Dear Unoriginal Bastards, Halloween is coming up and it never fails, every trick that I treat has some-thing sooo clever to say. I’ve been in this business for sixty-some odd years, believe me, I’ve heard them all. First of all, the suck jokes

are a bit redundant. ‘Suck it like a vampire, suck it like Blackula, suck it like Dr. Acula, oh baby suck it like a bat, suck it like a Dracula. I think the worst one is when some idiot says ‘You vaunt to suck my c**k’. Look, I once made love to Bela Lugosi, and you sir are no Bela Lugosi. And no, I ‘bob for your apple’. Just do your old friend Scabby a favor on this All Hallows Eve, and put that sweet five spot on the dashboard, whip it out and shut the f*** up, cause you’re not the only one with some candy to get to. --As Always Love Scabby

x Letter From The Ed x

xxxxxxxx Letters to The Ed xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxDear Ed, So, like, I was invited to this Hal-loween party and I totally don’t know what to wear! I’m like going crazy. I want to be something creepy like, idunno..a witch, but I don’t have the washcloth and two band aids to make the costume. I could also go as a star, but that would involve me pour-ing glue all over myself and rolling around in glitter. Gawsh! I just don’t know. Sug-gestions? XoXoXoooUr Absolute Fave Hooter’s girl

Dear Ed, Halloween is my favorite holiday. All those beautiful little children dressed in tiny little costumes making their way to my house and begging for me to give them candy. I get to save on gas for my white cargo van and I don’t have to spend all day trying to get little 14 year old girls from

MySpace to meet me offline. It also gives the altar boys the day off and I don’t have to risk running into that sick freak, Chris Hansen. May God have mercy on his pa-thetic soul. Happy Halloween and God Bless,Fr. Thompson

Dear Ed, I made you that cape for your Su-perman Halloween costume that you asked for. You’re going to be the most handsome little boy in Corpus this year. Remember to look both ways before crossing the street and for heaven’s sake wear some clean un-dies, sweetie. I Love You Always,Grandma

Dear Ed,I have been watching tu magazine and reading todos los stupid things about me. How can you talk about me in MY city? How do you think Corpus became fa-mous? Me, putos. Also, tell that Jennifer Lopez that she ain’t me and she never will be. I saw her pretending to be me in that pinche movie. She didn’t even do a good job. What, you hired her because she has a big ass? Whatevers, fool. Tell my bro AB that he can’t sing either but his club was pretty cool, especially when he made it snow… he’ll understand… Ha! I’m sure your writers will too. Now tell that puta, Jennifer Pena she needs to stop being like me. Most importantly, Dad, Stop trying to make money off of me. I’m dead. Let me go and I won’t have to write letters to a damn magazine in order to get my point across. If you need money that bad then start singing yourself! Como La Flor, Selena

Stella StarrMary Wienke

Just So You Know… Your Semen Isn’t A Trick Or Treat.

The Vent Daily is a divi-sion of The Vent. The

Vent is an organization devoted to enriching

Corpus Christi through Print, Television, Film, Comedy and Music.

Send all article submis-sions, comments, love letters and naked pics

to: ventnation@yahoo.comThe Vent: 361-549-6213

Editor: William Henneberger

Writers: Mike SkinnerWilliam Henneberger

Berto GarciaStella Starr

Claire CavazosMary Wienke

The Daily Disclaimer: The Vent Daily is a

satirical publication and is not intended for read-ers under 18 years of

age. TVD uses invented names in all its stories, except in cases when

public figures are being satirized. Any other use of real names is acci-

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The Vent Daily’s Monthly News

