Viral Verses On Cuts And On Caskets

There is no such thing.
None such as pain.
Pain is a like a feeling.
But a feeling ain’t the same.

A feeling is sensation where a pain Is in between.
If pain is tolerated, there’s a switch In the machine.

I used to bite my hand. I’d say, “What is pain?”
I’d bite until I’d almost bleed, but bleeding is insane.

So I’d stop.
I’d stop.
My question had no answer.
What is pain.
I don’t know.
Though it surely
Its like cancer.
What is pain?
I don’t know.
Is it something
Really bad?
Like horror?
Or terror?
Well then I feel pain.
But I’m not afraid.
I thought of pain
As a thing
And a thing you
Have to hate.
You could debate
But I am not afraid
Of any kind of pain
What I fear
What I really fear
Is fear inside myself
Because fear
It is the switch
That connects me to pain
And if I go insane
Then I am afraid
No one loves me
I swear
For all 40 years
For all of my shit
Fearing more fear
I think its nuts
Death? I will get past it.
If life won’t last, well
I won’t have it.

How To Tell A Joke Good

          How To Tell A Joke Good
                       © 2013

                         By His
                Grammatorious
                     Excellency,

               “The Syntax Sinner”

         Telling a joke. First get excited. No one wants to hear a joke from a blaise jerk. That leads to jokes that stink. A joke may only last seconds. However, it takes about fifteen years for people to forget you suck.

         So get excited. You still might suck. But get excited. Not too excited. That will lead to discomfort. Unless you are gratified by a joke that is funny only unto yourself, by all means- temper your excitement.

         Next- and this may seem backwards, do not SHOW your excitement. Hold it back. Unless it is a joke funny only to you (Master’s level), do NOT show your excitement.

       Next, STOP being excited. Be TOTALLY COOL. That is, be cool. Don’t BE a FOOL!

       Next, it is not cool to ACT cool. After all, you are playing the fool. You NEED to make people laugh. Unless of course (Master’s level) your goal is to be the only one laughing. This is called a “pointed burn”. Say (At Master’s LEVEL) you have a room full of people at an after-opera champagne gathering and you drop your pants and say,
“I have a joke. In my PANTS.” Then you throw your pants in the punchbowl and say, “Punchline! Peace, yo! Out!!” That is not at all universally funny and RUINS the punch because, no doubt, your pants are sweaty due to joke-nerves. It IS funny, but only YOU will be laughing. When you tell your friends what you DID, they will laugh (Because you pulled a Master’s move.) But THEN they are laughing at a STORY.

      I am not talking about telling funny STORIES. I am not talking about jesting or even joking (which is not telling a joke but segway tomfoolery Intermediate level.

     This is how to tell a joke good. Next you will want to fabricate a joke according to the apprentice model on page five next to “How to postion your hands on page six. This is attitudinal thrust, the preliminary foundation immediately preceding the joke itself. The joke isn’t funny. You must make it funny. Funny. Not normal.

An exercise to prepare for delivery:

I want you to journal about your own personal tradgedy, pain and disappointment. List the most shameful things you have ever done. Then erase them (unless you are one of my Master’s level students. In THIS case, stop reading as this is all “unkbay for the ublicpay to rowthay their oneymay at me to buy my book, “Joke Telling: Start Today!”.)

Buy my book, “Joke Telling: Start Today”. You, too, can tell funny jokes and impress people.

-S.T.S

Aqueopathy

                   Aqueopathy

I took myself into a chamber
There to lie on water
Hyperfused with Dead Sea salt
I was like an ottoman… no
                 an ostrich…
                 an Ostëreich…
                 an osterizer…
                 mggg!!!
                 an odor…
                  a gopher…

                  help???

(My subconscious says:)

“Like an ‘otter’… ‘otter’, you twit!”

Sorry, folks.
I was like an otter.
Go up to “ottoman” and insert “otter” mentally.

Its not the same, but that’s ALL you get you lazy readers! Gosh.

(Subconscious:)

“Sinner”

Yep.
Syntax fubar.

Sorry.

Dot Coms That Have Not Been Taken Yet

       Dot coms free for the takin’:

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa121.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa121a.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa121aa.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa121aaa.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa121aaaa.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa121aaaaa.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa121aaaaaa.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaaa121aaaaaaa.com
aaaaaaaaaaaaa121aaaaaaaa.com
aaaaaaaaaaa121aaaaaaaaaa.com

That is all for now.
No.
Wait.
Also:

aaaaaaaaaaaa121aaaaaaaaa.com

Yes.
Forgot that one.
Find more at:

Www.aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
121omigoshthatsalotofas
andonesandtwoswhereas
aremanyandonesandtwos
areinaonetwooneformat.
edu.au.usa.alltheaboveor
notanddoubletripledouble
andillneverstopbeinganass
dotcomdotcomeedeeyoun
stuffdotcomdotcomdotau
dotdotdotcomdotcom.com

Or
try:

Lunkheadmonkeybaitzero.com

No.
That is also not working.
Sorry.
I am really really really sorry.

