Sunday, June 14, 2020

METH LAB TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY! The return of the Chemist...




Excerpt from Starchblood: A Novel
NYE, 1999.



Lisa was partying with her co-workers at T.G.I. Friday’s when she first met Colin, and although there’d been some flirtation, they’d never hooked up before that night. Two weeks later they moved in together. His extended family approved well enough, but often made strange observations about Lisa like:

“You’re smart, cute, in college… Why are you with Colin??”

She saw something behind the bloodshot tea shades of his eyes, an unvarnished distance that 6 months later paved way to a rollback while he pissed the bed in his sleep, leaving her mortified and unsure about the future. She did her best to coax him into attending AA meetings, abstained from drinking during short stints, and took her turns at the podium or head of the circle to discuss triggers.



But the parties at work were still too much of a draw for Colin. It was close to the Superbowl and St. Louis was the favorite in the point spread against Tennessee by -14. Friday’s had organized a pre-gamer that Saturday, because the crew would be light & generally knew how to keep secrets. Colin thought this an opportune time to try out a batch of GHB he’d bought from his brother, Eric, a pharmaceutical rep working in Rio Rancho.

“Don’t overdo it man. Seriously. Just a shot will do you.” Eric poured a capful into his Corona. “It’s so strong, I’ve actually been using it to cut back on my drinking. You metabolize booze so fast, you’ll be good to drive home in just a few hours.”

“I’m not an asshole. I can handle my shit.” Colin replied, reaching for another cap.

Eric jerked the bottle out of his hands. “If you’re just planning on killing yourself tonight, it’s not going to be on me.”

Colin promised to keep it light on the drinks that night…

It took 3 ambulances to load up the night-shift as they teetered on the edge of drug induced comas. The general manager was admitted to Presbyterian’s ICU and fired, later settling in life as the food/bev. Manager for a golf course in Santa Fe[1].

When he was finally canned for stealing and distributing $5 coupons and place-mats, Colin tried a stint as a delivery driver for Pudge Bros. Pizza. Lisa knew the anxiety of a new job would be a hindrance on his performance and would make him breakfast before his afternoon shifts began, before leaving for her new job as an educational assistant at Albuquerque Public Schools. The transition period took some adjustments and one night, after an especially hard week, she came home to the faint odor of rum and burrito vomit, seemingly emanating from somewhere on the front porch.



She heard virtually simulated car chases and drunken laughter inside the house and when she opened the door, Colin was sprawled out on the futon with bits of crusted black beans, potatoes, and cheese stuck to his shirt. Ray, his much older brother, had called to inform him that their grandmother had died. Colin was too distraught over the news to go to work, and Trey had been by to reminisce about the old woman’s legacy.

“Bullshit!” Lisa smacked him. “Get the fuck out of my house! Now!”

“Fuck you!” Colin stammered. “You think you’re so perfect? You’re not. Just another fuck up li-“

Lisa shoved him to the ground and continued to kick him in the stomach until a trickle of blood formed at his mouth. After he was forcibly removed from the situation by the police, days later he called from a few blocks away.

“Just listen, okay? I know you don’t want to see me, but I got you a car. Problem is-“

“Here we go.”

“… problem is, I got pulled over on the way to your house.”

The arresting officer grabbed the phone. “Is this, Lisa?”

“… yes.”

“Mrs. Dushane, we’re arresting your husband and impounding the car, unless you can pick it up.”

“He’s not my husband.”

“Pardon me?”

“I’m not Mrs. Dushane. And I don’t own a car.”


[1] Colin didn’t lose his job, or go to prison, and was later promoted from server to bartender. If you had a decent rapport with him and worked the same shifts, he’d serve you liquor in kid’s size cups.

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Friday, February 21, 2020

"Parents got pissed on in Times Square" by Cuntumelious




“They were in Times Square, for New Year’s Eve.”

“Never understood that, celebrating New Year’s with all those strangers, standing in the cold, in a place so fucking crowded.”

“And how did it happen?”

“I don’t know… He just said his parents got pissed on by somebody.”

“I assume it was a man.”

“You never know.”

“It was so clotted with people that the pisser probably couldn’t reach a bathroom, was stupid drunk, I’d guess.”

“It was New Year’s Eve…”

“I wonder how it went down. Did the guy whip it out and start shooting, like a deranged killer, wantonly spraying down everyone?”

“And packed in like sardines, there’d be nowhere to escape. You’d have to simply stand there and take it.”

“Nowhere to run. Some freak, unzips his fly, cock flailing in the night, pissing wildly, pissing all over you...”

“The pissing guy screaming like Rambo, all: “RAAAAAAHHH!!!”

“Nah, no way. I think it was that the guy couldn’t hold it, went in his pants and the parents were wetted by it.”

“Can’t imagine a person breaking out his dick, pointing and pissing at some random people.”

“I can. People do worse. Of all the tragedies that could befall you, it is low down on the list.”

“Don’t be too hasty to judge. Perhaps he was actually a good Samaritan. Like he scanned around, spared the others, spared the children.”

“Pissing on a child, that must be a sex offense. Chris Hanson shit…”

“Chris Hansen.”

“Hansen?”

“Hansen.”

“Marilyn Manson.”

“Isn’t Marilyn Manson dead?”

“No, Marilyn Manson is alive and pissing on people in Times Square.”

“Marilyn Manson is pissing on children.”


“It has to be a sex offense, pissing on children...”

“Even by accident? Say you’re in a public bathroom, pissing in a urinal, and a crazy kid comes running in, accidentally runs into your stream, and you blast his snotty little face with your golden bladder juice. Fucking next thing you know, you’re in jail, getting shanked, getting your cheeks busted by a tatted-up Aryan Brotherhood gang member. Fuck…”

“I’m using the stall from now on...”

“Or did the piss originate from above? A balcony shooter. A roof shooter.”

“The Oswald of Piss…”

“A second shooter theory. One from nearby and one from above.”

“Dude’s parents had enemies…”

“Magic piss. Ricocheting.”

“A rooftop pisser, a sniper. Like someone at a crowded party, couldn’t make it to the bathroom, relieved himself off a roof. Did it innocently enough. Thought he’d hit a dumpster or some shit, accidentally sprayed dude’s parents.”

“You really think it was incidental?”

“Accidental. It was an accident. I want to believe that. It helps me maintain faith in humanity.”

“What’d they do afterwards?”

“Who? The pisser?”

“No, the parents…”

“After what?”

“After they got pissed on...”

“Not sure. It’s an awkward conversation to have…”

“Piss must have frozen on them.”

“Icicles of piss, crinkling off them…”

“I’d punch a motherfucker in the dick if he pissed on me.”

“But what if it was Shaq? Bet he’d piss like a fire hose. Has special toilets installed in his house.”

“I’d save the piss, the Shaq Piss. Sell it on eBay.”

“Still don’t understand. How does anyone get pissed on in Times Square?”

“Why does anyone go there for New Year’s Eve?”

“Dude’s parents probably won’t go back for New Year’s again.”

“And if they do, they’d deserve to be pissed on…”


Monday, February 17, 2020

"SHANGHAIED!!!!" by Kim Cancer




"SHANGHAIED!!!!" by Kim Cancer

DOWNLOAD the fucking PDF!!!!

CLICK HERE OR BE A BITCH

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

Man on the loose, snatching and launching cellphones into street traffic



"Green Bandit" on the loose, snatching and launching cellphones into street traffic


By Cuntumelious, for Meth Lab News

02:20 ET, 01/30/2020

FRED CITY, FUCKSTATE: There have been numerous reports of a tiny man, around 5’0 tall and of sleight frame, wearing a neon green spandex jumpsuit, running through city streets and snatching cellphones away from those walking while texting.

After grabbing the phones, the man stops and hurls the devices into traffic, and then laughs hysterically while dashing off.

Panicked pedestrians, in a quandary, are often unsure of whether to go after the man or chase after their phones. Most have cursed, yelled at the man and then pursued their phone.

