J PEEZY, bitches

"i should slap you with this goddamm microphone"

on the record #8

the Dirtbombs - if you don't already have a look [the originals]


i was screaming at the Doktor the other day about rawk music. “there just isn’t any,” i was saying, “and except for like two or three bands, there hasn’t been anything for the past, like, twenty years or something.”

“twenty years,” he said, “that’s a bold statement.”

and then i stabbed him in the neck. so i don’t remember how that conversation wrapped up, but that thing about the rawk was really stickin’ in my craw. i pulled out some old mixtapes a friend had made a while back and one of them opened up with a tune called “theme from the dirtbombs.”

egads, i thought, where has my head been? why haven’t i found more from this band? why is the teenage suicide rate going up? why have so many people gone insane since that horrible bush family was restored to power?

for fuck’s sake, where was i? right. the Dirtbombs. what a fuckin’ name. on that alone, they should be bigger than Oasis or the devil or something. two bass guitars - one fuzzed out, two drummers, a singer / guitar player. anyway, i copped a few of their records and put the newest one in my boombox and headed down to Market Square.

lunch time.

kind of a strange mix you get down there in Market Square. you’ve got a lot of people who are just hanging out for a little while, and some people who are hanging out for a long while. and then you’ve got these people who work around there, and are passing through or shopping or getting a bagel or something. plus the cops. i sat on a bench under a tree in the quarter by the old 5 + 10. started feeding the pigeons alka-seltzers...i turned on the Dirtbombs, tuned in, and dropped out.

these black guys – in their 50’s maybe – sitting across the way yelled over to me…wanted to know what the fuck i had on my radio. “sounds like Detroit…’member when we was in Detroit on all that acid?”

they stood up and started tapping their feet, nodding their heads. this white lady happened by, and the one dude grabbed a hold of her and dipped her down real low – fifties style – and brought her back up over his head. her skirt was flying all over the place, spinning her around, doing the twist. when she caught her breath, i heard her yell “hey daddy-o! i’m diggin’ those crazy tunes.”

and then from the other side of the street were these very smartly-dressed females. five or six of them, traveling together, probably on lunch or some such nonsense. “the fuck is that shit?” the one in the front sneered. from the back of this pack, i swear i saw a blade flash in the january sun. there was little question these bitches were looking for trouble and were not stoppin’ until they found it.

“it’s the Dirtbombs,’ i whimpered and turned the box up louder.

“you’re goddamm right it is!” the dark-haired one said, and pushed the one next to her. elbows started flying and in no time flat, these ladies had a circle pit going right there in the middle of the Square.

a crowd was gathering. i could hear bottles breaking. car alarms. midgets wrestling. people were fucking in the bushes.

this huge Escalade, all black and chrome, pulled up next to me in the street. the black window went down and the bass rattling the insides ceased. “you mind if we dance wif yo dates?”

i pointed to myself and shook my head. four or five guys piled out of the truck and joined the pit. i thought i saw a gun or two, shoulder holsters, bullet-proof vests. it was no matter, though, not for them. i saw one of the guys get stomped by a lady in a business suit, and he crawled from the pit on hands and knees, bleeding from the mouth and smiling through shattered teeth. he said, "sometimes the sweetest kittens have the sharpest claws."

indeed.

a car careened down the throughway and cut right, smashing three or four parking meters to pieces. little kids were scrambling for the loose change. a guy in a suit came running with a big piece of cardboard and all his buddies cheered and started breakdancing on it in the street, ties and all. a PAT bus jumped the curb and knocked a fire hydrant from it’s moorings and sent a spray sideways into the great unwashed mass. someone had brought a giraffe to the party on a leash. a couch was burning in the grass. the smell of gasoline was all around. i heard a bullhorn somewhere off in the distance.

something tapped me on the shoulder.

“oh officer,” i said, “sorry about all this…i’ll turn it down.”

hat sitting low. hair pulled back. mirror sunglasses. a severe jaw. she smiled.

“you got a joint?”

i was at a loss. i shook my head.