Really.

Really…

I am really really really really really really REALLY really REALLY really
Sorry.

Dot com.

Sorry.

We Did

We won without killing
So how is that feeling?
Blood fresh in me
None is let out of you
Its a zoo

Where the word strikes deep
And a hammer comes down
A man
A plan
A gold thorn crown
Spin it up
Release it
Your hands have sinned
Release me
To the deep
You’re with me
Down deep
In the cold hard ground?
No
No
You are deep in my heart now
Down

_______________________

Forget to forgive your enemy?
Its “Half-off” Saturdays!
Let it fly, let it go!
You don’t even have to be friends!
Call:
1-800-Idon’tcarewhatudidnomo’
You’ll be glad you did

Late fees apply to delayed forgiveness, such as:

Nausea
Fatigue
Weariness
Inability to love
Headache

Unforgiveness lasting more than four hours, you should seek help immediately by reciting one “Our Father” and receive to be forgiven yourself as you forgive.

So iow, forgive.

(Message preached the author by himself first.)

Layers Of Story Telling

     Did you ever wonder how entertainers get that extra pull? Why a punchline punches? (Punch, punch… punch-a-roo! What? Exactly!) Well I’ve observed some things and learned a bit. I’ve been told some secrets, like from the Riddle King of children’s books, Mike Thaler. I’ve also observed that while my methods didn’t change that I did- and THAT made all the difference in the world.

Improv- Roll With It Style

Case: David Letterman
Tool Box: Paul Schaefer, guests, multiple cameos
Style: Constant Improv Feel-Sorry-For-Me Dangerfield style
Budget: $$$$$$$$

       Letterman comes out. He brings news. Eventually offers up a scapegoat like how the Mets suck. He’ll move on, drop a few bombs, recover and say, “Ladies & Gentlemen, if you think its going to get better… it won’t”. His self-depreciation always recovers. His funny looks. Then he says, “Uh… how about those Mets, Paul?” And Paul says… well it goes on for an hour. Millions watch it.

Machine Gun.

      Stand up gets out there and mentions an off the wall problem. Rag on your wife in front of a half female audience? Its NOT the material. Its all about how YOU are. Cajones. Ovaries or Testes… it takes brass balls. Drop your brass balls on a stage all about who you are and NO one knows who you are that you would confess x amount of x’s about all your exes.

Now, out of comedy (the comedian wants to act), many want to be seen as a real person. Story to comedy bridge:

         A family of monsters are having dinner at a table. A dragon, a marshmallow, cookie monster and a pepper shaker.

     (Thats 5 legs. Here’s the table…)

       Pepper sneezes at the table. Dragon inhales and sneezes fire. Fire roasts marshmallow. Ghost says, “I was a marshmallow. That happened last night”. Cookie Monster looks at roasted marshmallow distraught thinking, “Its like a cookie. S’mores are cookie. Who not invite graham cracker and chocolate?” Plus his eyes roll and his smile is fixed. By the way, none of this is funny to me. I’m awfully sick. Laugh at that. Go ahead. I have a one in four chance of dying by choking to death. Jimmy Hendrix.

Too Soon:

Not just in comedy, but what if they made a feature film on how Biden won’t sacrifice his salary. Maybe later. Name of film: “Maybe Later”. Damned to low budget fodder or a singular SNL skit.

Drama:

The toasted marshmallow excused himself from the table. Cookie monster looked like the devil. Pepper is an idiot. Dragon is uninsured. Marshmallow leaks goo and is taken to the ER with two graham crackers. Cookie monster drives. They crash into a chocolate bar. Marshmallow dies with massive 3rd degree burns.

Riddle king:

Find two relavant things that rhyme.

Start with one.

Pig.

What’s favorite pet? Ham-ster.

Satyrical:

Pig has two pets. A fish and a hamster. Who is the favorite? I’d say ham-ster, wouldn’t you? You’d be wrong though its the fish.

Insult
Absurdity
Aggitation
Pain
Fear

These things are hard to solve, so we laugh. As well we should to survive.

These things are drama. Drama needs comic relief… or we get sick. Last night I watch a show about a woman beaten and violated. Only anger was portrayed. Showing the act in strobe, the show ended. Primetime. Garbage and refuse. I know what a felony is. And rape. But the show left me with no hope for her. Malarky. Fiction. The only truth in the fiction was terror. I don’t watch TV just for an experience.

God help me, I look for redemption. I liked the Life of Pi movie. Gave me ideas on allegory to properly represent my gory.

