ann coulter sex doll

i am tired
all of these four-hour erections after marathon sessions
of watching Fox News
all of these dreams of senators with half hard-ons
no one believes me when i tell them how dirty C-SPAN is
i have recorded the best quorum calls on VHS
for emergencies of self-abuse
today i googled 'republican nun sex'
Jesus
He's so shirtless all the time
it's distracting
so i think of Jim Morrison instead
in those brown leather pants
suggestively shaking a maraca
if it was the end in 1968
what does that make this
2007 sounds like a joke
or part of the title to a movie that went straight to DVD
i am downloading mp3s
feeling miserable because she didn't call
and it seems like all of my favorite songs are by Canadian lesbians
i am genuinely feeling sadness because not everyone
will see this performance of 'Light My Fire'
and this immediacy is nauseating because it hits my gut
harder than 'genocide' or 'famine'
Harry Potter and the Insidious Famine
Encyclopedia Brown and the Lackluster Genocide
i've never had 30,000 people around me disappear
but i went 23 years without seeing Casablanca
this is my honest regret
and my honest sadness revolves around her
i think the television lies
there are too many words
too much existence
everything trying to live all at once
which is why i can bear it alone
under a blanket in my apartment
all of these pictures of people i never knew
characters on the tv with short flashy names
Bush
Rove
Rice
characters on the tv with dead bodies
anonymous and easy enough to forget
easier than the night she was there
and i kept looking away
before she kept never seeing me again
all of these car bombs in London
they should have me worried
but what's the worst that can happen
is something you get to worry about
only when you're alive

Hollywood Boulevard hook me up to your feeding tube I am ready

to smell my perspiration as it disappears.

I am in love with a girl who wears overalls and no undershirt and cowboy

boots with steel tip copperhead eye shaped tears.

Vine City we watched two boys kill each other—their hands crossed

and their knees in each others crotches.

Eating nuts in a bag from a Chinese man who watches pedestrian angst

in Nazi propaganda videos.

Could have let me hold your hand but you handed me the matches and

you held your cigarette and you begged fire from the heavens.

Cabbagetown millionaires your garbage overflowing the streets the garbage

men are on strike your neighbors are your worst enemy.

I bit the head off a magnum bar and the hot metal of your sidearm

held straight in your arm pushing into me.

Mechanicsville dodge the pig’n’chik cops swirling ice cream with their noses

full of whiskey stink mustache hair.

Clotted cream wipe the sugar off the seat tear down all the trees build a house

on a scalp bald hill.

We ride dirt roads with the windows down velour smelling pleather seats

stuck to your ass and pulling you down.

I make love to the wild waves of the fm radio DJ playing soft rock for

a quick buck and a bite to eat.

Speed Checked by Airplane (first section)

What altitude would you find me at?
Scanning, half shut, half open. Eyeless.
Eyeless.
What trip could we trap with what rope
noose-like, noose-tight?

I see your ghost hands
translucent and fluttering
between folds of skin and bark.
We tree-like. We monolithic
statues of implacability.
Marching toward
and here we insert the place.
Me to you less face
more utility
But again we ask (do you see)
What altitude would you find me
at?
Scanning, scanning.

Follow me along the intertwined veins leading
in or out (science fails me).
A thinly veiled massacre.
An interstate.
We will inter the state.
This sarcophagus we desecrate.
We spit, let us shine at this altitude.
Let us shine.

We intertwined.
Failure strikes back & back
until we are out of floor and
into wall.
Inter
the floor that fails us.
We are at zero feet and not climbing

Wish for geometry
want for shapes but
look & find & find
nothing under the circles
but squares. Plots of plants
and a chalky set of bones
ivy ligaments dancing
and singing a still song
of stale night air.

What altitude?
If I bring you a letter of recommendation
filled with posies or charitable facts.
A crack. A fissure.
The blood leaking through
would you
hand me the job, hand me off, fend me off?
A bouquet of roses is better? A tear jerker?
Pieces of my bone marrow dissolving in your tea.
Find me at
bypass. Stop. Bypass. A letterpress. A series of
Children’s books.
Pop-up tigers. Bypass.
Stop.


This is not the solution.
We make the easy statements
The front page, the opinions
column.
Bricks we break. We stucco
We are stuck. Know that.
Find me at the bypass.

