The Good Word of Sprout

Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States

Tuesday, January 24, 2006


Please visit The Sneeze. It is exceptional. Also deserving attention is You Can't Make It Up.

I have trouble

I have trouble falling asleep, and I have trouble waking up. I don't like the change from conscious to unconscious and vice-versa. I don't like it because it's different. My waking life consists of going to work and afterwards drinking just less than a hangover's critical volume. My dreaming life consists of wandering through physically impossible landscapes, sometimes pursued by fat bearded murderers, sometimes by ladies in sports bras and cargo pants (sometimes these are the same).

What I need is a reward for falling asleep and a reward for waking up. On a side note, not waking up could be construed as such a disincentive that waking up is its own reward (but that gets into metaphysics, and I don't have time for that). So what kind of rewards are there? I am going to put them in descending order and then defend that order for our collective amusement.

Orgasm, flying, food, booze, escape from death, caffeine, omnipotence, omniscience, hot water just beneath the pain threshold.

Orgasm, or fertilizing an ovum or a belly-button, comes first. Pleasurewise, there's nothing better, and the mess isn't really a mess if you think about it. It's a tangible result. Regularly, I tangibly result all over my pillowcase.

Flying ranks lower than orgasm because orgasm sends millions of half human beings flying, whipping, triumphant over their hostile environment: When enemies attack them, they split up; when one gets injured, they go on; when one dies, he doesn't get the egg. They do not know that their cohesive, jellylike glider is subject to gravity. Oh, the exhilaration in these sperm upon hearing the throbbing school bell signal summer vacation. Oh, they fly for one brief moment, what more could they ever want?

Flying is superior to food. When I say flying, I mean when a human flies like Nelly Furtado, not when a human sits in an airplane, cursing the recirculated virus-laden air that will cruelly sicken him on vacation. True flying only happens to me in dreams and in elevators in free fall, but the wind in my hair, man, that's great. Food happens to me every flu-free day, so it's less rare.

Food releases endorphins. Booze also releases endorphins but then takes them back the next day. Sometimes booze takes back more than endorphins, bidding ridiculous amounts in sickness's silent auction for things like stomach lining and self-esteem. Where does booze get the capital to invest in such things? Booze never buys anything directly, just puts it on lay-away.

But, you say, if you drink enough booze, doesn't feel like you're flying (no. 2 on the list)? No, I say, it feels like you're spinning, which is close, but compare the Batman ride at Six Flags with the Cajun Cliffhanger.

It is obvious that booze is a better reward than escape from death because there's less to think about after drinking booze. When taken in enough quantities, booze can actually result in escape from death, or death itself. Booze is just higher on the food chain. Although escape from death can be cheaper than booze, on any Saturday night I'll gladly fork over seven dollars for a finger of bourbon whiskey rather than play Frogger on the expressway. Places that serve booze often feature hot looking women, whereas places that serve escape from death often feature antisocial boot-clad juveniles.

Sleep is practice for death. Caffeine cures sleepiness. Therefore, caffeine is a diluted form of escape from death. Simple, no?

(to be continued)


Thursday, January 19, 2006

Corn Diamonds

It is nine in the morning on May first. The sun shines through the once lemon-colored hotel curtains, which ruffle in the dewy breeze. She rises from the bed and stretches and scratches at her stubbly armpit. Her emaciated figure barely cuts a shadow on the floor. "Whatta morning," she says. "I need coffee."
He flings the sheet back which heretofore had covered a morning surprise, though those who know him would not be surprised at all. He raises his eyebrows and beckons her.
"Put away your hard on," she says. "I want the coffee."
"You like pleasing it. Might be nutritious even."
"Fuck you. I'm a lady. I don't put out unless you buy lobster, remember, the lobster we had at Red Lobster..."
He wags himself about, then tucks his member into the elastic band of his boxer shorts. "It's all full of piss anyway."
Outside a pigeon warbles throatily. The breeze catches the curtains, whose frayed brown edges whip her bare shoulders. The breeze eases, the curtains fade, and she touches herself about the navel, circling with her bitten nails. Goose bumps and yellow hair surface.
She wobbles and her eyes glaze over. "Been someone in my room, daddy, you can't have diamonds."
The ceiling fan, down to just three and a half blades, spins lazy turns.
Her eyes come into focus. "Diamonds."
"You don't have any diamonds, whore." He picks at his cauliflower wart foot. "If you had diamonds, you wouldn't have to suck dick at the cannery."
She spasms. "How would you like your dick cut off, Mr. Dick? I mean the cream corn that I'm doing, Tahiti."
"I don't want any of your creamed corn. I can't believe..."
"S'mine. S'all mine, and I'm gonna...I'm gonna finish it."
"The pallet?" He pulls out the elastic of his boxers and lets it go with a snap. "You've been eating creamed corn for...six weeks now. And sometimes with your hands. .."
Her eyes glint, hardened carbon, "Just when we have the wine."
"I can't shower because the tub is filled with the shit."
She sighs. "S'only only fifty cans left. Wallee said..."
"I don't give a damn what Wally said..."
She disappears into the bathroom.
He rises from the bed. His mouth contorts several times in rapid succession. "Whore...corn whore," he mutters.