So this has been my predentation on catching an audience with approaching them with:

Your truest self
Tools
Full circle point, even if its mad
    banter

I hope this was interesting!

Cheers!
-S.T.S

Madonna

       Isa felt his life was on a sustained pause. He had grown up in a wealthy family, siblings oblivious to his desire to get along, they mainly dismissed him publicly every chance they got. He was all too forgiving. If it wasn’t for chance he would see dead on how much they didn’t care about him. And if it wasn’t for his father’s teaching about scripture reading, suicide would have been much more a fascination and fantasy than a fear.

          In fact, Isa was ill in his youth and this grieved his father deeply. His father could not help him. The mother would get angry with the father and say the boy had spiritual problems and that the boy was depressed do to hang ups. She also drank while taking antidepressants. The father had long ago hewn out a part of his heart as hollow and maintained the other part for his family because he realised a terrifying thing one day.

       He realized that while he thought he didn’t love her enough- she- didn’t love him at all. Not only that, but it was impossible to prove because for some unascertainable reason she ACTED the most loving, but was the most SOULLESS to her youngest son, Isa. Perhaps it was a subconscious vicarious suicide of herself as if she was Isa as she insisted Isa was her’s but not Gerome’s, her husbands.

      It was a Madonna complex, a Lithuanian doctor suggested to Gerome. “She wants to be the perfect mother to the perfect son. This leads to a logical progression to an ending that is horrific. She will, in the end stand about Isa as if he will be crucified, and in her delusion, she will have to fight to appear that she believes Isa is alive, even while he stands before her.”
The doctor looked at Gerome. Gerome knew it was all true. “That is bunk,” said Gerome, and he left the doctor’s office.

       Isa’s mother had Gerome take Isa to be tested because Isa was sick. The test showed loud and clear Isa was very sick and would be for life, but the sickness was more FELT than was visible. So when Gerome came back with the report, Isa’s mother, Maddy, screamed. She broke dishes. She hit her husband. She put on quite a show.

       “I will test him again,” said Isa, rocking what was now obviously his beyond mentally ill wife. She was sick with anger. Some unaddressed issue. So a week later when Gerome falsified GOOD health findings for Isa, it assuaged the mother theatricly, and returned a normalcy to the balance of the house. But Gerome knew that if Maddy could not prioritize the health of her children and HE was a physician, then he’d have to live a lie with her. Three children in and suddenly before Gerome was a revelation- he was Joseph, Maddy was Mary… and Isa, poor Isa was set up to be the scape goat Jesus.

     It would be hard enough to grow up being Jesus. But to be cast as the character of Jesus when you are a leper? Is that a joke? It was not. Isa was first told by someone when he was 32 that there was a Madonna syndrome in the family…  and to flee. So Isa carefully cut bonds with his family. And he flew North to France.

        It is great and all to continue a story with details. But its really simple. Isa inherited a great deal of money from his uncle Teru. He bought a vineyard, a beach house and drank wine everyday and made love to his ample breasted wife exactly 8,506 times to forget the afore mentioned misery of his life. He swam on his own private beach and thought of his family as dead to him. His woman would not be a Madonna, unless it is meant Madonna the bedroom rockstar ragdoll, then yes, Madonna. And as for Jesus- one is enough. Isa, he died by a means other than familial crucifixtion. He died in a plane crash.

Leesie

       The word is daylight. That descibes the rain of light from trudging overcast clouds. Bright and less bright. So let me tell you what’s around us, so you can see. And understand that in this story I want you to walk around and feel free to check things out. I am.

      So we are at a hospital drop off/ pick up entrance to the Emergency room of the Providence Milwaukie hospital in the small town of Milwaukie. I call it the “97222” in my head because I worked in shipping. To others we say we are from Portland, OR (97201) because ‘burbs don’t ger press. Well, at least not until Geena Davis comes here. Woo! Kissable lips. Sorry. That’s my honest mind. No… I’m not sorry. And I’m not honest either.

     I’m truthful. But I’m a syntax sinner. What is that? Someone who will run over words to death to get the real point across. Its a joke.

    So its an overcast sky. I am 39, 5’11” tall and dark hair, Russian, Swedish, French, Kentuckian Native American. I could be anyone. But I want you to see this closely. So I’m your cousin. I just wrote you in. You are a guy my age. Ladies, its alright. Its only a story. Be a man about it. Hahaha.

      So you and I were in an accident and freshly disembodied are in the between-world. Its kind of like being high. Rather fearless and comfortable. I put my hand on your back as we leave the O.R. where we both expired. Doc is writing down the time of expiration. Boring! You feel my hand on your back as I seem to already know more about this afterlife than you.