What altitude does a heart fail at?

If paradise is in a shadowy alcove
surrounded by mountains or walls
and we must climb. Bypass. At what
altitude?

If it is blood, the river, and we drink from it
what teeth will we sprout? What ivory radish
takes the place in our cavernous and fearful
holes. Quivering.


We are breathing the fumes of a massacre.
sado-masochists we three, we all.
We tripped, now trapped, but for the bypass.
& we white wash walls
with bleached blood. Bone fragment bristles
on our brushes.

Not that we are trying
We are not
here.
We are developing a tendency to ramble on the interstate.
Inter. Enter into a place (specificity?)
With more than white walls we can
but will not.
Pop-up tigers can kill a letterpress
can fill the coffers.
We fill the coffins.
We are not morbid.
We exist.


What of the dinosaurs
children’s books ask.
At what altitude?
A triceratops plying his ivory trade.
Will we find
fossilized human teeth
a Heinz 57 bottle
a pacifier burned
in a missile detonation?
Will you find us slinging
arrows, caressing bedfellows,
as the air of government lungs
fills our get well balloons?
There is nothing left to cry
at.


Some sling rocks
it is worth noting.
And the notation self detonates
our jewel encrusted jawbones.

It is a trap
this wire we trip
and we are finding
at this altitude
there is much
to be exploded.

Bypass, if you will, the paleontologists
chattering amongst themselves.
Buy me a set of futurists
at the dollar store
and let us burn this temple
down.
Pop-up tigers on the prowl
their axis set
not yet evil
these distinctions are made
by we, us three.
We will close the book.
Inter the tigers.
Forget the pictures.
And never know the words.

It is a blood river.
The futurists and the paleontologists
have agreed upon this.
Dragon floats and vocal chords we have
aplenty. We will meet our Oregon Trail.
We will remember in the end to bypass.
Stop.


Don’t check our speed. You will find
us not moving
at this point in time
and vomiting at this
altitude.

We could become rock throwers.
Grow dozens of arms.
At security gates, bypass
revolutionaries. Quiet failures.
Make the massacre slow.
Feel the bullet in our lovely hands.
Rough edges scraping off
thin flakes of our downy skin.
Let us be romantic.
Kiss me at this altitude
at the speed
of light.


They beat a pop-up tiger with dozens of clubs.
Its cubs watch with tearless empty faces.
They checked his speed.
Too fast.
From some altitude
judgment was rendered.

Can we be tree-like in our current state?
We grew the arms but we lost the patience.

Trip my trap with your heart bypass.
I can’t read science books with this monocle.
If we install pop-up tigers in science books
the river will dry up.

We need to drink.


Is this the solution?
Find me.

It was better before television.
It was better before vision.
Tell me where you lay
your porcelain mug. pig--faced
and waiting at, to, down escape
this lack of signal and take me
neck craned, a swan song, bird-
-love.

Am I making what I kiln?
Don’t confuse words please.
My hands are aching and the
arthritis is setting in. settling
in the west we see the sun.
Manifest destiny. Nothing clever.
Six shots and only one brain
to miss.

To bring it back we stop. Bypass.
My training wheels keep me too
stable.
What altitude might we reach, what
star scorned might we love love being
Forborne.
We tripped.
Saw the double sided saw
gnaw the tree.
Skin we are trapped within.

Shift back to columns.
Don’t be stucco on the
wall. Bypass the ledge.
Skip to the ground to trip
the ledger. Misunderstood,
archaic in form and taste.
We inter still. We instill. We
three are less than holy &
more & more than pain.


Throw us down by the river
and check our collective
speed. Drop a pill as in
place it down accidentally.
Watch the pipes gurgle
and fizz over until we all
feel drained.

Are we quiet failures yelling?
Pitch of the bark and woofing.
Catcalling and speeding.
My trap it was an unknown
trip.

I am mapquesting us and finding
that we are at no altitude & zero
us two less one. Break it down
catcalling to James Brown.
Get on up. It’s time to have
a funky good time.

The massacre still exists.
We just stopped watching
television and no longer
needed to say things out loud
to understand them.

.

Dead?

