We Outswam A Shark is DONE!

I want to thank all of the readers of this blog for stopping by and hopefully finding these absurd texts as enjoyable as I found writing my half of them. However, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. I’m putting my energy into a podcast, and, should you care to up your bi-weekly dose of more absurdity and surrealism, check it out. It’s The LATE NIGHT DRIVING SHOW, and it is here:

Thanks for reading, and maybe we’ll meet again on Soundcloud or iTunes!

Best,

HM

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It pays to try. I try many things, and have done so for years.

Me:

Once when I was seventeen I used to explore the vast woods and forests around my family’s residence. I would do this in the middle of the night, while the rest of my family slept. I would encounter a great many undefinable creatures in my wanderings, always making friends with them. I spoke with each of them, and asked them what they called themselves. They all had names. They all responded and identified their “type”. Among them: We Who Cannot Fathom Skin, Our Incomprehension Of Human Feet, Fangs Work For Now, When We Float We’re Only Gelatinous Husks, Knives That Hover ‘R’ Us, We’re Feral But We Still Enjoy Cigars and The Stanford Prison Experiment Was Nothing Compared To How We Eat Dinner.

Him:

I’m a retired physicist, but I try to stay current by reading various periodicals, blogs and forums. For example, We Understand How Everything Works and You Don’t, Smart Enough to Kill, A Preference for Masturbation, On the Quantum Level I’m Fucking Your Wife, Knowledge Makes Us Hard, Women Will Worship Our Minds Soon, Our Thoughts are Slick, I Discovered You’re Quite Stupid, I Calculated the Odds and I Win and Try It Without Emotions.

Me:

It pays to try. I try many things, and have done so for years. Among the things I’ve tried are sleeping in trees without a treehouse, getting down on all fours and panting like a dog in a crowded department store very close to the perfume counter, selling out-of-date hockey tickets wearing an obviously fake beard, using plastic grocery bags to send false landing directions to low-flying planes, and leaning on objects in public places specifically where there are “no leaning” signs. During these attempts I’ll soothe myself by listening to “Our Big Rubber Room” by Shitbum Willie And Asswipe Tom, “I Now Feel Close To You” by The Minnesota State Prison Asphyxiation Ass Rape Choir, “Ankles Are Now On All Of Us” by Henchan Charmichael And The Kitchen Sink Boys, “Crap-Taste Panache Fantastique” by Our Plain Love and “We Dole Out Tremblings Down Deep” by Let’s Be Friends.

I forgot to mention: when I was six me and my family lived on the Isle of Kruunx during the War Of The Plank.

Him:

During WWII, I worked as a surveyor for a large land acquisition firm. I often felt a sense of guilt that I was not in any way a part of the war effort. I drank heavily, choosing such liquors as Old Xenk, Jopad Serum No. 34, Kerit’s Fine Elixir for Drunks, You Want This, Boot Juice Concoction Juice, Mallet to the Face, Shreds, This’ll Get Ya’, Corn Makes Win and Ain’t No Way to Stop.

Me:

Aikido.

Me:

Oh, wait. I forgot to mention: when I was six me and my family lived on the Isle of Kruunx during the War Of The Plank. We ate very little but, due to the proximity of the island to the major worldwide magazine printing facilities in Southeast Asia, we had plenty to read. We read such periodicals as When Poo, Clandestine Weekly, Chicago Rancor, News That’s Fit To Smell, Phlegm And Housekeeping, Worldwide Landscaping Juggernaut, Joey Fuckin’ Pattitucci’s Condensed Newsfeed, CrapWorld, Mandlebrot Happy Brainteasers, WorldDaily With Alice Mu, Creative Maggot Slide Rule, Your Brain Is My Toast and I’m Gonna…I’m Gonna…Make Scarves.

Me:

Babes: you around this afternoon or evening? I’d like a convo. Brain food.

Him:

I’m around. Let me know what time is best for you. What time is best. My new band, “What Time is Best” is on tour right now. Our genre of music is “soft rock, with a touch of ennui”. Our debut album is entitled “What Time is Best: All Our Best”.

Me:

I’m gonna be in town this afternoon getting some fabric. I’ll letcha know when. Oh, and, by the way, that gift subscription you sent me for Our Strange Barnyard Adventures got found by our daughter Sally, and now she’s under intensive psychiatric treatment. Let me tell you the wife isn’t happy. She’s threatening to sell all my back issues of Other Funny Uses For Rope, Spyderco Presents Fred Crabcake’s Mystery Magazine With Needlessly Violent Story Endings Monthly, Our Walled-Off Backyard Goings-On, Shit You Can Do With Bacon Grease and Hey Those Aren’t Antlers!

Me:

New, this Fall….”I’m Going to LA”, starring Shagg F’kitt as Laura Kredd, an up and coming actress with spunk, gumption and a sunny disposition. We follow her and her dreams to LA, right next to an abandoned impound lot that was forgotten about quite some time ago. Join us, won’t you?

I manage a highly dangerous wing of an old psychiatric institute, most of which has been boarded up a long time ago.

Me:

I replaced all the air in my apartment with laughing gas. Now everything is loopy and hilarious. When horrible things happen, like for instance recently when the entire planet burned to a cinder, I cannot stop laughing, doubling over and almost making myself puke it goes on so long. The one thing I cannot laugh at, however, is when the positive-youth group We Used To Live In A Mineshaft shows up at my door and begins lecturing me on the banality of high-speed four-wheeled vehicles. At that point all humor drains out of me like water through a sieve. Tetanus.