“be a lot cooler if you did.”

what have i eaten tonight that would cause me to draw blood from my own tongue?

some rotten kind of drug psychosis…it came on hard man…i’d been feeling it well-up the last few times i had gotten high, but i was able to get out in front of it, or at least on top of it once it came on. but not this time. this was mean and fast and strong. no turning back from this one. i remember thinking that it would pass with the high – what was twisting in my head – but something was telling me it wouldn’t, that there was no way i was ever gonna make it back from this trip i was own. rats were scratching at my ceiling. i was doomed.

the phone was ringing.

get a hold of yourself, man…“yeah?”

“douchebag?”

“hmmm? where are you?”

“denver international.”

“do you need a ride?”

“no.”

“i’ll be right there.”

“what are you on?”

i dropped the receiver and ran to the window, flung open the curtains…how did he know? was he watching? could he hear? was this place bugged?...i thought i heard something like white-noise coming from the phone, and i placed it to my ear again after a careful examination.

“what the fuck happened?” he said.

“who is this?”

“it’s the Doktor.”

“PROVE IT!” i yelled and banged the phone off of the table three, maybe four times. when i felt the coast was clear, i put it to my ear once again.

“what the fuck was that?” he said.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“uh ok…listen, i didn’t wake you did i?”

“sleep? what’s that?”

“look…we need to put some serious loot down on this super bowl. the money is moving pittsburgh's way like mad. the line was 3 when the game was over. it was 3 ½ when i got into the limo, and it's at 4 already."

"alright fine...do whatever...but don't take my word for it."

"we about to be some r-r-r-r-r, r-r-r-r-r, r-r-rich n..."

"don't say it, you filthy pigfucker."

"i'm serious."

"i'll bet on anything that moves. the fuckin' coin flip. first penalty. first fist-fight in the stands. first score, first injury, first pass play, first..."

"that's more like it."

"what's that noise in the bushes?"

"..."

"it's the fuckin' Federalés...godDammit...i know why they're here. is the president a clone? is my car going to explode?"

"listen man, as your attorney, i advise you to..."

"YOU'LL DO NOTHING AND LIKE IT!!! an attorney...HA!!! YOU'RE A GODDAMM NARCOTICS AGENT!!!"

"calm the fuck down...listen, one last thing before i go...there is this guy here wandering around and blubbering about Reverend Johnny, and how he fucked it all up. said he knew it was a bad sign after the taser and body cavity search on his flight out of pittsburgh. he said he has to find you and make amends."

"hmmm?"

"yeah man...said he was pulling for the broncos, but had to sit by Bettis's parents at the game. i think they might have had him ejected. do you know this cat?"

"where did this tattoo come from?"

"that's what i thought."

Joey Porter #55

unfuckwithable

the road to the Super Bowl is littered with good intentions

i was at the airport the other day to get a package from one of the public lockers and once again i heard that call.

“Reverend…Reverend, Please!”

deliberately i turned around. “my son, yes…”

“Reverend, you can see me, can’t you Reverend?”

i chuckled like a fat man. “why of course i can, my son.”

“Reverend, my family, my friends, they have all disowned me. Reverend, please. They walk by me…won’t look at me…my children shriek in horror when I walk into their room. My wife wails for my soul…she cries when I touch her. I’ve heard them say I am dead, Reverend…dead…some kind of monster, Reverend…a ghost, Reverend…WHAT AM I TO DO?”

“my son, i think you are not being straight with me. it seems to me you are wrapping the true meaning of your words in a veil. the dead walking? preposterous. surely…”

“Oh Not You! Not the Reverend! All of what I’ve said…you must believe me…it’s true…it’s true!”

“come, my son, to the airport lounge. there we will drink and cure what ails you.”

“Reverend, thank you. I was beginning to think…”

“easy…now, tell me, why do they say these things, my son? surely they see what i see…that you are flesh and bone, that you breathe of this air, walk on this earth. do they not see this as i do? does not your heart still beat inside your chest? does blood not still course through your veins? my son…this is most disturbing.”

“You’re tellin’ me, Reverend. They’ve held my funeral, sold my car, gave my clothes away. They’ve even shot my dog, Reverend. Oh, I am fortune’s fool…”

“stop this crying! it is womanish! BARKEEP,” i yelled, “i’ll have another, and bring one for my friend here.”