Death Metal Poetry

i have created an online journal.

it is called death metal poetry journal.

anyone and everyone is encouraged to send poems for it to rdowney15@gmail.com.

submission guidelines are on the site.

they are not very serious.

that is all.

why i have this sinking feeling that one day i will end up marrying someone who knows how to speak elvish

this is a conversation that happened in real life while i was working one day at ben & jerry's.

customer/stranger: You look like a little elf. You probably get that a lot don't you?

me: Ummm. Not really. Aren't elves already little?

customer/stranger: Yeah, but no, like one of the elves in Lord of the Rings, but not as tall.

me: Oh. Ummm. It's probably my left ear. It's kind of pointy.

customer/stranger: That was a compliment by the way.

me: Oh. Thanks.

customer/stranger: Could I get a scoop of cookie dough in a cup please?

me: Sure.


i just paid $88 in unpaid parking tickets. i am going to write an epic poetic narrative about paying $88 in unpaid parking tickets in between ruminations on the impact of Arthurian romance in contemporary society. i will get Anne Carson, Dr. Phil, and R.L. Stine to write blurbs for it.

"This is a poem about Steven Seagal's new energy drink"

When I don't wake up before 9:00 a.m. my cat hates me.

He throws his body against my door with great force and screams for hours.

I want to go let him in but it is too cold.

I am a selfish human and my bed is collapsed in the middle so I can't move.

Sparksy understands this but Steven Seagal is angry.

He is raising his eyebrows with a menacing facial expression.

I am shaking from the cold but I pretend it is from fear and I look at his angry face.

I am aware that if I don't let Sparksy in Steven Seagal is going to break down my door

And then he will put it back on its hinges and break it again with more force than before.

I have seen him break numerous doors on made-for-t.v. movies.

My life is a made-for-t.v. movie.

My cat will eventually give up and I will go back to sleep.

And he will go back to sleep.

And Steven Seagal will remain ever-vigilante.

picture II

things i did today

I spontaneously edited most of my old triceratops posts. I got tired of them. I like the new ones. I will probably spontaneously edit them in 2-3 months. Here is a manifesto i wrote at work.


The Manifesto Manifesto

1. Fill a pants with round-stick Bics!

2. black ink

3. Your scalp is not an honest substitute for a squirrel's nest.

4. String Theory is not real until Al Gore says it is.

5. PowerPoint your desire into a less problematic fluid.

6. 75 WPM is the hallmark of any democracy worth saving.

7. scream your poem into a legal pad and wait only 3 days for rejection; this is a limited time offer

8. South Dakota is not acceptable legal tender. It is not valid in Canada, astronauts, or Super Mario Bros warp to level 5.

picture

Sex Fantasy

three mean-faced hookers are huddled together on North Avenue
in the flat cracked parking lot of the Church's Chicken
that never stays open past eleven o clock

one of the hookers is wearing a cherry red basketball jersey
from 1986 when the Hawks were actually a good team
the other two wear tube tops and gold skirts and platform sandals

a car stops in the Church's chicken parking lot
the girl with the basketball jersey walks up to the window
she says something suggestive to the man behind the wheel

he says something suggestive back to the hooker
he makes a remark about a popular television show on cable
he wants the hooker to dress up like a nurse

then Jay B walks up to the car
he introduces himself as the pimp
he says that will cost $5000

unfamiliar in the conventions of bartering with pimps
the man behind the wheel hightails it
a long black exhaust pipe smoking in the black ass of the night

the hooker says to Jay B that she would have performed
for the man in a nurse costume for a price
far less prohibitive than $5000

Jay B is busy sucking on an unlit cigar
it is cold enough that his breath is clouding in the air
but not cold enough for him to light his only cigar

he does not listen to the hooker
he knows that in the business of turning tricks
you have to rely on yourself for all major financial decisions

Jay B grew up in Bankhead
he saw a boy get shot when he was fifteen
he saw him fall down into a pool of blood and die

he knows what it is to stare a man in the face
after learning what it is that he most wants
and charging him a fortune to get it

the car returns. the man rolls down his window
he says he has the five thousand dollars
but he has a stipulation

he is married and he wants his wife to watch
he wants the hooker to tie him down
like he was in a hospital in a coma

and he wants his wife and the hooker to spit in his face
and tell him about the pleasure
he is unable to give them

he wants to lie there tied up all night long
while his wife drives the hooker back to Church's Chicken
and gives Jay B a blow job

like a sentinel or a telephone pole Jay B watches the street traffic
the hooker begins the arduous process of making up her face
the man in the car begins to sweat a little behind his neck

the other two girls have begun to glow
because the headlights of the car have illuminated their skirts
they giggle and two more cars pull up and they scatter and dance

TV on DVD

i think we should have a roundtable discussion on TV on DVD. i will start things off by asking a few questions.

