, do you need assistance?" A policewoman! Where did she come from? She sounded suspicious. "No, thank you." "Sir, what is it you are looking for?" "Just my book, thank you." I wanted her to leave me alone. I did have some herb in a brown, engraved, and otherwise conspicuous box on the floor of the back seat. I wasn't thrilled about t...

Spies don't wear flip flops. They make too much noise. And when lurking 'round ledges, they throw off their poise. Spies don't wear rain boots. They squish squosh squosh squish. So when weather's wetly, They're bare as a fish. Spies don't don clogs much, except in their free time. or wear climbing shoes much 'cept in need of a high climb. Spies try to walk quietly - it's espionage. But barefoot be the foolish spy whose foot fits moulage.

I do not like spiders. They give me the creeps. They have hairy legs. They make sudden leaps. But a spider, I hear, abides in a shell perched right on your bike, a plastic motel. You say you don't know just how it survives, with no source of food and no kitchen knives. Perhaps you're enough for your eight-legged friend: your close company its needs do attend. So Jennie, although that pest is disgusting, our relationship needs no readjusting. Just as the bug is content, by my troth, If I can be with you, I'll take you both.