In an astonishing display of wit last Friday night, a local retail worker stunned his friends and roommate with what seemed to be the greatest pun they had ever heard. It was early evening when Topher Sanchez first said what has been de-scribed by numerous witnesses as, “the funniest f***ing sh*t ever.” “We were all just getting our first weekend smoke on,” said John Laney, Topher’s roommate, “and then Tim was like, ‘We should get some Burger King,’ and Luis was mum-bling some sh*t, I don’t even know, and Tim was like, ‘We should get some Burger King.’ Can you hold on a second? I need to get some f***ing Burger King man.” After sifting though several YouTube video posts of the event, it was final-ly revealed that while sitting on top of what has been dubbed “Topher’s raggedy-ass pool table,” smoking, John brought up Halloween and what costumes they each should wear. Tim immediately suggested he should go as the “rape tree” from The Evil Dead, and stuck with that idea until someone threw a can of Lone Star in his face. Tim did not take long to recover from the hit; however, it was clear that his ego was wounded. When John told him to stop acting all but hurt, Luis snapped in with, “We should go as

a giant butt.” “What about a giant bag of weed?” a s k e d John. That is when To-pher re-sponded with the now infamous, “Halloween.. more like High-loween.” At this point all hell broke loose. The entire group began to laugh themselves silly. For a solid ten min-utes the hilarity was uncontrollable. At several points, Luis ran out the front door and screamed, “Happy High-loween!” to the entire neigh-borhood, topping it off with an evil laugh which led to a vicious cough. When all was said and done, two of the parties involved urinated all over themselves. Tim fell off the pool table, sustaining a concussion and a gash requiring 17 stitches. Twenty minutes later, Topher forgot what he had said in the first place. When asked to comment on the situ-ation, Topher eventually remarked, “Rewind to the part where Tim gets hit in the f***ing face.”

Potheads “High-loween” Joke Plays WellBy William Henneberger

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theventnation.com myspace.com/theventnation page five

My Latest Creation is a Real Cock-blocker By Henry Frankenstein

Imagine this, if you will. I’m in a bar, sit-ting across what is probably the sweetest piece of ass this side of Ingolstadt. She’s smoking a cigarette, wearing a tight corset accentuating the loveliest cleavage, and she is totally into me. Now imagine the most handsome Moorish-looking man in the world, with bolts in his head, staggering in the bar slightly buzzed, going in for my kill. Imagine if you will, that same hand-some man, wrapping his arm around said piece of ass, and asking her if ‘she k n o w s h o w much a polar bear we ighs? ’ (The An-s w e r , ‘enough to break the ice’. That charm-ing bastard.) That’s Bob or Bret (as he calls himself). He’s my master creation… my Magnum Opus. The most beautiful olive homosapien ever crafted, a marvel to the scien-tific community. He could also be my apology to the outside world for my previous mistake, Jeffery. Now I’m starting to regret Bob. It’s not that I’m not proud of my creation; it’s just that after a long hard day of playing God, I like to unwind at a club and peruse the females. But every time, and I do mean every f***ing time, Bob manages to come in and steal the show. With his ‘good evening, Mesdames’ or his ‘can I interest you in some smoked sausage’ line. That one never fails. I could be at a park with a date. He’ll jump in with“Hey baby, wanna go out for some Ice Cream?”Or I can be on a carriage ride, and he’ll slap me on the back and say, “Hey, Doc aren’t you too old for her? HAHAHAHA!” And then walks off with a handful of Scandinavian butt cheek. He gets laid every night. Meanwhile, I’m screwing the crevices between my pork fat slathered sofa cushions wondering ‘why me God?’

I guess this is the reason why I made sure my previous creations all had Down’s syndrome. Jeffery has to sleep in my room some nights because Bob is upstairs in the laboratory pounding away on his latest conquest. Jeffery always asks me if the noises upstairs are an

angry mob coming to burn him again. I always have to console him by letting him know that it’s just his brother practicing his “experi-ments,” and that it will all be over soon. He’s really come a long way since he caught Bob with his wife a couple of years ago. I once hosted

a meeting between several female Swedish colleagues and myself. Needless to say Bob crashed it, playing that god-damn Beethoven symphony on our family piano, while he popped open bottles of wine, and con-vinced the Swedes to strip down their camisoles and knickers for strings of fake pearls. Though it was rather appealing, and invoked a sensual desire, in that I must have made a weeks’ worth of camp in my pants. But what followed haunts me to this day. Bob be-smirched me so sav-agely that I have yet to at-tain the f e m a l e c o m -panion-s h i p that I have sought for so many years. He showed every one of my lovely drunken colleagues an old oil portrait of myself dressed