“sure thing.”

“see,” i told this poor soul, “you see…HE sees you, i see you. your reflection is in the glass there. you are Here. Alive. but i don’t think you are telling me the whole story, my son. Start. from the Beginning.”

he spoke like a rational man. he told me of football, and his love of the game. of his time spent on the field, of his time spent in front of the television. he told me of games won and lost. of newspapers and bookies and lines and over-unders. he told me of feeling high and living low. he had found the science, he claimed.

“So when I picked the Colts, it had nothing to do with loyalty. I like the Steelers well enough, I suppose, but I’m a business man…a thinking man…I was trying to Win,” he hissed, “You understand me, don’t you?”

of course i did. professional football has nothing to do with loyalty for a betting man, at least not a successful one anyway. he had wronged the local fans, for sure, and it was unfortunate his family and friends were among them, but this could all be made better. “make amends, my son,” i told him, “and your family will welcome you again with open arms.”

“Oh, Reverend, thank you…I just KNEW I was on the right path,” he gulped at his drink. “I’m on my way right now…to Vegas…gonna bet a ton on the Broncos. It’s a lock. And I promise, Reverend, to use the winnings for nothing but my family...” his voice trailed off in tears and ramblings about pearls and vacations and trust funds, new cars, furs and the like.

i stood up from the bar and clapped a hand on his shoulder. i felt satisfied to have helped another wayward soul along the path to righteousness.

“fare-thee-well, my son…”

“You got it Reverend…and thanks so much. I was a little worried about putting so much on the Broncos, but you sealed the deal. YES!!! Indeed you did…I mean, how could you not bet the farm? The Broncos will be wearing their blue jerseys, and if it’s one thing I know, it’s that the team with the stronger colors wins everytime.”

it was as if a thousand voices cried out at once and were instantly silenced.

“What’s wrong Reverend?”

i had to think fast. “hmmm? nothing. listen, can i get in on that action?”

“You mean on the game? Well, Hell Yes you can. It's the least I can do. I'll call my bookie right now on my cell phone. I can even front you the money…”

“nonsense…i’ve got 30 grand in small bills just around the bend. wait right here. i’ll be right back.”

“Alright Reverend, and THANK YOU!!! We about to be some...” he hollered, but i was already beyond the perimeter of the bar. i didn’t turn, just raised a fist into the air as i walked away.

when i came to the first armed guard, i stopped.

“officer,” i said, “do you take your law-enforcement seriously around here?”

“Are you kidding me?” he rolled up his sleeve and showed me a tattoo of president bush atop an American flag, with missles, guns, and bullets all around. i raised an eyebrow.

“good,” i said. “in the airport lounge, you’ll find him. real beady eyes, small fingers, smells like cabbage. hates the Steelers. said he voted democrat…and will never,” i grabbed him by the collar, “NEVER VOTE REPUBLICAN!!! slime like that isn’t fit for American shores.”

he eyed me with a steely resolve, “It’s people like you that make me proud to be an American.” he spit a big wad of chew onto the ground. “You’re a goddamm patriot, you know that.”

i nodded. “and officer,” i intoned, “i think he might be armed.”

“My God, I hope so!” he said, and rushed towards the bar, drawing his weapon.

professionalism #13: professionalism is dead! long live professionalism!

[Editor's Note: The highly anticipated and widely rumored final episode of Professionalism is currently unavailable due to an ongoing and vicious court battle. The gag-order prevents us from providing any additional information about the missing episode. Additionally, Fat City Productions does not endorse the multiple bootleg copies of the story currently making the rounds on the usual file-sharing services, nor does Fat City endorse the "authentic" bootleg being sold on eBay for $300 - though that seems like a steal. In place of the episode, we are including the following for your perusal, direct from the Mojo wire.]

St. Clair Rejects Plea Bargain; Takes Delivery of Convertible

By STAGGER LEE, Associated Press Writer

PITTSBURGH, Pennsylvania - Pencil Johnny St. Clair in with JT Leroy and James Frey as the most recent author called on the carpet for his "writings."