The man is described as having a cannon of an arm, able to throw the phones upwards of perhaps 70 to 80 yards, usually in a discus motion. He is also lightning quick, running nearly as fast as a cheetah.

Furthermore, the “Green Phone Bandit,” as he has been dubbed, is fleet on his feet, utilizing a variety of stiff-arms, juke moves, and hurling techniques to evade capture.

In addition, witnesses report his spandex suit to be covered in a greasy substance, rendering it difficult for passersby, good Samaritans to apprehend him.

One security guard attempting to tackle him stumbled, slipped and headbutted a parking meter. The parking meter was unharmed.

The bandit has been apparently targeting Apple Stores and Starbucks. The majority of his attacks have taken place within the vicinity of such establishments.

Witnesses report that the phone snatcher is a ginger, wears Reebok Pumps and has the word “think” in multiple languages scrawled in black ink all over his tight-fitting clothes.

One witness reported the Green Bandit had emerged from a manhole. Several witnesses reported him kicking open the trunks of parked cars, bursting out screaming gibberish. All of the cars involved had Theranos stickers on their passenger side windows.

It’s not known at this time if the phone smasher has any association with the company.

FRED City Police are investigating but don’t seem to care. If you have any information about the Green Bandit, or if you are the Green Bandit, you can basically just go fuck yourself.

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

"Cancel Culture" by Kim Cancer




This is not a story. This is not literature.
This is a spit in the face.
A kick in the nuts. A punch in the tit.
A shooting spree,
of consonants and vowels, aimed at snowflakes.

This is to be loathed. This is to cause anger.
This is to be deleted, blocked, downvoted, canceled and hated.
Demonetized
by coding corpses in Silicon Valley

It is my hope a Twitter Mob forms,
curses my name, relegates me to Louis CK status.

This is my penis and I take it out
a dark web palm reader for the snowflakes.
This is my penis and I take it out
to piss on the face of all Boomers, Gen Xers
and especially the Millennials and Gen Z

You who have grown with smartphones akin to limbs,
priapic pineal glands, ophthalmic screens…

You who have “emotional support animals”
I hope your emotional support animal
mauls you to death like an Alaskan grizzly bear
and you fucking die like that execrable Australian crocodile cunt

You who have “safe spaces”
I want to rig your safe spaces
with prepositions, adverbial pipe bombs
and laugh as they explode like an Ariana Grande concert

Yes, YOU, you snowflakes…

You who have transformed young America
into a coddled wasteland
of mock outrage, moaning prudes

You who subscribe to video game streams on YouTube
You who pay punk ass PewDiePie his millions
while the greatest living poet in America works as a janitor!

You who fight over bathrooms
You who bastardize legitimate arguments,
shame those who marched
shame those who righteously died

You who vote Republican and Democrat
You who watch CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News
You who wish to silence creators
You who are triggered
You who can’t take a joke
You who can’t fathom opposing views
You who Yelp, write online reviews
in braille
You who protest Bill Burr, Joe Rogan and Dave Chappelle

You, you snowflakes: I want to reach into your toilets
to smear myself in your shit
and kick at your cunts and balls as you whine online about my blackface

I want to punch your nose
paint myself in your blood and attack your colleges
with wadded up copies of The Naked Lunch and Tropic of Cancer

I want to hack Spotify
replace every playlist with Public Enemy on a continuous loop
and blast 2 Live Crew
from loudspeakers down every boulevard in Northern California

I want to hog-tie conservatives, make them watch gay porn
I want to hog-tie liberals, make them watch monster truck rallies

Because your phone can block
Your phone can delete
But energy cannot be destroyed

And ART, speech, thought
Are the purest form of energy
The very flesh of emotion…

Currency both malefic and supernal!

And now, snowflakes
now I tie your noose
I grind my knife to your throat
I aim my AK at your temples
Just to tell you this:

Sticks and stones can break my bones
But words will always nourish me…

Let there be commerce!


Friday, September 27, 2019

"The War Against Obesity" by Kim Cancer



An addendum to the novel “Taliban Telemarketer” by Kim Cancer…

“The War Against Obesity”


Next America had far too many obese.

The obesity crisis had worsened throughout the 2000s and 2010s, particularly so in the late 2010s when being “overweight” became socially acceptable, normalized.

The phrase “Fat Shaming” had entered the lexicon.

Large, “plus-size” women, men on the covers of fashion magazines.

After the brief Civil War 2 concluded, when the US National Debt was consolidated by FRED Corps***, “FREDicare for all”, “FREDicare” comprehensive medical coverage plans were implemented and covered the entirety of Next America’s legal citizens (those Class A, B, C - though not Class D).

FREDicare provided basic care, vision, dental, with much of the services handled by cost-efficient AI, BOT…

*** Who is FRED?

What was known about FRED: FRED is a council of major corporations founded by the former “Federal Reserve Bank” and a collective of international mega-corps.

The collective pooled resources to purchase the United States of America’s colossal $125 trillion national debt and maneuvered to annex Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean, the UK, Ireland, and Greenland into one awesome nation...

FRED had no visible leader. No known CEO.

The closest visible thing to FRED leadership was the President of Next America, a series of drooling, stammering borderline mentally retarded caricatures, normally chosen from a shit-battery of homeless schizophrenics and loudmouth borderline narcissists, all of whom were raped, beaten, tortured, tarred and feathered routinely on Fucking News STREAMS…

The most popular STREAM for a time was Meet the Fucking Press, an audience driven poll program, featuring survey choices of methods to humiliate and physically, mentally batter the President.

The series finale STREAM having the President believe his term to be mercifully over, and when leaving the White House, hopping, skipping, and singing “Hall-LAY-LOO-YAH”!

The President, a filthy, toothless, raggedy dressed homeless CW2 veteran, was mauled to death and eaten by a genetically revived breed of saber-tooth tiger (infused/possessed by the ghost of Panzram) the tiger dropped via flying drone, onto the White House south lawn…

Following the indignation of PETA for allowing the tiger to possibly be put in harm’s way, and disappointing STREAM, sagging Presidential approval ratings, BIGFOOT, the Sasquatch, the yeti, who’d been flushed from the woods due to deforestation, was installed as Vice President, and then finally took the oath of office, and being 9 feet tall, BIGFOOT was rarely the object of ridicule.

In fact, BIGFOOT became perhaps the most popular President. EVER. The Lincoln Memorial, Jefferson Memorial, and Washington Monument all torn down and replaced with statues of BIGFOOT in various reflective poses…

FRED: Its meetings were held biannually in the massive, heavily fortified super-exclusive Fuck You Resort 2, located on the shores of beachfront Arizona, no media or pictography allowed.

While the innerworkings of FRED remained murky, and the public was largely apathetic, mollified by VR, many of FRED’s initiatives became clear.

Its first was to reduce the girth of Next America’s waistlines…

A government program, a national initiative, called “Shut the Fuck Up and Shape Up!” was launched.

Its First Phase: The Children.

Next America’s children mostly attended school VR, occasionally being led to social events, testing, in armored school buses…

Next America’s children were henceforth required compulsory training (either by VR or IRL) in martial arts, street fighting, Judo, boxing, wrestling, MMA classes, beginning in kindergarten, and were required to engage in physical combat activity, painted camouflage and sent on random urban hyena, baboon spear hunts for a minimum of 3 hours daily…

Morbidly obese children quarantined, processed into “fat farms”, re-education centers, forced into beehive structures, connected by suction wiring, their diets adjusted, and instructed by Tooth Fairy Dahmer BOTS to wrestle small chimps and bears, participate in hand to hand combat, CrossFit, compliance calisthenics…

The Second Phase: “Act Against Obesity Normalization”

An act of legislature that banned images of the morbidly obese in media, except for circumstances in which obesity is discussed as a health issue or the obese were being violently attacked by hierarchical dominant muscular alpha males, rabid animals (usually hyena, baboon, tiger, mountain lion) and/or verbally assaulted, viciously pranked (usually punched in the stomach by surprise robotic arms or chairs pulled out from behind, Fucking Pranking and Punching Fat People in the Stomach STREAM being immensely popular for a time)...