in my great grandmother’s 17th century corset and boned bodices. I tried to ex-plain that it was an old Halloween costume, and was merely a joke. Still, they seemed perplexed and deeply disturbed by me, and all huddled near Bob for protection. He made them feel so secure that he took them all upstairs to the lab for some friendly “experimentation”. He con-quered all twenty-five of them, twice each. I think it’s time he found a stable job, left

the castle, and started to support himself. I think I’ll start charg-ing him rent, and then if he can’t pay… I will leave him out on the streets to beg for scraps like the common dog that he truly is. Then all those zombie f***ing whores will see how pa-thetic my creation Bob really is, and then they will want to f*** me and I will say no. Yes! Yes! Yeeeeees! I feel so alive!!!! ALIVE!!!! HA! HA! HA!

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!

BOB JEFF

It started with my first pregnancy. After weeks of throw-ing up everything I ate and drank, I woke up one morning to a wonder-fully monstrous appetite. I decided to make steak and eggs for break-fast, although until then I had been a strictly fish and chicken kind of person. It didn’t strike me as odd, though, except when I was prepar-ing the meat for the frying pan, I had a sudden urge to lick my fingers, which were smeared with the bloody fat I had just cut away. Just as I was about to pop a chunk of dripping red meat into my mouth, my husband walked in. “Since when do you cook break-fast?” he grumbled, his face still blurry with sleep. I announced that my morning sickness was over with, and I had decided to celebrate. As he showered, I cooked both our steaks,

but left mine practically raw. I sa-vored every morsel. At my next visit to the doctor’s, I mentioned my new culinary desire. He dismissed it as “simple prena-tal craving. Most women get them. There’s really nothing to worry about as long as all your meat is pre-pared safely so as to avoid contami-nation and potentially devastating food poisoning.” For the next few weeks I made do with market offerings: t-bones, rib eyes. Sirloin was especially suited to my searing technique. My husband, however, began to worry about my diet and one night pre-sented me with a horribly overdone London broil. As I choked it down I realized I would have to figure out some other way to satiate myself. If I got the meat fresh, I decided, I could have as much as I wanted

without worry of parasites or infec-tion. That night, while my husband slept soundly in our bed, I went out to the barn and took a chainsaw to one of our steers. That feast filled me until the end of my pregnancy. I delivered a beauti-ful daughter two months to the day after the slaughter. Even now my husband believes that animal was taken by an outlaw neighbor. A few years later, when I became pregnant again, I had none of the nausea I had experienced the first time, nor were my eating habits out of the ordinary. (I had become a vegetarian after I had my little girl.) I breezed right through to the fifth month, hoping the whole time would pass without incident. Unfortunate-ly, soon after that month’s checkup I began to experience those longings again. I now had a profound thirst

for the fluid which courses through all living bodies. For a while I sat-isfied myself off the foam contain-ers off cuts I bought for my family. I finally had my fill when, one day as I hung clothes out to dry, one of our German shepherds jumped up and tore the hem of my skirt. I really hated to punish him so harshly, but it really was one of my favorite skirts. When our daughter was six and our son almost three, I became pregnant with our third child. I dreaded the day I would get the hunger and have to explain the disappearance of yet another animal. Fortunately I passed almost the whole nine months on well-cooked fish and chicken. I thought it was done. That is, until the afternoon my hus-band took the children to the county fair, and a drifter appeared on our front porch.