Him:

I manage the assembly line in a large factory that manufactures mono wheels. While I’m working, I like to browse websites like The Brown Silk, Cartography Now Today, The Brently-Forbisher Group, Picnic Apparel, The Price of Glass is Too High, Inside of Me Outside of You, All of the Nuts All and Quirky Knife T’s n’ Brick.

Me:

I manage a highly dangerous wing of an old psychiatric institute, most of which has been boarded up a long time ago. In my ward are kept those individuals society has deemed too unstable and dangerous for any chance of re-entry. I’ve been there for eight years, and in this time I’ve invented a great many variations of the game checkers, some fun, some not and a handful emotionally detrimental. Some of the names of these games are Chunkers, Owwww Cataracts, Whoever Moves Diagonally Gets Stabbed In The Knee, You Fuckin’ Commie, Dirty Bathwater, Skull Shiv, Happy Rainbow Lice Jump, Your Move Now Drink A Quart Of Axle Grease, SLAAAAAP!, Plastic Breathing Apparatus and Nuts Jump.

Me:

There are those who think, and there are those who do. In addition, there are those who punch down. I punch down. Often when I punch down and not too wound up from punching down I relax myself to the soothing and dulcet melodies of Grandma Carburetor, Our Facemelt, Strange Black Wriggling Cereal, Welding Goggles Are Your Underwear, Ankles In June, My Barber Can Beat Up Your Barber and Famous Maggot Picnic.

Recently, I’ve turned into a knife.

Me:

I used to wrap myself very tightly with speaker wire to distract myself from the pain of having to urinate constantly. I had a Ph-balance disorder that would essentially force my bladder to squeeze 24-hours-per-day. My bladder was exhausted. So was I. But speaker wire, as tight as I could wrap myself in it, did the trick. True, I still urinated myself constantly, but the extremely snug, taut coil around my frame took the edge off. Then I invented a urine atomizer that dispersed the pee in an invisible cloud around me wherever I went. Now I lead a normal life. That’s right, normal.

Him:

Recently, I’ve turned into a knife. Well, a cloud of hovering, vibrating knives shaped vaguely like a man. The knives are of many different types, lengths and styles. They vary in condition from new to aged and well worn. All are razor sharp, however. Being conscious now hurts, unless I run through crowds of people screaming “Knife Man!”, which comes out sounding like knives scraping together. Also I’m blind, though I can sense people.

Me:

I was the biggest fan of Guns n’ Roses ever. I followed them everywhere. When I, through sheer persistence and determination, attained company with the members of this band, I would offer my scalp for them to slap. I would shave my head and kneel down and say :”go ahead, slap away.” For some reason none of them wanted to do it. They all muttered something akin to: “Aww, come on, man…”. As it turned out, I discovered several clandestine monk collectives years later in my foot-travels through Southeast Asia. They would all do it. Slap my bald scalp. In fact, every member of every group was so keen on the act that before too long I had no scalp left. It stank like a slaughterhouse. My “headpiece” had become layer upon layer of rotting smelly pus. I’d never been happier. At this point the U.S. extradited me on trumped-up charges. Something to do with donkey-fucking.

Him:

I used to be a door-to-door salesman. I sold fragile, brittle statuettes of obscure political figures from the 1930’s. Really obscure. Like, these people would only be known in the one small village where they held office, and even then hardly anyone knew them. Certainly, no one knows of them now. Anyway, these statuettes are extremely breakable. I have a suitcase full of them, and if I think about them they shatter into atoms. Malaria.

For some reason today I cannot open drawers.

Him:

I once lived with a tribe deep in the Amazon. Everything was made from stinging ants. Clothes, beds, even the huts were made from them. I got used to it eventually. Really, it was their shitty attitude that drove me away. Constant innuendo, remarks, poking fun, leering, pantomimes. Fuck them.

Me:

For some reason today I cannot open drawers. It’s the strangest thing. At home, at work, I just can’t do it. I had to resort to ordering my meals take-out because I was unable to obtain eating utensils. I don’t know what’s going on…it’s like when I approach a drawer, any drawer, there arises in me a low-frequency hum, and it feels like my body is being “pushed” back somehow. I tried several times to force my hand closer and closer to the silverware drawer abd the hum changed tone; it quickly became a high-frequency blare that I think ruptured some capillaries in my skull. I started to vomit a lot because of this and I’m really dizzy. I attempted to lie down and the tone more or less disappeared but it’s hard to sleep because my apartment is covered in dollops of vomit and I don’t like the smell at all and I can’t sleep because of it. My ankles hurt.

Him:

When I look up I get dizzy and then throw up a lot. This is overall a plus, but, in the final analysis, has its drawbacks. It’s nice to be able to cover passers-by with vomit, but the resulting consequences can be brutal. I used to be a skating champion.

Me:

I used to wear pumps. This was during the days when I spent time with a great many Thai ladyboys. We would play many fun games together, among them: Badminton, racquetball, Chess, Snooker, Texas Hold ‘Em, Parcheezi, Checkers, Go Fish, Tennis, Corrupt Youth, Dungeons And Dragons, Solitaire, Guns And Tanks And Flails And Mallets, I’m Gonna Kill You Now, If We Had Gills We’d All Be Suffocating Right About Now, When Can We Turn This Goddamned Car Around, Monopoly, Clue, I Stab Your Throat, Payday, Life, Battleship, You’re A Piece Of DooDoo and GrabAss.