The Third Phase: “Disappeared”

Final Solution to the obesity crisis. The “Fuck Obesity Act” legislation, in which the morbidly obese were given, by legal decree, one year to become non-morbidly obese.

However, no punishment for non-compliance was announced or even mentioned…

(Mental health, monitored by brain chip/neural networking, and physical health, monitored by face rec scans, body scans, was data-maintained by FRED social stability apparatus; measurements comprised an undisclosed portion of one’s Class distinction.)

((Morbid obesity itself was no longer tracked simply by BMI, but instead by a complex, opaque computational algorithm, computed by AI tracker security sky cams and bee-sized roving drones, capable of scanning, ascertaining confirmation of morbid obesity in split seconds.))

Since FRED Corps’ first major action upon taking control of Next America was to legalize all acts of physical non-sexual violence (w/the exception of violence against the Class A and rape of the President) the population, knowing FRED Corps’ insouciance, if not penchant for violence, and their creation of the wildly popular STREAMS like The Fucking Torture Channel, was abuzz on CHITTER with conjecture over what the punishment for morbid obesity would exactly be…

As the compliance date neared, many obese turned themselves in to authorities, and were shipped to concentration camps, where they were forced into military exercises, laborious physical exercise, hard labor, strenuously rigid dietary regimes, self-criticism struggle sessions and MMA training, with the obese pitted against one another in random grappling, fistfights and kickfights…

(The kickfight being a razor wire cage fight where the combatants’ arms are chained behind the back and only combatants’ legs are used to kick at one another- biting, headbutting allowed/encouraged)

PROTEST: SJW obese, unhappy with the decree, fought back, organized a mass rally, a protest, resembling an old school gay pride parade, where the obese nationwide marched (of course not for too long, many panting, wheezing along parade routes, so several rode on floats, or in mobility carts, scooters, Segways).

The obese in only underwear, their bouncy, flabby bellies, flopping, jiggling; their thunder thighs rippling; the obese amassed, taunting police BOTS, picketing the FRED Corp shadowy skyscraper in downtown NNYC; the obese guzzling Coca Cola and blasting, singing and dancing to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me”.

Little did the obese at the rally know that each and every one of their faces were logged via biometric face scan...

The obese were branded by FRED AI as “fucking recalcitrant” and targeted for disposal.

The few Class A in the protests found their Class distinctions immediately lowered to Class C.

The protesting obese, in days following, arrested in mass.

Police BOTS, squadrons of bounty hunter dog cyborgs hunted the obese, ambushing them outside all-you-can-eat buffets, WWE wrestling matches, Walmart, Next America southern states particularly targeted…

Trailers, mobile homes, apartments, houses raided; obese beaten, dragged through streets, piled into transport vehicles, maglev trains, flying robots; obese plucked up and flown away by aerial octopus attack drones...

Def Leppard’s “Photograph” played, at ear splitting volumes, in continuous loops by and inside each transport vehicle…

The captured obese amassed, brought to the concentration camps with the voluntary obese...

However, as opposed to the volunteers, who were given some leeway, some freedoms (the freedom to watch baseball especially enjoyed, especially the ceremonial opening 1st inning 30-second fistfight between opposing teams’ managers, and the volunteer obese really took a shining to the Fucking Rock Stars Smashing Guitars STREAM) but those rebellious, captured obese were afforded far harsher conditions.

They were tethered, chained to exercise bikes, treadmills, stair climbers, hot yoga confinement cells, forced into motion for hours on end, lashed with electrical cords, wet towels by the volunteers, fed only via intravenous tubes, and administered involuntary, invasive liposuctions, vomit inductions and iced saline water, White Claw enemas.

Many of the obese were unable to endure. They wheezed, plunged from the exercise equipment. Many had heart attacks.

But they were not allowed to die.

They’d instantly be resuscitated by roving medi-BOT, plopped right back onto the exercise equipment, forced to resume calorie burning motion.

(The few unable to be resuscitated obese had their body parts harvested for scientific study or private sale; the pale skin obese in particular fetching a hefty sum, sold at auction to wealthy patrons in Asiatic countries...)

Roughly 2 years after the initial decree, the obesity crisis was considered solved. The obese who survived the camps released, though kept on probation, bodyfat monitoring regimen…

But there remained an active obese insurgency. Obese hiding out underground, in bunkers; obese guerrilla, Class D, off-grid muckers.

The muckers would pop up here, there and attack FRED property, police BOT, hijack food delivery vehicles, highly coordinated armed robberies of restaurants, grocery stores…

However, ironically, since many were unable to eat as frequently, due to their renegade status, they lost most of the flab they’d fought so fiercely to protect and were no longer in danger of simple persecution for being illegal obese.

They were still routinely punished, though, and ultimately terminated for attacking Class A, FRED property.

Many of those on Fucking Torture or Fucking Execution STREAM were obese or former obese who’d turned to anti-FRED, anti-Class A banditry…





Friday, March 8, 2019

"Green Tea Bitch: Jiangxi" by Newamba Flamingo




Green Tea Bitch: Jiangxi

1.
softcore porn
feet bunched up, icy fingers
last Lantern Festival…
last feast, fireball cupboards
granny’s building leap,
granny’s red pockets, grandpa’s tree bark

red face reunions,
way boned
tiger chair hot pot
hot water dunks
television torture tactics...

LITTLE LEI FENGS
PIG EARS FOR THE WILLING
MORNING READINGS
KITES, KNIFINGS, KAIFENGS
GAS CANISTER KITCHEN FETISHES

smokestacks to backbeats, word is on the street…

chemical plant cuckold
chemical plant cuckold
anthrax laced long underwear
chemical plant cuckold
dark market of caged animals…
coalitions of the willing…

coalitions of telemarketers,
coalitions of wedding strippers,
airing of grievances
tractor pull aneurysms.

2.

new guards, counter martyrs,
counter counterrevolutionaries
curbside counter qipao epilepsy
mahjong social justice warriors
hand-washing laundry in shapes,
coldest water, slurping fetus soup
back back back alley
cigarette sonogram…

bureaus, ministry of smiling turtle shit
networks of ayis: poker face
pale face
voluntary tarot card confessions,
sperm shot parabolas,
Sichuan, malatang
planes to Phuket
coin operated engines
smiling tiger
selfie stick death duels,

a hostage and a crisis

a house and a car

down payments
to lost generations
down payments
pension funds
down payments
public defecation

dancing spastic
dancing on graves at the public square

3.

en…
100 kilometers an hour
building blocks: laodong
labor camps,
promises, Angkor Wat
promises, forty year plan
outbursts, sajiaos,
deepest sympathies
vinegar comb-over
teeth in public toilets
teeth in buried trains
bricks for the kangaroo
algorithmic iterating intelligence
Uncle Ganbei
Uncle Guizhou
Uncle Gansu!
one belt
shaven head depression,
young girls held at knife-point
babies burning in Hangzhou…

4.

ai-yah!
she paints her face white
wielding umbrellas like a terrorist
she paints her face white
stashing mink coats
flashing household registrations
she bites her tongue
metallic taste of blood and duck meat…

and the Audi,
he meditates on Cambodia,
gunshots and gonorrhea,
bar girls and Buddhas,
beer and guanxi…

she bites her tongue
her father’s hemorrhoids
her mother’s bunions
skyscrapers scraping haze, pencils,
rubbers and whiteouts
the symbolism of slanted roofs
the middle school girls in communal showers

she clenches her teeth
her slow-moving reckoning
her menstruating at the Gala
her red gown cameo
her Paris trip postponed
her wet bowel movements
her gym class in unison

AI – OH, LAOGONG!

