Friday, August 27, 2010

"The Dream"

I want to graduate with a degree in statistics and move out west to be a blackjack dealer at a Las Vegas casino. I want gain fifty or sixty pounds off of processed gas station snacks. I want my neck to disappear so my head gradually fades into my chest along one mass of fat and flesh. I want to disrespect the blackjack players by spitting on them when I talk. I don’t want to talk in words to them. I want my entire vocal output to be reduced to a series of odorous belches, grunts, and snorts. I want trails of dried spittle and vomit to run down both of my chins and I want those trails of spit to shine under the casino lights. I want streaks of dried jism to stripe my black pants like zebra hide. I want my pudgy wrists to break out of my shirt. I want my doughy nipples to protrude through my vest. I want prostitutes to refuse to service me even when I’m willing to pay double. I want to bathe once a month, and when I do it will be just a quick rinse to clear the way for fresh sweat and scabs to coat my skin. I want to pick my nose and eat the boogers in front of the card players and then throw up all over the table. When they look at me in horror, I want to throw up more bits of packaged cake snacks and belch at them. I want to defecate in my pants and just sit there in a slump, feeling the diarrhea dry into a brown crust in my butt crack when the angry customers walk off to complain to my manager. When my manager arrives to talk to me, I want to roll on the floor, throw my massive hams of legs over my head, tear the seam of my pants wide open so my gargantuan hairy ass is exposed, and rip a series of farts that smell like salmonella. When he fires me I want to return to the dumpster I live in and have a feast of rotten garbage and dead birds. I want to rip my tight clothes off and roll my sweat-slick body around in the banana peels and apple cores and I want to huff the ethylene gas and blast one last e. coli-filled turd into my own hand and eat it. I want to sprawl my fat body out and stare up at the sky and wait for the sweet hand of death to come and touch my blistered, urine-soaked body.

That is my dream. I have worked hard and I don't want to disappoint my father.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Intelligent Bonobo Declared Moron

Researchers at the Great Ape Trust have reclassified Kanzi, a 29 year-old bonobo raised with language since birth, from “cognizant, intelligent, and capable of forming complex sentences” to “complete moron” after a round of Hasbro’s board game Catch Phrase.

Tyler Romine, the Trust’s lab supervisor, was assigned to be Kanzi’s partner in the game, which requires players to describe a word in order for their partner to guess it. “I figured it would be a great display of Kanzi’s ability to understand multi-part ideas. Turns out I would have been better paired with my wife’s comatose brother.”

In the final round of the game, after Kanzi successfully guessed fourteen of Romine’s clues, Romine envisioned victory over researchers Dennis Lamb and Rebecca Cobb. “I got the Catch Phrase thing and the buzzer was speeding up. My word was ‘Shakespeare’ and I knew there was no way in hell he’d know who that was, so I skipped it and got ‘door knob,’ which I figured was a hole-in-one. Turns out the only clues I could count on were ‘banana’ or ‘shit-covered bonobo fingers.’”

“I described it as the thing you use to open a barrier between two rooms and I even repeatedly mimed the motion and he just stared blankly at me like an idiot and pointed to the ‘handle’ graphic over and over like it would somehow get more correct every time he pointed to it. The buzzer ran out and we lost. It was unbelievable.”

Efforts to teach Kanzi more words ceased immediately and he is now being used to test experimental enemas.