Daniel: How many times have you tried finding Tsunami/Hurricane Katrina footage on one comprehensive, ultimate, collector's edition DVD? How much would you be willing to pay for such a thing, even if it did not include detailed commentary by David Lynch?

Ryan: How has post-structural Marxism hindered TV on DVD's effect on Christianity? Does it have anything to do with the 2% decline in overseas evangelical missionaries? Shakespeare had Marlowe, NASA had whatever Russia's space program was, Lassie had Leave It To Beaver, Jimmy Carter had that Dunkin' Donuts guy, and I guess what I'm trying to ask is, will careless marketing imbue 21st century capitalism with a sense of apocalyptic doom underscored by an insidious jovial mask of edibility?

Ashley: I heard on NPR the other day a news story about a 17 year old boy in Nebraska who watched the entire second season of 24 in one sitting and had to be hospitalized for 3 days. His 14 year old cousin was found the next week, disoriented, in the DVD section of Wal-Mart, with apparent memory loss. Whose responsibility is it to protect our children from this gross sin of distraction? When will HBO start offering cheaper box sets?

Ian: I have written 378 poems this month about some form of television. Am I too far behind? Please tell me you're not already up to 500. When do you plan on shooting footage for the pilot episode of your as-yet-untitled drama, which critics so far are describing as "ER for the poetry world" simply based on the first 10 pages of your script? Is it true you wrote it in a fit of mania, after an uneventful Six Flags trip when you were 15?

Who knows how long

Your skinny
white
finger
is poking
directly
into
my eye


You know
where
the
color
stops
and
there is
a dark spot


Well
your finger
has penetrated
my eye
and
now is
playing
the piano
with
my fontal lobe

While
you finger
me
I twitch
like
an animal
runover
by a car

I
feel
intense
pleasure

And
the part
of me
that
creates
working memory

Imagines
a long lake
frozen
like
a fingernail


I don't
want
anything
that you
could
not
give
me

sneak preview

here are some quotes/lines from a story i am writing about a human person.

"[My wife] has a tendency to hear what she wants to hear. I never proposed to her. We were in a Red Lobster. I came back from the bathroom, and she said 'of course I will marry you.' We had been talking about bagless vacuum cleaners. People at nearby tables were looking at me. I thought I had missed something. I said, 'Great.' We celebrated with a molten chocolate lava cake.

"I think my wife is stealing my DVDs and mailing them to her parents."

"The founding fathers had excellent sperm. Yesterday I realized I had been standing in front of a microwave for minutes, watching the popcorn bag slowly fill with air and lose it's flaccid shape. Then I remembered to shield my crotch from radiation with an oven mitt. Last week I vomited into the kitchen sink. It had been completely unexpected."

"If my wife ever turned into a zombie I would have to decapitate her without hesitation and sentiment. I told her that she could count on me for this, that I would try my hardest. She looked up from her Reader's Digest and said 'you should read this article, it's about cancer.'"

"I ate 4 Krispy Kreme donuts this morning. That's really going to throw off my anorexia."

"I tried dying this afternoon. My wife was at the library and I was doing the belt thing like I always do when she leaves. This time I figured I would come and then just hang there until everything went black and my wife would have to wait a few days before starting her latest John Grisham. But I thought of my poor sperm just lying there on the Berber carpet. I couldn't abandon them. I took them and put them in an empty pickle jar, which I hid on my side of the closet next to all the unwrapped Christmas gifts."

AWP...

THIS PICTURE IS 99% ACCURATE.

hello kitty

Then in my apartment everything began to burn,
starting with the lampshades. Like bad haircuts
splitting apart to reveal the grey black brains, or
splitting overstuffed pieces of orange furniture.