Robocalls, robocops, facial recognition
Backslap gambling debts
Loansharking,
promised wife in infrared
Her infrastructures of suffering
Waltzing, caustic, the burning tires
vomiting salutes, public tantrums
Her elevated boots with pomp, tassels
Hassles, expired passports,
kicks to the groin
period painted couplets, calligraphy
dunce caps, iron rice bowl mafia,
carpet jackets screaming in horror
scratching hammers, scratching sickles
carpet jackets
mimicking chalkboards, fortune tellers at bus stops,
triangle hats, counterfeits,
Baidu toxic vegetable butt grease

ai-oh!

“No, we won’t go to your parents’ house this New Year’s”
“No, we can’t see her this New Year’s”

…. And I birthed your suckling pig

44 kilometers an hour

On ramp, on light, engine check light,
no yielding, no tolls
trolls
multi-level marketing
mandates of heaven,
mannequin fistfights
clotheslining bitches at banquets
minstrel shows on demand…

His knuckles turn yellow

red light horizons and xiao sans
Shanghai housing prices and
fucked up mufflers and brake pads
maxi-pads, exposed wiring
Xanax and smoke signals,
carrier pigeons in V formations
55 prisoners
in blue jumpsuits, burning alive
in the blackest of lighter factories …

FINGER PINCHING NIGHT SWEATS…
DOG SHIT DRUNK
KTV ED SHEERAN IMPOSTERS
DOG SHIT DRUNK
DOG FARTS
DOG MEATS
DOG FESTIVAL DOG WHITE DOG LEFT
DOG SQUEAMISH COUNTERFEIT PAINTINGS
DOG OF NOTHING…

“I HARE A DREAMS”

His knuckles turn orange
Disappearing into overcast sunsets
Paint chips, coughing walls, cigarette symphonies,
rice riot buffet line skirmishes, kung fu chicken
kung fu led poisoning
one hundred years of hungry escalators
gutter oil diarrhea canals and
Firecrackers of cow ass,
hongbao for the whore
his ballerina, brass knuckles and a bloody nose
taking her beating,
like a pedophile in prison

JIANGXI: VIVIAN AND TONYA
SOMA, SOOOOMA, SOOOOOOMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAA

Oh, LAOGONG,
those long lines and awkward stares, the VIP hospital cards
Chopstick funeral pyres, deleted and we chant moments
those crowded subways, unwashed masses pushing forth
their Famine pangs and fang fang halitosis,
flat noses, snorting, the frog like creatures…

Oh, LAOGONG!

88 kilometers an hour
Head on collisions with ghosts
Honking at swine
Bodies in the river
Hurling bottles at strangers,
Bodies with their addictions
mobile apps
slashing sprees impromptu
static cling silver
imaginary shopping malls…
oh, their first class faggot renderings of Van Gogh
oh, their suffocated toddlers in filthy bathwater…
GOING GOING GOING THE FUCK BACK TO HENAN
AI- OH,
their maids washing tea cups with toilet brushes

Oh, Laopao,
You Green Tea Bitch,
that toothless trucker we overtake
His meth dreams of California
His mansion in Vancouver
His millionaire schemes
His black children’s torrents
of basketball, tattoos, English education
the death penalty and mumble rap
registered drug users
NEVER BROKE AGAIN
Oh, Laopao…

Come to…
bucktooth ballerina grabbing for the wheel

Oh, SHUI GE,
the windshield’s cracked
Kamikaze, somersaults in green canals
Algae the rear view, triple axles and sirens
sewer smells, lumps of coal, lumps of ketamine,
four old uteruses, tarantula Louis CK-like handjobs
Feeble attempts at curing cancer…

Pao pao pao pao pao pao pao PAO!!!!!!!!!

MEI NU
her mediations contemplated solace

TCManpire,
his vulture dick endless administrative detentions

A NEW RED DAWN, A FRIENDLY LION

A NEVERENDING DREAM

Sunday, August 26, 2018

"What Happens to Rejected Demos Sent to Record Companies?" by Newamba Flamingo






2004

Hamlet was a rosy-cheeked, slender, tall and handsome young man, nearing college graduation.

As a youngster he’d been interested in the performing arts, trying his hand at acting, singing, and rapping, but never had much success beyond community theater and school talent shows, eventually losing interest and giving up on it in his early teens.

Told he resembled a young Ashton Kutcher, a frat brother scored him some low-level modelling work for a local restaurant and clothing store and a gig as a dancing extra in the background of a Spanish language variety show, clapping his hands red and smiling and laughing on command, take after take.

Through this show he became chummy with a producer, a chunky 30-ish lady, who wore lots of make-up, and always called him “sweetie.”

She had a cousin, a VP at a record label, also a chunky 30-ish lady with ample make-up (perhaps tattooed on) and this lady had as well taken a liking to Hamlet.

She recruited Hamlet to do an internship at her record label, which had recently scored a major distribution deal following its spawning of a series of pop and hip hop stars.

Hamlet accepted the position, eager to soak up its perks, such as free entry to nightclub VIP sections, concerts, meeting famous people and getting free CDs and merch (some of which he could maybe sell on eBay).

His duties at the record label included the usual gopher tasks, fetching coffee, making xerox copies, answering phones.

The most exciting work he initially had was being posted to the front desk, filling in for the secretary.

There he’d not only answer calls, but register visitors, many of which were uninvited artists who’d show up to the front door of the label’s office and immediately begin singing, dancing, rapping, strumming a guitar at Hamlet or whomever was manning the front desk or happened to be in the lobby.

Such encounters required dispatching security, sometimes with the assistance of label staff, Hamlet too a couple times, literally dragging or pushing the aspiring artists into the street, guitar in hand, rapping, singing as the door slammed in his or her face.

They’d sometimes be in tears, confessing to having taken a bus for 10 hours, with no money for a return ticket.

But they’d always be told the same thing. Hire a manager and send us an official demo, registered mail.

Not every aspiring superstar showed up at the door or had a manager send their demo. Many demos were in fact mailed to the label, directly from the artists themselves, often crude home recordings, but sometimes high quality, professional looking CDs, tapes, and occasionally vinyl, accompanied by press kits and merch.

The label’s official policy, such as that of many large, successful record companies, was not to listen to any “unsolicited” demo, that is, one sent directly by an artist and not a reputable manager, lawyer, or industry insider.

However, the label’s top A&R department was always hungry for the next superstar who could emerge from nowhere, and, would in fact have any demo received via mail screened and any promising material forwarded to the head honchos for further review.

But screening these demos was no simple task. Thousands were received weekly. Huge piles stacking up in the corner of the low-level A&R execs’ offices.

Screening the demos was tedious, extremely so, sorting through the piles, hearing endless hours of things resembling Tourette’s syndrome sufferers, banshees, bathroom recordings, out of key singing, animal sounds, horrid wannabe rappers and boy bands, and so on.

Only maybe one of fifty demos were at all decent, only one of a hundred actually good.

After careful, painful screening, the demos were filtered into two final heaps.

One heap being the “promising” pile that’d be forwarded on to higher level A&R or label personnel. The other heap being the “pass” pile that’d be destroyed, either by shredder or smashed up with a blunt object before thrown into the garbage.

The reason for destroying the demos was simple. It was to avoid lawsuits, so that no artist could claim they sent their song to the record label and then a similar song comes out later that sounds the same.

If somehow that did happen, coincidentally or otherwise (this being the music business!), the record label wanted no proof of the demo being in its possession.

So here’s where Hamlet came in. The label execs had been quite pleased with him. He was a hard-working, punctual, and polite young man. But most of all, he was calm, patient. They never once saw him get riled up about anything.

Not the weekly intrusions of wannabe Jay Z(s) and Beyoncés bursting into the office, singing, dancing and rapping, or even the daily explosive, screaming, every so often physical, intra-office arguments between rival departments, or high decibel phone calls from outraged parents’ groups, pushy managers; nobody and nothing got under the kid’s skin...

Perhaps it was Hamlet’s upbringing, always watching zombie movies with his older sister, but never having any nightmares like his classmates would.