      Okay. Let’s stop a second. We both know we are not dead. Its just that cinema makes us like voyeuristic ghosts. So be one. Geez. Haha.

        You feel my fingers press against your left shoulder to see her and him. So let’s sit down in front of them on the ground. They can’t see us. They are living. We are flat. So I’m going to sit Indian style. I’ll probably get up to stretch. You can too. Sit how ever you like. Maybe look at the trees behind us as the wind tickles their leaves. Perhaps watch the old green buick go by us later. It will. Or watch the young couple go in (the woman will have a ponytail, grey hooded sweatshirt, and the guy next to her we’ll only see as a peripheral shadow wearing a ball cap.)

      This is the story about Elysia Sage Montgomery. She is sitting on the wooden bench at the ER pick up. Alan Pittock comes out of the ER waiting room and sits next to her. His family is there for his father who is now going to ICU. He’ll live. But Alan is dying inside. He was just sleighted for the 430,343rd time in his life. Literally. Its bad for Alan.

     Alan doesn’t know it but he subconsciously pulls himself in search of pretty girls, a cola or alcohol or a good joke when he hurts. So he has a soda from the ER vending machine and he sits on the bench leaning away from the girl so as to say, “I’m not here to bother you.” But he consciously knows he wants to be close to beauty now.

      “I’m Leesy,” the 33 year old woman says. Alan first notices her pale lips, handsome face, close-cropped hair about ¼” long. She wears a leather jacket, blue sweatpants. She’s a blonde, or WOULD be if locks were unleashed proudly to obscure her pretty light blue eyes. Wow! I’m getting this from what Alan is feeling! His breath feel sweet and he feel so NOT defeated now this girl like Jodie Foster, Pink and Angelina Jolie in one.

     “Hey yourself,” said Alan. “I’m Alan.” She smiled. Now Alan- he’s 23… but he likes to talk to women.
He notices things. Its like an amusement park. You could call him sensitive, which is a weak word. But truly, Alan is a sensualist. Oh, look. Oh my god. He can see the blonde hairs on her fingers at the digits! Hardly noticible! I never noticed things like that in my life. Have you, cuz?

        Oh her sticky sweaty slender girl fingers are struggling to open a pack of Winston cigarettes. She gingerly pulls a cigarette out, brings it to her pale lips and drops the filter end on her lower lip. Then she lights it and looks at Alan. “Oh hey,” she says. “You want a cigarette?”

      Smoke wafts from her mouth like she’s a humanoid dragon vixen and shr pulls the cigarette off her lip. As she does, the cigarette sticks and pulls on her lip showing its exact texture. In a nano second he sees the wet pink part of her inner lip and it snaps back in a jiggle. And the show is over.

      Alan says, “No thanks, I don’t smoke cigarettes.” Leesy smiles and says, “Are you afraid of my germs?”. Alan looks down, then ul and to the side to her. “No ma’am”, Alan says. ” I’m afraid you’ll break my heart just sitting here is killing me and I’m not afraid to kiss you either, except I’m not up to following through with a woman of your caliber.”

       Leesy looks down at him and says, “So just how old are you and what is your mission, Mr. Mister?”
Alan laughs, saying, “Well I guess my mission is to be my family’s doormat while my daddy is dyin’ in there mixed with finding pretty women to tell them they are pretty in case they forgot.”

        Leesy slid closer. She flicked the cigarette. “I NEVER forgot I was beautiful. Not through chemo. Not through radiation. But…”

        “But what?”, said Alan, looking at her, feeling mostly dead inside.
“But I did”, said Leesy, “forget… I was pretty.” She smiled a big smiled and tilted her head. “Now Alan… do you see that white Buick? That’s my husband. But you’ll always be my huckleberry.” And Leesy’s soft, dehydrated, pillowy, matrimonialized lips gave Alan’s cheek a big unforgettable kiss.

       Leesy got in the Buick and said loudly, “Honey, I just kissed that boy there for being my bodyguard. Leesy’s husband said, “Were you hittin’ on my wife?” with a blank face. Then he smiles and says, “Hahahah, I’m just kidding dude! Thanks for watching my woman!” Then he planted a huge kiss on her and yelled “Wooooo! Mama! Yehah!” and drove on outta there.

     So we see life here as ghosts. Angles. Feelings. Problems. Forever in still time. Reading makes you a ghost. You die in the letters and the dead can speak to you there. They are actually alive. Not dead. Well, a little flat.

        Alan stood there as the buick became a dot on Harrison street.
He could speak to a woman, be a man kissed by a woman and have a man talk to him like a man. All in five minutes these became true in his life what his family never did in 23 years. He saw his reflection in the glass of the ER window. Behind it was the figures of his mother and brothers. And he hid the memory of that kiss away in his heart to stay strong.