Diary of a MadwomanA Halloween Tale of Blood Lust and Prenatal Cravings

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by Nora Gutierrez

It’s Friday and I’m on my way home from the office. The Chlorazapam is helping with the anxiety, but there are certain side effects that I hadn’t antici-pated. In exchange for my sanity, I have traded my auditory faculties. The world seems to have been put on mute. I see people talking and I can understand what they are saying to me, I just can’t actu-ally hear anything. I feel like a movie ghost. Music has turned into sharp static. My family and friends speak to me only in Charlie Brown rhetoric and when I’m driving to work, my head is filled with the sound of a mild sea. I am certain that if I keep taking the pills, I will eventually go deaf. However, I fear that if I stop taking them, I will no longer be able to leave the house. The last thing that I need is another one of those embarrassing grocery store moments. It was just a regular Sunday af-ternoon and I was just a regular shopper, but all of a sudden the entire store wanted me to die. The space between the aisles was pressurized to the point of implosion, the canned goods threatened to pour from the shelves and bury me in an avalanche of condensed botulism. When I finally made it to my car, I had soaked through

my shirt. Perhaps I should conveniently overlook the anti-anxiety medication that my ridiculously overpriced doctor recom-mends, the man often appears to be little more than a pusher in tasseled loafers anyway, and just stick to the bottle. It’s less expensive and although it has defi-nitely cost me my fair share of friends, at least I always know what to expect. I wonder if I can persuade my insurance provider to cover bar tabs? When I drink, I know exactly how I’m going to feel in the morning. I know that I will wake up broke and sick and alone, and occasion-ally with a bleeding head wound, but I know that I will wake up and that’s reas-suring, in a mild sense anyway. The drink is my best girl. Her gift to me is simple and consistent. It’s in the devil-may-care bravado that always comes with a round of shots. It’s in the noise and smiles and sweat of another night without direction. It’s in the warm rush to the cheeks that makes a man feel young again. My love affair with booze is one for the record books. We’re life partners. With the pills, I’m not so sure. I’m always afraid that I’m finally going

to push that one little button that sends me over the edge. One toke over the line sweet Jesus, one toke over the line. Just last week, I found myself swirling into the depths of a strong jag. The evening air was thick with moisture that foretold of the oncoming summer. My beer bot-tle was sweating sadly into my palm as I choked down its warm and bitter end-ing. The taste was unusually strong, but it must have been my imagination because I’d already had a dozen and the bottom of this one found me no closer to drunk-enness than the last, merely thirsty for another. I was somewhere into my 32nd hour of a very legitimate Lortab bender. Sweat poured into my clothes as I chewed up 2,000 mgs at a time, straight with no chaser. You can drink for days on end and you stay awake without ever feeling de-prived of sleep. It seemingly offers all of the benefits of cocaine and heroin without any of the hang-ups, except for the full body itching. I felt this kind of detached alert-ness as I wandered from bar to bar, not really drinking and not really talking but mostly moving. I remember pretty girls and a Black Keys soundtrack but

I’m fairly certain that these things were only in my head. I crossed paths with a friend of a friend and we ended up in the walk-in cooler of a bar that catered to the khaki-clad militia of upper class, surf po-seur businessmen and their Stepford wife fembots. You know they type. They roll up in their Ford Tanks, replete with bum-per stickers proudly proclaiming their al-legiance to God and the Grand Old Party and labeled with little soccer balls named Conner or Austin or Wyatt. Anyway, we were deeply in-volved in a bowl of something that may have been called Wizards Magic or Mid-night Loco or Tinkerbelle or some other such nonsense. Why do people who grow marijuana insist on giving their buds such terrible names... I’m not interested in where it was grown or what the first gen-eration strain was. It’s not a racehorse, its dope. I’m from the Rio Grande Valley, my weed is called weed and it’s grown in the dirt somewhere in Mexico and it’s shipped across the border in the seat cush-ions of a 1987 Chevy Suburban. This is how I roll.I procured a cardboard box with an as-sortment of different choices from the cooler and made my way back out into the throng of poorly dancing masses, only to find that security had been made aware of my transgression and were apparently in no mood for a laugh. The resulting melee resulted in much noise but little blood and I was unceremoniously tossed into the alleyway like the vagrant that my mother believes me to be. I shook the heat away from my face, swallowed another 1500 mgs and marched off into the neon. I was bound and determined to get the shit beat out of me. A solid ass whipping can be a very cleansing experience. However, this proved to be a much harder task than it initially seemed. Most people want noth-ing to do with physical violence, no matter how far you push. Instead, I retrieved a flask from my car and headed towards my favorite bar for last call. When I awoke, it was dawn and I was in the bushes be-side the county courthouse. I had blood on my lip and my shirt was ripped but I’m pretty sure that was from the thorns and not someone’s fists. All and all it was as successful a night as I have come to ex-pect.