Or maybe it was seeing his parents in violent confrontations, his father once holding a knife to his mother’s neck in the kitchen, before Hamlet’s sister chased their father away, wildly swinging at him with a frying pan, Hamlet standing nearby, calmly watching, head tilted, as the drama ensued…

After his parents’ divorce, Hamlet was diagnosed as “depressed” due to his apathy about the divorce and lack of motivation in school. He’d been on Zoloft since his early teens.

Though he’d been addicted to violent video games, gangsta rap, death metal and horror movies, pretty much since he remembered, he never got into fights or disciplinary issues at school, not even when people teased him about his name. It never fazed him.

He was always remaining aloof, quiet, and maintained a B to C average, was a reserve on the high school basketball team, had a group of casual friends, a couple girlfriends, and later got into a state college.

He never became too close with anyone, however, perhaps because of his demeanor, being so emotionless.

Like one time he and classmates drove by a fallen motorcyclist, head split open, on the side of the road. Everyone gagged, a girl threw up out the window as they passed by slowly, rubbernecking. But Hamlet glanced at it and wasn’t affected in the least…

His only real tick was his bizarre hatred of the band Alice in Chains. He claimed that anytime he heard their music he’d have bad luck, and he was always storming out of the room or shutting off MTV or the radio if they were on.

(Although he actually liked their music he’d once confided to the goth girl sitting next to him in study hall.)

Aside from that, the only other time anyone saw Hamlet affected was when a serial rapist was loose in the neighborhood and had raped an 11-year-old girl, in the daytime, in a thicket of bushes only a couple blocks from Hamlet’s house.

Hamlet spent the next few days and nights, clutching a baseball bat, roaming his mom’s house, looking eagerly out his windows, at times sitting on the front porch, scowling, hoping for a meeting with the perp…

Due to his steely resolve, A&R staff figured he’d be the perfect person to take on the task of filtering the demos – and destroying the unwanted ones. Most interns and lower level staff dreaded doing so, but Hamlet took it on with no complaints, and was to be hired as full-time, paid staff after graduation.

Soon enough, each week, he was taking the rejected “pass” pile onto the balcony outside the A&R office and smashing them up with a sledgehammer. The press kits and paper materials he’d feed to the office document shredder.

One afternoon, Raya, a spunky college girl, newly arrived intern, who was always trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to make conversation with Hamlet, stopped by the balcony, slid open the glass door, smiled and asked him, half-jokingly, nervously giggling: “Doesn’t it bother you, smashing up all those demos? Literally destroying and crushing all those people’s hopes and dreams?”

Hamlet, resting the hammer on his shoulder as he readied up another pile, just shrugged.

She continued, her tone sobering, and she pointed a particular demo out: “Oh, I like totally remember her. That girl called here the other day, crying and freaking out, saying she’d like sent us her baby photos, along with her demos. She was all begging us to mail them back to her.”

Hamlet peered down for a second at the demo in question, a cute teenage Puerto Rican girl in a pink halter top and black miniskirt, sticking her tongue out on its cover.

“I remember that,” he said. “Pictures already been shredded. Lawsuits, you know…”

Then he adjusted his goggles and resumed bashing the demos, mostly CDs, and the crunching sounds they made as they split apart were quieter than Raya expected.

Seeing his stern, unflinching face as he took aim at the Puerto Rican girl’s CD, Raya forgot her smile, slowly backed away, and didn’t talk much to him afterwards.

A few years later, as file-sharing bit further and further into profits, the label went bankrupt.

Hamlet got a job in administration at the local school district and later went on to become a high school principal.

Saturday, June 9, 2018

"Getting Gunned Down and Liking It" by Newamba Flamingo



The house was for sale
Assorted couples, some with
smells of children
assorted couples
straggled in/out

Home Alone
Burglars on monkey bars
Home Alone
in/out, in/out

real estate agents
opioid white, comfortably numb
smelling of hamburger
kicked and kicked
at the cellar door
in/out, in/out

The day was humid, sunny,
95 degree heat index
the
sound of cicadas
vacuums
honeysuckle mildew
Tourette’s sufferers
self-mutilating multi-purpose
emos on dog leashes
slobbering, snickering
in/out, in/out

the cats
confinement,
fear of children
cats’
basement purgatory,
sucker shit starvation…
in/out

the fresh cut grass
out front of
The old Victorian,
site of senior citizen slap fights,
domestic disputes
abusive PTA swinger sessions,
HIV conspiracies
Stolen bike sleepover studies of Nero
Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtle Tupperware
Silverfish eating crack smoking British animals

The old Victorian,
its Grecian columns
Its Pot plants, cocaine, teenage sex
its girl blood graffiti

Out/in

Hovering balls of night
hair metal
good fences…

walls had been painted
roses had been planted
lawns had been manicured
leaky pipes had been fixed

past, present perfect…

Throwing stones
The faggot running home with one shoe
Throwing stones
The faggot with a black eye and cracked glasses
The faggot, weeping, snot-nosed
seeking Jamaican gardeners
seeking gravel driveway sanctuary

The faggot
hears an explosion,
boom boom boom
From that failed shopping center
Where stepsisters fucked in elevators
Where stepbrothers tripped acid in bushes
The Iranian deli and its cigarettes
gone in a fire red mushroom cloud…

1-Armed attackers
Unleashed from snack bars
Beating poets and bears with baseball bats

1-Armed attackers,
potbelly fanny packs,
New Balance shoes
pinkish trench coats

1-Armed attackers
walkie-talkies, gang signs
abortion crocodile farms
airboats from a shithole
Turbo charged colon cameras

coyotes dropping from the sky

1-Armed attackers
jogging down suburban streets
in wedding gowns
AR-15 blazing,
soccer moms getting gunned down and liking it

Police, swat teams, bullets whizzing by
Corpses, real or imagined, trash and treasure
Dream therapy, food truck hearses
Quack Quack
Candle lit stock market ceremonies
Macaroni and cheese making America
Orange slice metaphorical weather pattern
Bomb cyclone, shouting at the derecho and liking it

The news had been broadcast
Gunmen’s silhouettes
Gunmen’s faces and stories

The air was humid
The house was for sale


Friday, March 9, 2018

"Manila Massacre" by Newamba Flamingo





Calling Mr. Carlos
ROOM 510

Up the ante
and
squeeze your trigger

Camaraderie goes “bang”

Mr. Carlos,
pay the taxi

TAKEOFF

Mr. Carlos,
no chauffeur,
GROCERY LIST JIHAD
JIHAD
to the Roar of jet engines
Planes at the hangar
Jetpacks, nooses and shoelaces
Security goes silk…
Blood blister intercoms
Spit shine sidewalks,
fanny packs, finger bombs
breaking news
ABS-
CBN…

Mr. Carlos, our rendezvous,
Mr. Carlos…
you pink panther,
all fur and claws,
such MANEUVERS
such maneuvers…

That ain’t working,
This is how we do it…

with Jeepney routes
wild suicidal tendencies
with secretaries closing the séance
Séances in shackles, surgical masks…
Immolate, Mr. Carlos
your witch burnings on webcam
your
bitch bitch bitching
your IOU(s)
your
snitch snitch snitching
your last resorts,
your retorts, by the Belmont -
chlorine in the pool
Bushmaster action flicks
smallish dicks and Flocks at the barrio
Bashing baby skulls, secret snipers
Satellites! Satellites! Satellites!
Stomping children’s testicles
into neon sunsets
Art Deco orange
the
transitioning, undercover bukkake priests,
are 21 savages in a conga line,
misfits,
their CIA card games and
Cockfights and tax returns, indispensable,
indivisible!
GOTTDAMN their shrill voices!
GOTTDAMN their squeaky shoes!
Grimy, grimy, GRIMY!

The stairwell!
The stairwell, Mr. Carlos!
… and a punch to the neck
… and an itinerary of fuck,
Muck, license of maggots
Koreans drinking your piss
Auto-erotic asphyxiation in lavatories
Flipping roulette tables, to the
Gold Rush
Go Go gasoline
Diesel, diesel, diesel!