The vacuum cleaner swallowed a rubber band and
gently smoked. The carpet oozed its own juices. The microwave
set itself to high, revolved for thirty five seconds, and then
blew itself apart from the inside.

I wandered the lost shuttle of rooms like an agape mouth, believing
everything is lost. The paint in liquid came off the walls
peeling synthetic raindrops which sounded like the pow pow pows
the mute grinning and grinding of factories and my teeth
chewed themselves into a localized anesthetic of frenzy.

O Mardi Gras Tuesday! the girls in bead skirts and shirts
have not noticed the gulping gasps coming from my window,
the black feathers of a smoketail like a diver’s wetsuit swimming out
from my chamber-tank. FM radios blare like the town air-raid sirens.

They are delivering babies at Athens Regional Hospital
to the sound of an electronic heart monitor, the first noises in life
I think, with the fire alarm like an ostentatious red flower next
to a tombstone with my name on it.

this was inspired by chinese internet addiction

spider solitaire is angry at me
i keep failing it
i need to stop promising to always win
i need to stop promising to lick the corner of the screen
whenever i lose

spider solitaire never asks me for anything
but i still feel compelled
to rub cream cheese around its cards

i won't forget the time it let me win
i won't forget all those days it was happy for me
when it abandoned sarcasm and i found myself singing to it
softly and without a melody
like whenever i would bury my pets
or the love i felt originating from my stomach

part II of my fiction writing. sorry it is not my turn. someone tell me if i should continue this piece.

J was at a loss. He had been searching the 2002 world almanac for hours to no avail. There have to be answers here, I know it J thought but his outward expression of this thought was the word fuck. His phone should have been ringing all morning long but it was not. J had not paid his bills, and this was the least of his concerns. J plucked hairs from his beard one by one noting with each strand the singular impulse of pain and numbness that seemed so intertwined that he might never separate it into two parts. He was memorizing numbers now: population of Missouri 5,595,211, most deaths in a Scottish train wreck 227, total refugees in the world 14,544,000. Beads of sweat glistened on J’s wrinkled forehead and every so often one fell carelessly to the page below threatening to erase a mass of people from the books of history altogether. Jonathan sat on the mini fridge looking at J with his usual face. This would have been consoling to J if he were reading a dictionary and could identify console or consolation as words that meant something tangible. J was reading an almanac though. Light blurred into the peeling paint of the bare apartment walls and lulled J into a feverish sleep.

Bertha was angry, very angry. “Carl” where is your dumbass friend J” she asked in more of a growl than a human utterance. Karl knowing that she had in fact pronounced his name with a c and not the k as it should have been said nothing. She could at least know my name Karl thought as he scraped the burnt cheese off of a pan that had been brought to him by another employee whose name also had several variations. Karl was a reasonable man. He reasoned that J was not going to come back to work anytime soon and also that he himself should probably consider a similar course of action. For all his death metal exterior gruffness though Karl was really a scared malleable man. He scraped his knuckle on a rough edge of the counter and kept scrubbing the pan as his blood mixed with sudsy water in the sink below.