theventnation.com myspace.com/theventnation page seven

Friday by Mike Skinnergoldncow@yahoo.com

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Celebrity Music Review

Hi kids it’s me Louie the Lightning bug. Coming to talk to you about power chords. Now I’m a light-ning bug you see and light-ning bugs know a lot about rock n roll and ac/dc.

“Lightning bugs know a lot about rock n roll and ac/dc”

Their new album Black Ice comes out Oct. 20 and it will rock you socks off!!! “Black Ice, Black Ice, why you gotta feels so nice”

Sing it Louie!!!

“If it’s one thing this album doesn’t know it doesn’t know how to blow. Many might complain that I must be in-sane but their style remains

the same. No need to change” Anything one bit, this album is definitely AC/DC. There’s no disputing that their goal with this album is to rock!!

“There’s no disputing that their goal with this album is to rock!!”

Oh…Okay you guys didn’t have to sing that part, now why don’t we start…

“Didn’t have to sing that part, now why don’t we start!”

No stop repeating everything I just said!!! I was trying to let everybody reading this know that AC/DC comes out to rock, with song titles like “Rock n Roll

Train”, “She likes Rock n Roll”, “Rock n Roll Dreams” and “Rocking all the way. AC/DC come out to play. “Rocking all the way. AC/

DC come out to…”

Shut Up! I can’t stress this enough. Why can’t you see that PSA’s are differ-ent than reading an article. They can’t hear you singing, but my ears are ringing.

Sing it Louie!!

You shut the hell up!! I don’t need you to tell me what to do. I’ve been do-ing this jive since way before you were alive. “Been doing this Jive (Lou-

ie “that does it”) since way before you were al…

Bang! Bang!

That’s better. All the songs are really good considering that this is AC/DC’s first album in 6 years. AC/DC hasn’t changed their formula for

well over thirty plus years, with their if it ain’t broke don’t fix it approach to music. Black Ice manages to entertain a new gen-eration of rock lovers. Hell bent on get-ting rid of the damage that Emo has done to the music industry. The only negative to this album is that it doesn’t have that one stand out track like it’s previous predecessors (i.e. Hells Bells, Highway to hell). It does come close with “Rock n Roll Train” and all I gotta say is all aboard. AC/DC is not to be ignored,. Sing it Louie!!

BANG!

“All aboard AC/DC’s train. Rock and Roll is hear again. Oh yeah rock n roll is here again”

By Louie the Lightning Bug AC/DC

Black IceColumbia Records

Release Date: Oct. 20th, 2008

Thur. 10/16Awma Casino Night -House Of RockTrisum -RevolutionThe Golden Age ..Tour Kick Off,,,S.U.S. , Knu-clehead , Mans Ruin -CompoundHobo -Executive Surf ClubReckless Kelly, The Gougers -Brewster StreetJohn Cortez -Dr. Rockit’sJohnny Love & The Dankadelics -The Mug RoomLive Jazz With Hector Colon / Eddie Olivarez Jr -21 Spirits

Fri. 10/17Pack Of Wolves, Stringer, Set Aflame, Among The Sarcophagus, Into The Sun -House Of RockDj King G & Hobo (Patio) -RevolutionOh Sleeper , Legeia , Don The Reader,Vanna -CompoundCruise Control -Clicks Billiards Big Sexy -Executive Surf ClubChosen By Force -TexanDave’s Duo -Brewster StreetRocky Benton Blues Show -Dr. Rockit’sRockin’ Blues Engine -The Mug RoomMyndfields -21 Spirits