Colossal failure, Mr. Carlos!
Chips are in, Mr. Carlos!
100,000 pesos, Mr. Carlos!

THAT AIN’T WORKING!
THAT’S THE WAY YOU DO IT!

Pre-millennial garbage/bag
Pre-millennial lizard/man
… and those Crisis Actors – the ones to
make the everything a dilemma…

Mr. Carlos,
You getting pussy in Pasay?
Perpetrator, perpetrator, perpetrator!
Mr. Carlos,
You tuck yourself in nice and tight?
Perpetrator, perpetrator, perpetrator!
Mr. Carlos,
You see the flat earth?
You having disco ball dreams?
Perpetrator!!!
Hallowed
be
thy
name!!!
Mr. Carlos,
You think it’s a moon heist?
PERPETRATOR!

Mr. Carlos,
Who really got fucked?


Monday, October 9, 2017

"ESL Guangzhou: Dawn of the Nong" by Newamba Flamingo




It was dawn. A committed insomniac and early riser, Happy Sacks stretched out on his balcony overlooking VPN Road, Shamian Island.

“This was once the only place in Guangzhou laowai could live…”

Today the smog had lifted. A purplish sunrise yielded to baby blue skies.

Happy admired the island’s colonial style buildings, the European architecture, stone pillars.

A 50ish Cantonese man pushed his teenage son’s wheelchair past the Starbucks.

“Mainlanders only do two things with their handicapped. Hide them or exploit them.”

Happy drank a morning beer, smoked a bowl of opium, popped his Prozac and ate a hearty breakfast of fried chicken feet and cockroaches and watched car crash videos on the morning news.

He dressed up in standard China TEFL uniform, a clown costume, with requisite white face paint, big red nose, and spit-shined, pumped up kicks.

An obese shushu from Guizhou was his ride to school and waited on all fours outside.

Happy mounted the shushu like a horse, put a cigarette to the shushu’s lips, and they were off, galloping through the humanity, jumping every queue….

Happy convened class. No AC in the steamy, crumbling classroom and silver slivers of sweat streamed down his forehead, armpits, asscrack.

Happy tried a simple ESL game, but the students paid no mind. They talked over him, played on phones, watched movies on tablets, or lay face first on desks, sleeping.

A petite caramel girl sat atop a desk in the front row. Her parted legs revealed a bare vagina underneath her dress, and she stared lustily at Happy, performing fellatio on a Popsicle…

“Age of consent in China is 14…”

A commotion outside. Happy opened the door to the hallway and saw a deranged janitor running amok, with a meat clever, singing Michael Jackson songs in a horrible falsetto as he was hacking at students, staff at random…

Happy closed the door tightly and saw all his students lay bloodied, dead on the floor.

He dialed 112. No answer. Line was busy. He ended the call and realized he was in the WC.

It smelled strongly of piss, shit, vinegar, and secondhand smoke.

Wumao Laoshi with a flesh wound, stood calmly at the mirror, smoking, downloading a suicide app.

Panicked, Happy tried to talk with him.

“听不懂!”

Happy’s stomach began to rumble. He’d been in China long enough and knew the progression of laduzi.

All the stalls were occupied so he kicked in one’s door and found a dentist pulling teeth from a princeling in a Pol Pot hat.

He kicked in another and yanked out a squatting, cell phone playing Chinese Urkel, and flung the fucker to the floor.

Happy dropped trou and loosed his bowels.

He realized he didn’t have toilet paper and knew his only choices: hands, socks or underwear...

As he levitated his fat, hairy, honky white ass over the toilet, he heard a chugging train sound and felt a cold wind blowing below.

A hand clawed from the toilet’s mouth and a man in a panda suit crawled out of it.

Panda Suit Man yelled: “This for the feelings of the Chinese people!” and Happy’s Guns N’ Roses ringtone suddenly went off.

Panda Suit Man then shoved his hand up Happy’s ass, dug around, and pulled out Happy’s prostate.

“So many butthurt!” laughed and pointed Chinese Urkel.

Panda Suit Man dove back down into the toilet. Happy flicked off Chinese Urkel and followed Panda Suit Man down the hole.

“It’s always darkest before it becomes totally black...”

They emerged in Nongjing, at Tingbudong Square.

Panda Suit Man was dashing through a crowd of dancing ayis.

Happy chased after him, but more and more ayis surged forth, blocking his way.

Happy pushed and shoved away the ayis, but, increasingly frustrated, he punched and kicked through them, UFC style, dropping cunt punts and slugging their wrinkly faces and saggy tits with vicious hooks, jabs, and uppercuts.

He finally picked a portly one up and used her as a battering ram to bludgeon his path to the tail end of the masses.

Throwing the battering ram ayi to the ground, and giving her one last kick for good measure, he looked to the sky and saw Panda Suit Man scaling the Great Firewall, with suction cups.

Panda Suit Man zip-lined to Chairman Pumpkinhead’s portrait and used Happy’s bloody prostate to smear Cantonese characters on it.

A gong sounded. It was then the tanks moved in.

Soldiers shooting indiscriminately at pedestrians, ayis; motorcycles running motherfuckers over… Wild lions and baboons falling from low flying helicopters… Gutter oil, stinky tofu, propane canisters from catapults, loud explosions, harmony…

Happy was mowed down by machine gun fire…

Happy awoke on the floor of a hallway in a hospital. The floor was filthy with bloody Q-tips and used maxi pads everywhere. Bobby Shmurda’s “Hot N*gga” boomed from the public address system.

Happy rose to his feet. Mankini-clad middle age Chinese men all around, staring and surrounding him, smoking cigarettes, holding sonograms, making hacking spitting sounds.

At the end of the hallway was Panda Suit Man, behind him, a ball of light.

Panda Suit Man was waving Happy in like a third base coach, and Happy took off running in Panda Suit Man’s direction.

The spitting/smoking mob locked arms, cursed Happy and gave chase.

As Happy got closer to the light, there appeared a beautiful young Chinese girl in a skintight onesie miniskirt, standing in front of a sauna. The girl was smiling, shaking her fist…

Happy ran faster and faster and felt the hot stinky breath and slimy spit of the nong throngs behind him.

Wheezing, gasping for air, he dove towards the beautiful Chinese girl in the sauna, and everything went








Thursday, October 5, 2017

"Johnny Buckets in Bergen" by Newamba Flamingo




Johnny Buckets wore a Spider-Man sweat suit.

He hung upside down from the ceiling of the first class carriage, in the fast train from Oslo to Bergen.

Cracking open an Aass beer, he gazed out the window into the green, brown, and white Norwegian countryside.

Someone in the row behind him said how you ain't seen nothing until you’ve seen a middle aged Polish woman speaking Chinese and that those glaciers would soon be gone because of global warming.

Johnny downloaded an “InfoWars” podcast. He gritted his teeth as he sucked down the Scandinavian suds.

“Can’t I get a fucking Budweiser in this country?!” he erupted. “Fucking faggots!”

A sharply dressed man in the seat facing him grimaced, crossed his legs, checked his watch and looked away…

Johnny Buckets hiked up his pants and hit Bergen “like a fucking asteroid.”

The weather was damp and rainy. The mountains hugging the city were molars.

In the driverless Uber Johnny Buckets laughed and did impressions of the language in onomatopoeia…

“Hey, where the fuck can a nigga get some bacon cheeseburgers and shit?” he inquired at the front desk.

None of the staff seemed impressed by his “Make America Great Again” hat or his Joe Pesci t-shirt...

Tourists snapped selfies with architecture, but Johnny Buckets pushed past them on his way to the “Roll & Rock Bar and Diner” on Skostredet 14.

He spit out his first bite.

“This is real beef?!” “Bacon soggy like used toilet paper!” “FUCKING SOCCER BALL KICKING, MANBUN EUROFAGS!”

