The Good Word of Sprout

Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States

Wednesday, August 30, 2006


I followed a shady-looking gentleman home. Actually, he was not a gentleman, but a fat fat a-fat bastard. Fats are the natural enemy of the short, only partially because they wear us in wintertime. But we share so much. We say, "Well, at least I'm not..."

I am a short, and thus frightened by quick movement. We shorts tend to hate the gods, as the gods are tall and ripped, but tend to love anyone who pays attention to us: A Beautiful Woman gets, "Here i am here i am i am your oh oh you have a boyfriend but he can't do things i can do things i can do tricks but not if you don't want me to i respect the no!"

The short like grassroots campaigns and equal salaries and plants. When faced with a choice, we will defer to a respected regular person with the idea that we will sneak in and modify the choice, unnoticed, and over time, amass clout, a height substitute. We know that the tall, bodily, have so much area to defend, leaving brains.

Both the short and the fat are lovely. The shorts should desire the fats and vice-versa. We could control a lot.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Nice Looking Things

If a man, let's call him "I," had attractive woman legs, what should I do but stare and caress? What I should do is lie on a velvet couch and sell Polaroids of them for money. Sir, there are no more Polaroids. I mean digital images, guaranteed not to be Photoshopped, for money. Sir, there are women doing that already. Do you have better woman legs than a hot-legged woman? Well, no, not exactly, but maybe I could exploit a niche market and sell to lesbians who fantasize about being heterosexual, for money. Sir, lesbians don't purchase digital images, they generate them. Well, these legs are nice looking things, and I sure would like to use them, for money. Sir, take some yoga classes, then pay yourself to lick your own thighs.

Love Songs

The other day my middle-aged neighbor said that instead of short stories I should write "pages and pages of love songs," perhaps because I was ogling her cellulite. This is not my normal behavior, but we were at a frozen margarita party, and the foul tequila does funny things to me. As revenge, I do a funny thing to the tequila. The colon absorbs alcohol much quicker than the stomach and has neither taste buds nor gag reflex (in the conventional sense). It's the shot glass that's the problem. Why don't they make them with strings?. And thinner, definitely thinner, and not glass...

Hey! I came here to write about love songs, and look at me, rambling on about salt and lime suppositories.

I've never written a love song, though if I do, you'll be the first to see it -- right after my mother and my priest. What are the elements of a great love song written for a wonderful lady? There must be longing or anguish, a feeling that she is wanted more than anything: more than money, more than power, more than delicious gin. More than that hairy-armed girl at work with a butt like a shelf and a pickup truck with a mattress in the bed.

I have often enjoyed the simple man/intellectual woman love song. He submits to her intelligence, and she, presumably, should submit to his animal sexual desire. She can manipulate him, but he can dominate her with in and out thrusts, thawing the intellectual ice in which she has been imprisoned. Thawing, hell. He turns that ice into water and evaporates that shit with good, simple friction.

There is also the poor man/rich woman love song. The man submits, despite the woman's emasculating capital. Terrible, beautiful, she evaluates his ideas and dreams. Will they profit? Likely not. He is impotent, though in this case, impotence has never had such a raging hard-on.

While visiting Spain, I was privy to the flamenco. Though it appeared to me at the time to be a hodge-podge of shrieking and whining, now I understand it to be an expression of anguish, like bleeding, stabbed with love's knife. A good love song should be full of pain, like the time I took a shot of tequila, and the wide part of the glass...

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

The Other Sun

"...a dull, contracted circle yielding light so feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree or tower..."

This is from William Wordsworth's "A Night-Piece," describing, as you may have guessed, the moon. The moon melts inhibitions in cool heat and dissipates sickness in wonderful night world. The soul expresses its desire during the moonrise and the moonset and executes it under the moonshine. The new moon contemplates. The full moon acts.


Monday, August 07, 2006

Things I admire

I admire the Martini because it is clear and efficient and comes with a snack.

I admire the PowerBar Ironman race because it pits mind against body and comes with a snack.

I admire the Bloody Mary because it is spicy hangover medicine and comes with a snack.

I admire masturbation to images of compulsive eaters because it pushes the limits of the erotic and...

Friday, August 04, 2006

Love Letter

Oh dear Christine, you're so fat in all the right places. You wear black so well, you brilliant shadow, your shadows cast their own round shadows. I shrink before you, insignificant; my ideas cannot penetrate you. They are small and you are not, although you are short, but not so short as I am.

I am an ant before you. Will you poison me with your perfumed goodness? Will you step on me? Please! Grind out my life on the pavement or the mattress, for I am not worthy of your foot, but if your foot, so small and svelte, should deign it proper to touch me and touch me in secret places, I would be forever yours in death. I would rise again out of queen's egg and get into your black hair and small ear until pinched to death as I make you wake up and scream. Again and again I hatch, among the biting workers and the dreary drones and go it alone to find you and another death, this time just on your kitchen counter watching you fry bacon. And one day, you'll let me live. Another day you'll put me into an aquarium. Another day you'll let me tickle your arm. I won't bite unless you want me to.

One day you will hold and kiss my little insect body and be surprised to find a hundred fifty pound man exploding into being all over your fingers. Hopefully I will not break your arm this day.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Ice Cube

There is a water glass with an ice cube in it. The glass sweats. The ice cube turns, goddammit, protesting the horror of becoming warm water. This cube, conceived in the cold Lake, was born as cold water through Mother Tap's vagina. "Push, push," Dr. Pipe said.

After hours of carefully practiced indifference, the infant cube expanded into proud, hard ice. It learned not to talk to its tray-mates, except to exchange a snide remark about those warmies, always tea baggin' each other and fouling the air with their steam.

The ever-shrinking cube would rather evaporate than become warm water. It turns, not screaming, not saying a word, as each ugly little bubble settles into the imperfections of the glass and its ego. Now it is gone. It has become a warmie, down the drain, perhaps never to be ice again.