They Come

Who are they? They come through the radio, and they do not leave. They cut through the soft of the brain. Neurons misfire in a thousand tiny strobes: nonsense.
Who comes through the radio? Howard Stern? The Eagles? Big Brother and the Holding Company? If they come through the radio, turn off the radio.
They ride the waves. The waves are there whether the radio is on or not. Who are they? They sound like a can of bees, dripping honey made from tupelo blossoms.
First of all, bees don't come in cans, peas do. Secondly, honey is bee-vomit. Are they Van Morrison? Listen to the radio and tell me who they are.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Where I Start

I start with a person.
I evaluate tingling praise,
What's in it for me?
I consider her own
Hopeful laughter.

And sex, how does that go?
If not me, no
Definition, idea, or concept
Senses the sensual,
An inflexible farce of flesh,
Only organic.

Happy ladies and gentlemen
Simply give more.


Sunday, January 08, 2006

Conspiracy or Crackpot?

Big Pharmie has an extensive catalog of products designed to get rid of those bad thoughts you think about yourself and others. Certainly, users of these products have a right to the better quality of life and the better interpersonal relationships that they may offer. However, when a person's decision to improve the quality of his or her life ties directly to corporate profit, one should consider the advantages to pharmaceutical companies of fostering a social climate where interpersonal relationships are by nature disjointed and dysfunctional, and quality of life needs improvement. In that light, what if you could:

Rewire the brain neuron to neuron. Think of a list of good thoughts to think. Go through the day thinking your list. The neurons in the brain which correspond to those thoughts would move closer, making the recurrence of those thoughts more probable. After only weeks of treatment, you would view everything in the context of those good thoughts you initially put on paper. Or so brain science would like you to think...

Here are some good thoughts with which to start:

1) There is something to be learned from everyone, especially the club-footed.
2) Wacky rhinoplasty dream, ding dong, hot spilling cream.
3) I will finish what I start. I will start me up (If I start me up I'll never stop). Shit.
4) The Nagchampa seems to whisper Anne Heche.
5) (While driving) men tailgate because they are closet homosexuals; women tailgate because they think their car is a giant thumb.

You know, and the like.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

On the evolution of my brain and drink

My brain has evolved over millions of years from that of the reptile. Alcohol disables my brain in reverse chronological order: First I regress in age. I become an overconfident pervert of a teenager: vandalizing with magic marker(rebellious!), throwing nihilist fits (artistic!), suppressing the urge the follow women up stairs (sexy!). I think of investing in binoculars, of the texture of women in tight pants, of how to use mathematics to get laid (other than by making and counting money).

A few drinks later, I become a child. I laugh at farts and pout when people frown, and everything is new. I hit. I find it only slightly odd when my friend, ostensibly a straight male, wears nothing but a T-shirt and Spandex shorts in public. Sometimes I just want to go to my room and play both sides of a football game with my collection of rubber frogs and lizards.

In kicks the Jager-bomb, and I become a toddler. I do not understand what is going on around me. I know how to walk, and I damn sure don't need anybody's help. I know touching the pee-pee is not appropriate, but does touching the stove hurt?

When my brain is disabled beyond the time of my birth I enter the primate stage of evolution. In technical terms, toxins render useless vast areas of my cerebral cortex. In practical terms, I eat food with my hands. If I have been hanging out with sophisticated people that day, I may use a stick to dig treats out of a hole. These treats may be ketchup and mustard, but are often just foul-smelling underpants lint. Using a toilet becomes unnecessary and disagreeable. Indeed, it becomes a pleasure to pee outdoors or in corners or (especially) in outdoor corners. I throw verbal feces. I would make monkey love if I could monkey-up a good mating dance. Shows like "The Grind" were supposed to teach me that.

When the primate is disabled, I regress to the brain state of the reptile. The medulla oblogata and the brain stem are the only things left. I snap when I feel threatened and may stare into my refrigerator waiting for those extra large eggs to hatch in order to eat my young (mmm...tastes a bit like me). Sex and survival become one, and I usually go extinct.