Johnny Buckets dug out his phone from his fanny pack, got online, gave the diner a shitty review on TripAdvisor and trolled a "libtard" on a fantasy football site.

Then he stuck in his ear buds and listened to the soothing musical stylings of DMX, and Black Rob’s “Whoa.”

Whilst eating the tolerable freedom fries, he drank a coke. It was then decided. That night he was going full retard.

He left no tips, went back to the hotel and shaved his head in the bathroom mirror….

Johnny Buckets got to the club dressed as Freddy Krueger.

A robotic DJ fistpumped and thumped dubstep remixes of Deadmau5. All in automation.

Johnny Buckets slammed a series of shots of Finnish vodka. The spinning room smelled of cinnamon.

“Damn Norwegian bitches look like transvestites!” he lamented. “And not the hot Thai type of transvestites neither!”

Though after a few more shots, the tall, broad shouldered “Nordic pussy” began to look slightly more enticing.

“Gonna go rape and plunder some of this Viking boo-tay!!” he exclaimed and proceeded to be shot down by every single girl in the club.

“Now I understand Anders Breivik!” yelled Johnny Buckets as he was ejected cold into the night by security.

Back at the hotel, he felt like jerking off, but was bored of PornTube, Kardashians, and artificial vaginas, so he hit up an international escort site to find himself a slapper.

On it, he found one in his area; tall, Russian, high cheekbones, looked like Melania.

“Fucking right… Russian va-jay-jay… Bet she takes it in the fartbox...” he clicked “like” and paid in Bitcoin.

An hour later, he was nearly passed out on his bed, streaming a prison documentary on YouTube, when his door spoke in musical claps.

He stumbled up, let in the light, and saw Melania, looking just like her picture from the website, though even taller than expected, at least six inches higher than him.

He smiled. She smiled back.

Then, from behind her, a couple tattoo faced, big, burly Russian lizard dudes stormed into the room.

Johnny Buckets' smile was eaten back by a blizzard of fists.

He fell to the floor and curled into a fetal ball as they punched, kicked, and cursed at him in Russian and broken English.

Melania rummaged through his room, filling Johnny Buckets’ Versace backpack with his laptop, phone, wallet, passport, prescription pills, and folder full of tickets to Hobart, Auschwitz, Orlando, Newtown, Babi Yar, Beijing, Blacksburg, Killeen and Las Vegas.

“Bitch even took my sunscreen.”

Melania then peered into his room’s safe, but it was open and empty. She nodded to the Russians who relented their assault. The three began to exit the room.

One of the Russians snatched Johnny Buckets' red cap from the coat rack, put it on, and whispered “Donald Trump” as he chuckled and pulled the door closed.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

"ESL Wuhan" by Newamba Flamingo





The bullet train arrived to Wuhan on a cold winter’s day.

Smog and construction cranes were all one could see.

Chabudi, the Monkey Queen, had a large drone implanted in her backside and collected me from the platform with a toilet plunger and flew me from the train station to my new apartment.

The unit was on the 44th floor of an 88-storey building shaped like a squat toilet…

We swooped down, landed on a balcony. A red trapdoor had facial recognition technology and opened automatically, vacuuming us inside.

There were large star shaped windows everywhere. The place was practically a glass box, with sweeping city views of smog, square concrete structures and what seemed to be a river, its dark water like molasses. Cars and motorbikes crisscrossed a bridge running over it.

Chabudi wore a curvy qipao. Quite the cougar, she glided, air walking me through a tour of the unit. I stole quick peeks of all her floral patterns. She had a small jumpman tattoo near her right ankle.

It was freezing cold in the apartment and grayish breath swirled out of Chabudi’s tiny mouth as she spoke. Her lipstick was black, as were her fingernails, and she wore her hair in a tidy little bun with chopsticks. I caught a whiff of halitosis.

Chabudi had Migos' “Slippery” as her cell phone ringtone, and there was another tattoo on her right hand that looked like a dragon or maybe a cobra…

In the living room was a wooden couch. On it sat a stout, middle aged Chinese man. He was in tighty whities and a stained wife beater that was rolled up to his chest, revealing an exposed beer belly. He was chain smoking.

I asked Chabudi who the man on the couch was. She ignored the question, threw the keys at me and strapped on a surgical mask with a cute bear on it.

She hovered to the balcony and clapped her hands. It sounded like a burst of firecrackers as the door slid open and she flew away, fading into the smog.

I asked the man what he was doing in my apartment. He didn’t answer. So I asked him again, this time in Mandarin. He again didn’t answer.

He took a swig of baijiu, belched and made a guttural “en” sound. I decided to go out for noodles and a hand massage. When I came back, he was gone.

When I awoke the next morning, he was back. This time he wasn’t wearing a shirt. There were dark circles under his eyes. He looked like a panda.

He was smoking a cigarette backwards, filter first.

Again, I spoke Mandarin to him. Again he only replied with the same guttural sound. I sat next to him and turned on XXTV News…

Shu Shu Xin Xiang was visiting a village in Nongzhou, Henan. A beaming pig farmer walked with him arm in arm. Shu Shu’s upper lip never moved...

I turned to what I figured was my roommate. He was drinking from a canister of gasoline and his two parallel tufts of hair were on fire. I ran into the kitchen to grab the extinguisher, but, when I returned, my roommate had dissolved into ash. The odor of cigarettes remained.

That afternoon I met a neighbor downstairs named Rainey. She had a two year old boy on a silk leash. There was an open slit in the back of the child’s Minion pajamas and his buttocks hung out.

The boy pointed at me, yelled out “waiguoren”, and ran into the corner of the hall, squatted and defecated, smiling gleefully as he did so.

Rainey asked me into which apartment I’d moved. I told her. She nervously laughed, scooped up the boy and took off running.

I texted Chabudi, asking if there was anything I should know about the apartment. She replied with “no why”.

So I Baidued the apartment and found a news article on 1344 dot com dot cn and copied it into my Pleco app’s clip reader…

It was about a man named Sha who’d discovered his wife was having an affair. When he confronted her, she admitted it and said she’d be divorcing him and taking their son.

He then choked her to death with a plastic bag and poured gasoline all over the apartment, set it alight, and chained the front door shut. His mother in law and his wife’s aunt were napping in an adjacent room. Both burned. His son was away at boarding school.

An archive picture showed dancing ayis that night pausing to watch their comrades join the haze.

The police found Sha later at a massage parlor. He confessed and shortly after was executed via a bullet to the back of the head. His kidneys were donated to a boy with cancer…

That was four years ago.

That evening, in the elevator, I met a neighbor named Rocket. He had suction cups for feet and prosthetic legs.

He said no locals had lived there in ages and that the place had been rented out to a series of foreigners, mostly English teachers.

They all tended to move out quickly. One died from gas inhalation.


Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Read or I Punch your Face - The Epileptic Vampire Anthology - Poems, Prose, Short Stories - Newamba Flamingo 2008-2017





I’ve written occasionally my whole life, mostly just for school or work, and didn’t really get into it seriously (subjectively speaking) until I came back from Britain to Florida in 2008 and used writing as therapy to deal with some personal issues I’d been facing.

While taking an English course at Manatee Community College, I was exposed to Ginsberg, Plath, and Tim Dorsey for the first time, and they inspired me to start writing poetry and stories, or at least something resembling that.

Then I found Everypoet.net, Myspace blogs, and Literotica, and posted a few pieces for the fuck of it, and things snowballed from there.

I met other writers from all over the world and was subsequently encouraged to submit to literary mags, some of which actually published me, and I had over 300 subscribers to my blogs at one point and would end up getting over a million page hits and thousands of comments, emails, and even some threats of physical violence from humans, vampires, Canadians, and aliens from other galaxies.

The most fun I had was probably getting into BTR online radio shows with 10K poets, Yossarian Hunter, Nick and Dan, Murphy Clamrod, Hijack Flash, Sigerson, Pantifesto, and, most of all, probably the best friend I made throughout the whole thing, Frankie Metro.