What the streets don’t tell you is that the steam that rises off the blacktop after a summer shower is really the souls of all the downtrodden men who have walked on that surface at one time or another. What they do tell you is to keep moving, to keep your eyes directly ahead lest you see an alley in your periphery that leads to a different outcome. J was walking the streets and he was looking, his head was spinning. J saw a man in a fine suit, a real nice suit. “What kind of job they got you doing where you wear such a fancy suit” J asked the man. “I am a stockbroker” replied the man somewhat annoyed at J’s directness. “Oh you are like Will Smith then,” J said “in that movie where he sleeps in the subway bathroom and cries”. With a look of contempt and a quick adjustment of his tie the suit walked away at a pace such that any person passing by at that time would know innately that this man was important by his gait alone. J felt nothing about this interaction except that time was definitely different after the encounter was done than it could have been before. J asked a street vendor who was nearby for the time just to verify his suspicion. “Eh man, I saw you mess up that guy’s day man and I got to say thank you” the street vendor said. “He comes by here every day smirking up his face and acting like he is better than me just cause he wears a suit that costs more money than it’s worth”. I am a hero J thought and felt unchanged by this realization. “How much is that hat” J asked pointing to a red hat with earflaps covered in faux-fur. “For you, twenty dollars” the street vendor said. J looked at the laminated paper with prices that was hanging on a post nearby and saw that the price read: HATS $20. J gave the man his last twenty dollars and put the hat on. “Pleasure doing business with you sir” the street vendor said. “Your price sheet is peeling in the corner” J said pointing to the sheet which did in fact have a corner where the laminate was separating. The man looked at his sheet and then back at J. J walked on, the street was still for too long and so he was compelled to move. The city was small enough that you could walk on its streets without getting lost too easily but this was no consolation for the already lost. As J was walking he ran into Karl. “Hey Karl” J said and kept walking. “J, are you ok Bertha has been flipping out at work all week. She said if you don’t come in tomorrow you are gone for good and even if you do you are on probation” Karl said very earnestly. J stopped and turned around to face Karl. “Karl, what exactly happens on probation? I mean do they lower my pay from 5.50 and hour to 5.15 or do I have to wear a special colored uniform like they make the mentally handicapped wear or what?” Karl didn’t know how to answer that and so J turned around again and kept walking. After awhile J began to feel like someone was following him and he looked back. There Karl was matching him stride for stride and so J stopped again to see what more he must do to appease this man. Karl walked up to J with tears in his eyes and he hugged him. J was confused. His head was still swimming with numbers and he was lost. He began to walk again and this time Karl walked beside him. They were a regular modern day Don Quixote and Sancho Panza those two minus the donkey and the ambition--minus the donkey and the ambition.

Jonathan was meowing as loud as he could. It was a rainy day and the sun had not come up. On days like this Jonathan would dig in the trash and find what he could to tide him over until J woke up. He had already licked all the aluminum crisp pockets clean and picked the little Debbie wrappers apart. J opened one eye and saw an orange and white blur. PANICK! “Oh shit I’m in space, I’m in space and I can see fucking Jupiter” J said rapidly. Then he smelled shit and snapped out of it. Shit cannot exist in space because space is too awesome to be contaminated with such trivial pieces of matter J reasoned as his vision cleared and he recognized his cat’s ass in his face. J had forgotten about Earth. “Well Jonathan, lets get some breakfast” J said. “Meow-wow” Jonathan replied. J looked through his plastic cupboard and found that all was left was the cat food. The two ate and lay themselves down on the cool tile floor near the door. In this way they passed the whole day.

FEBRUARY HAIKU !!!

Staring up at me
is Panic! At The Disco.
Fuck you Rolling Stone.

this is the beginning of a longer work of fiction i am writing it might be shitty

An orgy of light filled the air of J’s studio apartment. His cat had chewed through the blinds and the Sun was fulfilling its obligatory duty as an eternal alarm clock and device of vexation. J scratched his stomach really hard. When he removed his hands there were red lines showing him where his nails had been. J felt excited and forgot to be angry at his cat. He scratched out words on his stomach. The word Fuck was brightly emblazoned on his bare chest. J laughed. His cat, Jonathan, meowed. “Calm down Jonathan,” J said “or I will eat your cat food all by myself and then you will really be screwed.” J was serious, it was in his nature to always be serious. J walked to the mini-fridge sitting by the tv and grabbed a Hot Pocket for breakfast. He began to sing “who you gonna eat…Hot Pockets!” He realized he had somehow mixed up the song from the Hot Pockets commercial with one from the children’s show about Pound puppies. It is important to make such distinctions when one creates new songs J thought to himself with a very solemn look on his face.
“Meow-wow” said Jonathan.
“It’s not ready yet” said J.
“Meow-wow” said Jonathan in a much more insistent tone than before.
“Yeah, you are right buddy,” said J “ Hot Pockets are a pretty shitty breakfast.”
J had a knack for misinterpreting Jonathan’s pleas, and Jonathan had a cheerful disposition that allowed such transgressions to fade into distant memory almost instantaneously. J watched as the numbers on the microwave ticked down to zero. He found the chiming of the machine to be very unnerving. Once he had been draining the water from a pot of ramen noodles and the chime had startled him and caused him to miss the sink. A waterfall of boiling water washed across his lower stomach and the area below. This was an unpleasant memory for J. So here he waited with his finger hovering over the stop/clear button on the microwave ready to pounce at the first hint of the chime. J had his quirks but this in no way diminished his seriousness. J ate the hot pocket quickly. His tongue was the victim of a glob of melted processed cheese getting its revenge on mankind on behalf of cows everywhere. J knew this in an oblique sense but didn’t know exactly how he could make it clear to anyone besides himself. It is better to know ones own self than for others to know you J thought as he put on his jacket and combed through his beard with his grease-stained fingers. J grabbed his keys and left his apartment. Jonathan sat in the window with an empty stomach and a cheerful face watching as J rounded the corner and left his world