Exposed at work last week as author of the sub-literate weblog "We're Gonna Be Using Aliases On This One," St. Clair defied company orders to "cease and desist" publication of the blog. A regular dumping ground for the author's delusional ramblings and homoerotic "penis jokes," the site allegedly drew the ire of his employers and was ordered shut down.

St. Clair refused.

Few details have emerged concerning the meeting with company officials and St. Clair has refused to comment through traditional routes. Phone calls to his residence reveal a recorded message featuring a slurring voice daring the caller to leave a message. Sometime early this morning, a brick was thrown through the AP office in Pittsburgh - purportedly from St. Clair - promising to continue with the website. His next post? According to the brick, he plans to publish photos of AP staff writers engaging in "lewd and lascivious acts" with a variety of barnyard animals.

Wayward Johnson, a co-worker of St. Clair's, denies any specific knowledge of St. Clair as well as any potential connection with the blog. He did provide the AP with a security tape of a recent meeting between St. Clair and a company official. On it, an extremely handsome St. Clair can be seen walking in to the office of a Sgt. Kickass.


St. Clair: say man, i quit.

Kickass: WHAT?!?

St. Clair: that's it. man, i'm tired of gettin' up early and everything, baby. that's it. i'm through. ya dig it?

Kickass: I CAN'T TALK TO YOU NOW! THE WAREHOUSE IS ON FIRE! NOW GET BACK OUT THERE AND...

St. Clair: what warehouse?

Kickass: WAREHOUSE 86!

St. Clair: damm...that's where i got my stash.


Dr. Johnson claims to have heard St. Clair plans to "walk the Earth." When asked to clarify, Johnson replied, "[expletive deleted], walk the Earth. You know, like Caine in "Kung-Fu." Just walk from town to town, meet people, get in adventures."

Johnson, who insisted we refer to him as "the Doktor," refused further comment on the situation, only to add that St. Clair was a dope fiend and most likely responsible for the warehouse fire. "You're not pinning that one on me," he yelled before disappearing out of a side door.

get it cut, longhair!

"LSD spoke to me," Mr. Hofmann said with an amused, animated smile. "He came to me and said, 'You must find me.' He told me, 'Don't give me to the pharmacologist, he won't find anything.' "

happy 100th birthday Albert Hofmann

professionalism #12

“ST. CLAIR! HA! WHEN’S THE LAST TIME YOU SAW THE INSIDE OF THESE WALLS THIS EARLY?”

“hi there...uh, who is she?”

“YOU JUST SIT DOWN. THIS HAS BEEN A LONG TIME COMING.”

“what has been a long time coming? i know it ain’t your wife cuz that bitch was all over my nuts last night and it didn’t take her no time…”

“WHY YOU LITTLE…” he lunged for me, knocking about a stack of paper and pens and whatnot. i beat him back, shocked him to his senses with a quick backhand to the forehead as he sprawled across the oaken table.

“Gentleman, Please. Can we maintain a semblance of professionalism around here?”

i turned to her and probably said something like, “indeed. professionalism,” straightening my tie, “that’s precisely what i’ve been asking for.”

“LET’S CUT THE CRAP HERE, YOU WEASLY LITTLE SHIT! THIS IS [deleted] FROM [deleted]. THE HOME OFFICE SENT HER DOWN HERE.”

“oh hey,” i extend a hand, “hi…that’s too bad.”

“Hello, Mr. St. Clair. We are here today because [deleted] has some concerns about some of the things we’ve discovered.” she slid a yellow envelope across the table. “Mr. St. Clair, did you author these?”

“did i author these?” i looked inside the envelope, but i knew what it was. “yeah…a fine piece of writing, don’t you think?” i really was proud of the work i did for the catalog. i saw it as my ticket out, you understand. proof that i had arrived as a writer. “yes. these are mine.”

“WHAT? YOU MEAN YOU’RE NOT GONNA CLAIM SOME INTERN WROTE THEM?”

“Mr. [deleted], Please. Mr. St. Clair, those are your writings, correct?”

“yeah.”

“and you didn’t have a hand in writing them?”

“nope. listen, does this involve some kind of hefty bonus? cuz i’ve got a lot of important shit goin’ on right now…”

“We assure you, Mr. St. Clair, we want this to progress as quickly as possible as well. Mr. St. Clair, we here at [deleted] believe our employees should share in the values we espouse as a corporation. These are trying times, Mr. St. Clair, and [deleted] is committed to upholding the values that we see eroding in our society…values that are inherently American.”