Around late 2010, as Myspace and Everypoet started to die, and my hatred of Facebook grew (oh, its sterility and conformity!) I decided to step back from social media and writing and got the fuck out of my gulf-side apartment where I’d been taking too many prescription meds and drinking too much and masturbating and being on the computer too much and decided to go travel the world more before I die, the earth dies, or we all blow up.

I’ve sporadically written since then, posting shit occasionally to the blog “The Meth Lab” I ran for a while with Mr. Metro and every so often sending out a harassing submission to some lit mag or another.

It recently came to my attention that Myspace removed their blog function in favor of shitty music pages no one looks at and that Everypoet also got rid of their blogs, effectively wiping much of my archive off the internet.

While I’m sure this makes some people happy, I feel it’s my duty to still harass, annoy, disappoint and amuse whomever might be goggling subjects like aliens, baboons, and buttsex, so I decided, for the fuck of it, and 7 or 8 years entirely too late, to put together a simple E-Book compilation of all my best (or worst) known pieces, re-edit some, add a few pics, and have it all one place.

In this compilation is stuff from 2008-2017, divided into categories of description, with a few unreleased pieces (that were wisely rejected by editors- the best rejection I got being from Jersey Devil Press, reminding me their submission guidelines outlaw stories involving rape, even that of cats! Touché!). I’ve also included one new and a couple fairly new pieces.

I doubt anybody is going to read or give a shit at this point, but, if you do, please download this, read it and like it, share with friends, your blog, on Torrents or wherever.

And THANK YOU for checking this out, for reading my blogs, publications and for finding my spot on the net. Out of the petabytes of info out there in the abyss of the net, I’m honored you came across mine.

And for those who don’t like it, it’s free, so go fuck yourselves! But thanks for reading anyway. Seriously.

Much love to everyone, my cat, the aliens, and all the hookers. RESPECT!

DOWNLOAD HERE

Friday, January 6, 2017

"African Safari" by Newamba Flamingo




African Safari


We were all a bunch of fuck ups.

Most of our time was spent smoking weed, playing video games, and putting our dicks in any slut who’d let us.

The majority of us didn’t finish high school, but some did or got their GED and went to community college, like a dude I grew up with, my big homie Kevin.

Kevin was a bodybuilder and street entrepreneur. He started off selling small bits of weed to friends and classmates and moved up to moving ounces and keys of coke and became a real life “Dopeman” like his favorite NWA song.

He got himself a used Benz and a townhouse near the local community college, and it became the party house, stoner central.

It started off mostly just longhairs on couches and love-seats in the living room doing bong hits, but as more and more coke came around, the people, like the drugs, got increasingly hardcore.

Like this fat, bushy mustache face cop from Palm Beach that Kevin bought most of his coke and weed from.

The cop’d come by with these Little Haiti street thugs, and sell various contraband, often automatic firearms, out of the kitchen, to other roughneck types.

But the most fucked up person to turn up had to be Ben, who had moved into one of the bedrooms.

Ben had a presence to him that sent a chill over the stoners. Whenever he’d enter the living room during bong hit sessions, everyone would just get quiet and uncomfortable.

Maybe it was his look, his eczema covered face and hands and his long black trench coats, even in the dog days of summer.

Or maybe his work. Ben was a mortician, and if you went into his room, it was like entering death.

He kept the AC in there blasting to frigid levels, and there were satanic, thrash and black metal posters all over the walls. Cannibal Corpse. Cradle of Filth. Anal Cunt.

He’d sit by his TV and computer (which were both always on) watching horror and snuff films, mass killer and serial killer documentaries and raw footage of car accidents, natural disasters, and plane crashes.

Most didn’t go in his room, nor mention their disdain of Ben to Kevin. Probably because they bought their substances from Kevin and Kevin and Ben were tight. Kevin would always call Ben “his boy” and talk about “all the shit he did for me.”

Ben didn’t leave the townhouse much, except for work, so everyone was shocked when he brought home a girl, Stella, who lived with him in the house, from the day she arrived.

Stella was petite, with a small head and boyish bowl haircut. She’d an assortment of facial piercings, big blue bug eyes and bad teeth, but, surprisingly enough, she had a decent body.

She’d walk around the house wearing only a long t-shirt and most everyone caught a glimpse of her juicy thighs and hairy pussy at some point or another.

And, as Ben got worse with the coke and hardly ever left his room, even for work, Stella started to fuck everyone, all the stoners, the cop, the roughneck street thugs, and Kevin too, though he tried to pass it off, saying how he was drunk and she’d “left her shirt on the whole time” and it “just was a couple minutes.”

She was certainly a unique person, that Stella. No one knew how she met Ben or why exactly she was with him. Maybe it was because she was also into death. Really into death. That’s all she talked about. Death. What happens when you die, ghosts, murders, psychic mediums, reincarnation, all that shit.

She only listened to hip hop, but only to rappers who were dead.

Biggie, Big L, Big Pun, Tupac, Eazy E. Nothing new, like Kanye, Pitbull or something, saying how she’d wait until he died, because then “you could truly understand him.”

Things around the house took a turn for the worse when Kevin got some PCP from this short stocky Cuban with shifty eyes and a speech impediment (who, of course, also fucked Stella).

That PCP had a really bad effect on everyone, but most of all Ben and Stella, who’d both taken quite a liking to it.

Now chain-smoking cigarettes, and having lost a lot of weight, Ben began to emerge from his room and had somehow come into possession of a baby pig. The pig would shit all over the house and he and Stella would walk around, cradling it like a baby, singing lullabies to it.

The whole house stank a musty combination of pig shit and cigarette smoke.

Worse yet, Ben would frequently interrupt bong circles, in hysterics, brandishing his Nazi paratrooper knife, threatening to cut off one of his fingers for one reason or another, although he was talked down fairly easily by fake sympathy and bong hits.

Kevin and the stoners who lived on his living room couches tired of Ben and a council convened and decreed he be kicked out of the house.

Ben left the house balling his eyes out, taking the baby pig with him, but Stella stayed.

A couple weeks later, vice cops and a SWAT team raided. Stella broke down crying and turned state.

Kevin took the heat for everything and spent $20,000 in cash on a lawyer who helped him avoid jail time with house arrest, probation, fines, and community service.

The lawyer was able to get some evidence thrown out on a technicality but had told Kevin his case was tough and that he could have gotten him off easier if he’d just raped a 10 year old girl or something like that.

Kevin was convinced Ben snitched him out and drunkenly talked of hiring someone to shoot him. Then he talked of hiring someone to beat him up with a baseball bat in the parking lot outside his job at the funeral home.

Later he claimed he’d pay an ex-hooker with HIV (who he’d met at an NA meeting) to fuck Ben without a condom.

Kevin’s troubles didn’t end. He had a botched dental operation that resulted in his jaw having chronic, debilitating pain. He tried unsuccessfully to sue the dentist.

He called me one night at 3 am from a pay phone in Key West and said he planned on buying a bulletproof vest and body armor and storming into the dentist’s office with an AK, or at least picketing out front with a big sign, telling everyone what the dentist did to him, but, ultimately, didn’t do either.

He’d moved back in with his folks, but they kicked him out as he kept accusing his sister for the diabetes he’d developed and of poisoning his food.

He then got an online TEFL degree and found a job teaching English in Madagascar.

I received a Facebook message from him a year ago saying he was in Kenya, mostly staying inside his compound, though occasionally going out on safaris.

"Bald Head Fred" by Newamba Flamingo



Bald Head Fred in camo cargos
Bald Head Fred, his Hillary for Prison 2016 tee
Bald Head Fred, El Chapo of the Viagra Cartel
Bald Head Fred, hairy man-tits, hotel balcony fits
Bald Head Fred, throwing beer bottles at feral cats
Bald Head Fred, proselytizing and cursing into humidity
Bald Head Fred, Gospels of Al Bundy Butt Sex Terrorism
Bald Head Fred, the Jesus of sodomy