home authors guest shorts graphical shorts


“The first day we arrived it was digital sadness. What kind of candy-assed town were we in? Nights were long, and we burnt the embers of cigarette nightmares. Dusk came and we walked to the circus, embedded inside the cool lies of journalistic yellow hues.”

“Mark this: The fat, wasted epoch was singing a kind of Texas history. Once we flew with the best, long ago, when the salt was burning and the needle nights were filled with victory. Now there was only margarine parody – old greasy trails of cobweb philosophy, half-assed vindications in the face of ineluctable failure.”

“Sure I read the books, the peppered flatulent pricks who wrote about appetite. Soon enough I too caught the checkered vernacular – the good old chunks of spattered, bloody vocabulary, the hate-wishes, and the sweet carcass of shame. I simply buried the echo of yesteryear nostalgia and bit down on the promise of metallic, futuristic disco entropy.”

“I wasn’t gone for long when a snowy promise whispered in my grave: Go forth young man and find the hearth and family warmth, make the bottle blister and raise the words higher. Find the sunlight written on the wreath; reap the winter canyons in the wayward dusky sleigh ride.”

“Mind you, I knew it was a slit-faced lie, a desert shame. The fat revenue of the trumped up market ripped out a flatulent skid on the carpet of ancient cultures. The curdled milk-blood lay on the childless horizon.”

Date Written: April 18, 2003
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 3.3333

04/18/2003 anonymous (1):
04/19/2003 Ewan Snow (5): You forgot the last line: , said Clayton Ditherspork as he banged his wife slowly.
04/20/2003 Will Disney (4): this tone is really something. it sounds like ewan snow having a wet dream. i don't know if that's good though.