Sat. 10/18Dillofest With Sewn Shut, The Periwinkle, Laoric, Scrape, Rpg, Release, The Booked -House Of RockUfc 89 W/ Dj Dus -RevolutionHoods, Give Em Hell -CompoundBlissful Noise -Clicks Billiards Matt Hole And The Hot Rod Gang -Executive Surf ClubStruggle Of Saints -TexanOso Texas -Brewster StreetMyndfields -Dr. Rockit’s

Oridium -The Mug RoomJolly Ranchers -21 Spirits

Sun. 10/19-House Of RockSunday Sock Hop 80s Dance Party -House Of RockTexas Triple Threat -RevolutionHoly Moly & Marshall Influence -Dr. Rockit’s

Mon. 10/20Antonio Perez & Corey Jackson -Dr. Rockit’s

Tues. 10/21Neil Edwards & Ty Dietz -RevolutionDJ Drez, Bo Young -Jack Ash’sScarecrow People -Executive Surf ClubReno & The Groove Getters -Dr. Rockit’s

Wed. 10/22Dj King G -RevolutionThese Green Eyes, A Thorn For Every Heart -Com-poundFast Dirty Mexicans -Dr. Rockit’s

Thur. 10/23Charlie Shafter & The Gnomes, Ty Dietz -House Of RockDj Dus -RevolutionPhil Pritchett -Executive Surf ClubPear Ratz W/ Bo Cox & Maren Morris -Brewster StreetJohn Cortez -Dr. Rockit’sAmigos W/ Art Galvan -The Mug RoomLive Jazz With Latin Influenze / Eddie Olivarez Jr -21 Spirits

Fri. 10/24Paul Sutherland, Drastic Actions, Capital Crimes, Vortex Ground Zero, Avenue Rockers -House Of RockDj King G & Live Music Tbd (Patio) -Revolution7 Perfect, Crimson Envy -Clicks BilliardsThe Groove -Executive Surf ClubInertia -TexanScarecrow People -Brewster StreetJohn Cortez -Dr. Rockit’sMike Guerra & Trisum -The Mug RoomAnother Level -21 Spirits

Sat. 10/25Spies Like Us, Channel One, Lackluster, Reely Rotnz -House Of RockUfc 90 W/ Dj Dus -RevolutionMongo’s Stereo -Clicks BilliardsScarecrow People -Executive Surf ClubChartruse -TexanTumble Dry Low -Brewster StreetDuke E. Brown -Dr. Rockit’sStruggle Of Saints -The Mug Room

Sun. 10/26Bus Stop Stallions -Dr. Rockit’sProfile (Open Jam) -The Mug Room

Mon. 10/27Antonio Perez & Corey Jackson -Dr. Rockit’s

Tues. 10/28Flatbroke -RevolutionScarecrow People -Executive Surf ClubReno & The Groove Getters -Dr. Rockit’s

Wed. 10/29Ikon the Mic King, Dos Noun -Jack Ash’s

Blowing Trees W/Dead Sky -Dr. Rockit’sBig Band Night -21 Spirits

Thur. 10/30The Bystanders -RevolutionEyes Set To Kill , Before Thier Eyes,Love Hate Hero, A Kiss For Jersey, Oceanna , Ice Nine Kills -CompoundNo Quarter -Executive Surf ClubJohn Cortez -Dr. Rockit’sWillie Nelson & Family -American Bank CenterMudvayne -Concrete StreetDead Sky -The Mug RoomLive Jazz With Hector Colon / Eddie Olivarez Jr -21 Spirits

Fri. 10/31Zombie Prom 4 With Total Death Mechanics, Electrotypes, Dj Johnny Hotcakes -House Of Rock2nd Annual Halloween Bash & Costume Contest –RevolutionMonsta Mosh -CompoundHalloween Bash w/ Lyrical Binge -Clicks Bil-liardsCruise Control -Executive Surf ClubGrey Bliss/ Dead Sky -TexanBash W/Another Level -Dr. Rockit’sMyndfield -Brewster StreetHalloween Party W/ Chosen By Force & Savor -The Mug RoomScarecrow People Halloween Costume Contest -21 Spirits