“righty-o.”

“Additionally, Mr. St. Clair, we – as a corporation – are acutely aware of how our company is viewed in the public eye. Not only do we want to project these core ideals and beliefs to the populace, but we want to continue to be a viable, profitable component in the American economy.”

“…uh…ok.”

“Mr. St. Clair, we are hoping that you, too, can continue to be a viable…”

“say no more, lady, i am on the Team! you understand, i am Right Here with you. a Patriot, baby. and i am a Professional after all, you understand. alright? and now that that’s taken care of, if you’ll excuse me…”

“YOU WON’T BE GOING ANYWHERE YOU LILY-LIVERED COMMUNIST!”

“communist? did he just call me a communist?”

“Mr. St. Clair…I’d like you to take a look at something,” and in one fluid motion, she popped open her laptop and turned the thing so i could see the screen. there it was…the picture of Rudy Ray Moore as Dolemite, celebrating with his bitches around a Christmas tree. “Mr. St. Clair, what can you tell us about this?”

“a Ha…well, where to begin?” man, i swear i tried not to laugh, but that picture always got me. i remember when my uncle first showed it to me, back when i was maybe five, and i thought it was a real pisser even then. and why not now, too? the jig was up…i’d been found out…my cover was blown…time to head for the hills…get my kicks now before the whole shithouse goes up in flames. “my God,” i said, “what kind of filth is that?”

“Mr. St. Clair, we have reason to believe this is your weblog, or ‘blog’ as they’re more commonly known.”

“oh you do, do you?”

“Yes.”

“really?”

“MmmHmmm.”

“it’s not mine.”

“No, no…we’re pretty sure this is yours. We’ve confirmed the IP address as well as checked your internet history here at work and…”

“you’re mistaken!”

“We really don’t believe so, Mr. St. Clair.”

“it wasn’t my computer!”

“Nice try.”

“i was coerced!”

“Don’t think so.”

"the Taliban did it."

"Mr. St. Clair..."

"homos?"

"..."

“well fuck…i guess you will be pinning this one on me.”

“Mr. St. Clair, you should know that we used the writing samples you submitted to compare with what was unearthed on the internet. And Mr. St. Clair...I’m really not sure where to begin,” she chortled, “I…I suppose…well, what we found on your site was Highly original.”

“well that’s where you’re wrong.”

“Pardon Me? I’m not sure I understand…”

“that’s quite alright…i just meant that what you found isn’t original at all…nevermind…proceed.”

“Mr. St. Clair, I’m sure you can understand why [deleted] can’t have an employee – a representative of the company, even – to espouse such views in such a public forum. Since you failed to mention [deleted] by name, or any of the employees for that matter, we are willing to allow you to continue your relationship with this company. We will be asking, however, that you cease to write for that blog in the manner described herein,” she pushed a formal-looking document and pen in my direction, “and refrain from doing so in the future. We are also asking you to delete said blog from the internet. Furthermore, we reserve the right to terminate your employment for failure to comply with this request at any time in the future, or for behavior or public speech that we may deem to be otherwise incompatible with our Company’s Mission. This would include, but not be limited to, espousing similar ideas – whether real, imagined, or implied –as those expressed on your site. Do you understand these requests, Mr. St. Clair?”

“due process?”

“Don’t think so.”

“freedom of speech?”

“Not even close.”

“well shit…”

professionalism #11

it was raining and cold that morning. back to work. guaranteed fear and loathing. abandon all hope. prepare for the weirdness. get familiar with cannibalism. our chief of security here at the office had his uniform winter jacket buttoned to the top and had pulled it over the crown of his head, covering his ears. his arms hung languidly, slightly elevated and completely ridiculously. i remember him saying something like “greetings,” and then punching me full-force square in the chest. i’d long suspected him to be mentally challenged and the punch proved it true in all its ugly glory: Retard Strength, like an adolescent male chimpanzee in the wild and lustful throes of mating season. i reeled around, dropped my shoulder satchel and clutched the concrete entryway. my eyes burned. i couldn’t breathe. my heart was thrown into some kind of violent and unnatural defibrillation. “call an ambulance, you brute,” i gasped, “i think i’m going under!”

all that fat fucker did was chuckle. “Man…you are a funny one, Mr. St. Clair. The Doktor said to say ‘Hello.’ You have a good day now, Mr. St. Clair.”