J looked at the time clock when he punched in to work and saw that he was six minutes late. J asked the nearest employee he could find if Bertha had been looking for him. “Shit J, I don’t know man. Did you bring me that cd?” The man’s name was Karl. J knew this because he was wearing a nametag that said Carl on which he had scratched out the c and scribbled in a k with a permanent marker. “Yeah I got it” J said handing Karl a hot pink mix cd with the words DEATH METAL MEGAMIX written on it. Karl grinned really wide and took the disc from J’s hand. It slipped right out. I wonder when Bertha will bitch at me for being six minutes late J thought to himself as he slipped on a pair of powder-free latex gloves. “You are six minutes late” Bertha said in a monotonous voice as she put her manly hand on J’s shoulder and pointed towards the time clock. So much for wondering J thought and wrestled his shoulder from Bertha’s grasp and shuffled off to the area where he would put on his scrubs. J felt like he should be a very important member of society wearing his powder-free latex gloves and scrubs. J walked over to the burrito bar and stood very still hoping none of the students would see him. J was a cafeteria worker and today he had to make burritos, lots of burritos. Several girls came over to the burrito bar. All of them were talking on cell phones, very new top of the line cell phones. J was not impressed by this but he was very tired. The first girl looked for a minute at the ingredients and then began the familiar process.
“Can I get a chipotle wrap” she asked.
Chipotle is just a fancy word for red shit wrap J thought but he replied “Yes, and what do you want on it?”
“Hmmmm…Hold on a minute Jess,” she said into her bright pink cell phone “What is that one right there?” she asked pointing at the beef strips.
“Beef strips” J said.
“Oh ok, I’ll have some of that then, the steak strips,” and her eyes scanned down the line “and some black beans, lettuce, tomato, red peppers, no green pepper please, some of the white and the yellow cheese, olives, onions and that’s it.” She said breathily.
J began to scoop all of the ingredients onto the tortilla and the girl looked on waiting for J to forget something. When he finished putting the mess on the plate he looked at her with his usual look accompanied by a pause in which he expected the customer to ask for something else or to tell him where he messed up. She looked slightly annoyed and grabbed the plate from J. This process repeated itself over and over until he came in. He was a very big man with very coarse hair on his arms and a very noticeable bald spot on his head. J did not know the students name but he mentally noted that it must include the word ogre. J began to steam a wrap for the ogre and wiped a line of sweat from his brow with his shirtfront. The burrito bar had somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 or so different items that could be put in a wrap. The ogre wanted all of them and he made it clear that he did not want the normal scoop but double that amount of all of them. J was always amused to see that these students, these future leaders of America, failed to acknowledge that the wrap was one constant size and that the doubling of items would ultimately result in nothing less than a cluster-fuck of torn tortilla and salsa all over the plate. The ogre had his specifications and he was set in his ways. One of the managers walked by and saw the monster J was creating. “Whoa it looks like somebody has an appetite today he said with a big smile.” This was a joke to the manager--that is how managers tell jokes. J had an idea. “Hey boss I am having trouble with the wraps again do you think you could show me how to do it?” he said. The manager turned red in the face and his pupils dilated. “Yes J I sure can” he said as he reached for a pair of gloves. He stammered a few incomprehensible words and set to work on the wrap. It tore instantly. “Whatever, I’ll just take it like that” the ogre said smirking at the manager. “Oh no no, J can make you another one real quick, I apologize for that” he said turning more purple than red. J made another one. It tore instantly again. The manager said fuck but it was muffled and J laughed on the inside. The ogre went away pleased with a busted burrito and a sense of superiority over the two men who just made it for him. J made many more burritos and eventually clocked out.