Send Concert listings to:ventnation@yahoo.com

Corpus Christi Entertainment Calendar

myspace.com/theventnation theventnation.com page nine

So here I am, in front of a computer at the local junior college library. It’s interesting. Writing, I mean. Some people can just start go-ing—making up all types of things off the top of their creative little heads. Some, like me, can’t make up a damn thing but are just semidecent at understanding the English language and can bullshit you into thinking that you’re actu-ally reading something until, when reflecting in the clarity of retrospect you realize—you are reading something…

“See….i’m one of these dreamers who ran out of shit to dream about. Now i’m just left with sleep…which is still somewhere to go, i guess.” -Wild Bob

-wild bob---who would voluntarily go to the corner of 3rd and main twice a day for 14 years to help the children at the one el-ementary school in town make sure they got across the street safely. He was called a traffic guard. His 34 year old daughter, Kaye, found that quote in a notebook ly-ing in a desk drawer next to his bed when she was cleaning out and going through his belongings the day after he was hit and killed by a car.

“See….i’m one of these dreamers who ran out of shit to dream about. Now i’m just left with sleep…which is still somewhere to go, i guess.” -Wild Bob

--The child he was walking across the street lived. He died. The lady who did it was on a cell phone and in a rush. She said she was sorry. Kaye didn’t understand. She was sorry too.

No…I like notebooks and pens in bars with beers and women and laugh-ter and tears…oh, the fucking humanity.

That’s what I’m interested in…the human condition... when I used to do a bunch of speed and sleep once a week, I got a hold of a camera and access to a darkroom and decided to become a photographer. This only lasted for about a month or two. I was so inspired for that period of time. It was actually longer than a month and I wasn’t high the whole time…but how these pas-sions come and go….it kinda makes me sad….but anyway, I always tried to get pictures of shit as it was…as it would be found if someone were to walk upon it, see it and tiptoe—you know, in its own environment…that’s what I wanted to take pictures of, so I went out and looked for pictures to take….same thing with writ-ing I guess…I want to write about human-ity…about the human condition…..so I go to humanity’s temple…and I tip-toe…... She walked into the dark shithole of a bar that I like to call my home. Not actually my home…probably something more like my daily bread to cover up these insecurities and feelings of inadequacy that have somehow developed over the years. I’m not really sure where t hey came from…a lot of places I guess. These things don’t just happen…well, many things do just “happen” I guess…if they do….this is definitely not one of them. Now, I don’t want t confuse you, I’m not Mr. doom or anything like that….if you encountered me on one of those evenings, I doubt you would have any idea about my condi-tion or the uncertainty that lives- feasting on every move and decision I make. But that’s probably got a lot to do with why I’m here. Sometimes I see people I know and sometimes I don’t. Most of the people I talk with are old drunks. I like talking with old drunks, for the most part. I like knowing about their lives and the days they’ve seen pass by. I like hearing stories that are completely unbelievable. Unbe-

lievable to the point that I’m more enter-tained by the outrageousness of someone actually thinking that others believe it than the story itself. Then I like another drunk chiming in and saying something about how he remembers when that happened. I like knowing them by name, and knowing the name of the kid that hasn’t been heard from in 12 years. I like knowing it hurts him and I like knowing it because he said so. I like knowing people still hurt. I like knowing that some people still say so. But there she was… walking into this smoke filled shoebox of a room where the skeletons that reside in your closet come on their days off. Where some laugh and some cry and some sing and some dance – where some play games with balls and sticks and some play games with dominos or cards. Where some pass time and some make pastimes. Where some are drink-ing to remember and some are drinking to forget. Where the music either makes you happy or mad…but it always makes you something—it’s so damn loud… I can’t hear myself think. I think I like that too. Well, she hasn’t left yet, this girl- and that’s a good thing. Shit…and now she’s coming this way. I can’t help but feel like I might just like to look at her from a safe distance for a bit. Kind of soak her in without having to deal with the anxiety of actually engaging in conversation with her. I also don’t like the very real concern that once her mouth opens she will continue to become uglier and uglier until I don’t want to be near her anymore. I’d rather just not take that chance. It can be very depressing. She’s dark…dark hair….dark eyes. Black eyes….i never really liked that until now. She was 28, I soon found out. She had a 3-year-old daughter. The fa-ther hit her sometimes. He would be 34, but he’s dead. She made it a point to say that she would have been divorced if he hadn’t gotten himself shot first. She was