“you can go fuck yourself…i’ve asked you time and time again to punch him once, JUST ONCE. and you won’t. what kind of evil spell does he hold over you? hmmmm? does he pay you? well? probably in crackrocks. or sexual favors. you swine, THE DOKTOR HAS SYPHILLIS!”

he chuckled even harder, louder. “You boys sure are funny.”

i envisioned this pigfucker eviscerated, side-by-side with that fuckin’ Doktor, both of them hung from a pole so the crows could eat their entrails. it hurt when i breathed.

the Bossman was waiting at my desk with an alligator’s smile, tapping his watch. “hey Jack…what’s happenin’…sorry about the time, it won’t happen again and all that jazz…you know, i was accosted by a wild animal on the way in the building today. vicious fuckin’ brute. you should call the police, or at least fire the security guard. this is not the place for…”

“LISTEN ST. CLAIR, YOU CAN SAVE YOUR EXCUSES FOR SOME OTHER TIME!!! THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M HERE FOR!!! I NEVER CARED FOR YOU AND YOUR GREASY WAYS, YOUR...”

“hey, your fly’s down.”

“WHAT THE…NO IT’S NOT!!!”

i laughed.

“LOOK YOU LITTLE SON-OF-A-BITCH…I CAME HERE TO TELL YOU…I…SOMEONE AT THE HOME OFFICE NOTICED YOUR REPORTS AND…”

“hey man, don’t try to pin that on me. i didn’t even do those reports. i handed them off to an intern that was here for…”

“WILL YOU SHUT THE HELL UP FOR ONE SINGLE, SOLITARY GODDAMM MINUTE? I’M TRYING TO GIVE YOU A COMPLIMENT.”

“alright then.”

“ALRIGHT WHAT?”

“alright i’m shutting up. all you had to do was tell me.”

“I DID, YOU GODDAMM LOONEY BASTARD.”

“see.”

“SEE WHAT?”

“see…i’m following directions. i’m shutting up. now lay those compliments on me, my man.”

“YOU KNOW WHAT, IF IT WAS UP TO ME, I’D…”

“you’ve got some food stuck in your teeth, you know that?. take care of that. i can’t concentrate on what you’re saying with that mess in your mouth, and frankly, i find it quite difficult to even look at you in such a condition. for fuck’s sake, this is a business here. let’s maintain a semblance of professionalism. do you need a mirror?”

“THEY WANT YOU TO WRITE THE PRODUCT SPECS FOR THE NEW CATALOG. HERE’S THEIR LETTER,” he said and tossed a yellow envelope on my desk.

i asked what it was he had for breakfast, but he must not have heard me.

a short while later, the Doktor appeared at my door with that steaming pile of humanity known as the Chief of Security. Arm-in-arm, the bastards, giggling like little school girls. the fat bastard waddled on his way after the Doktor unfurled and snapped a $20 bill, placing it in Security’s pocket.

i threw a paper weight at the Doktor, narrowly missing his his and knocking over a plant on some dumb cunt’s desk. “that’s the last of your little pranks. i could have been killed. THIS MAN IS A PEDERAST,” i yelled.

“relax…i got here early and everything this afternoon just to arrange that.”

“what’s that you say…i can’t hear you so good…everything’s going black…i’m comin’ Weezy, i’m comin’!”

“Elizabeth.”

“what?”

“Elizabeth. i’m comin’ Elizabeth. come on man, if you’re gonna do Fred Sanford, at least do him right.”

“who the fuck is Weezy then?”

“the Jeffersons.”

“oh yeah…the Jeffersons. hey look at this. i’ve been asked to write something for the company. seems my literary skills are finally paying off, bitch. it says i should devote my full attention to completion of the project. i got a deadline and everything. seems as if i arrived, don’t it?”

“i thought i smelled something.”