probably lying. But I didn’t know any of these things yet. All I knew at this point was that for the first time I was mesmer-ized by big black eyes. We would never speak though. Everything I was to find out about this dark-haired beauty would be third hand through the bartender. When she would leave in 28 minutes and 12 sec-onds, I would never see her again. She was about my mom’s age…the bartender I mean. That would be 54, give or take two years. She had a keen sense of shit going down right before it would happen. I guess that’s something that’s developed over 31 years of serv-ing people their daily dose of “save me from myself” and “tonight I’m actually gonna talk to her,” in other incarnations of smoke-holes like this. I can’t help but think about my mom working as hard as this lady does and has….my mom has worked her ass off—don’t get me wrong by any means….it’s just a different kind of work. Time tends to treat you a bit dif-ferently. “You like that?” the whiskey soaked-breath furnace sitting next to me forced heat to smack the side of my face. I turned to frank. I nodded in a silent affir-mation that says everything to him through his drunken assumption without me hav-ing to put forth any effort as I sank back into the barstool birthplace of my nothing scribbles upon a bar napkin. “I think I just fell in love,” he growled- spitting on me a little. “I think I just fell in love….” For some reason that me sad. Just a tired-kind of sad. Not a big deal. It hap-pens sometimes. I read an interesting thing in a book today. I pulled out a pen and under-lined it. One character says something to the other about her cynicism being merely a developed sense of reality... That made me sad too.

Docial Sistortion

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by Joseph Small

How do I even begin to ex-plain my position at this very moment to you dear reader of my deepest dark-est thoughts? Right now I am having a murder fantasy play out in my head. The victim? The thirty something woman standing here trying to explain to me how I should do my job while her kids run around like maniacs. What I would love to say right now minus an immense amount of expletives is “You are the most hypocritical person I have ever met. Do you seriously expect me to sit here and listen to you lecture me about salesmanship and customer service while your children, the children you created and brought in to this world, the children who have half your DNA, act like the solitary confinement ward at the state prison? Seriously? Are you kidding me right now?” But what I say with the most ironic sincerity I can muster is “I apolo-gize for any inconvenience this may have caused you? How can I help to rec-tify this situation?” Her reply to those two fabulous-ly worded sentences are as follows “You can start by exchanging my T.V. for an upgraded version and then you can fin-ish by adjusting the price to match what I paid before.” At this point, I typically call my manager to deal with the angry customer of the hour’s complaints. However, it is in my best interest, and this is strictly out of concern for my own mental well-being, to get even with this fetid tartuffe bitch of a woman. So I politely tell her “Ma’am if you will excuse me for a moment I am going to go converse with my manager about your position and I will be back to tell you whether or not we will be able to fulfill your wishes.” I can see it in her eyes that she is going to object the whole entire time I am speaking, so as I utter the final words I pivot and walk away as fast as I can. I make a b-line to the nearest employee’s

only door and head to the break room behind it. I have been working in retail since I was sixteen. I am now currently twenty years of age, too young to get over my woes with a stiff drink and too old to be a regular sales associate work-ing minimum wage. Why have I not made supervisor or manager yet? Oh yea, that’s right, I have not decided to as my boss says “Stand out” which translated means “come on to him on a regular basis.” It’s true, I am a bad employee for that, but what can I say, I cannot help it that I am not attracted to middle aged men with sixty plus pounds of cushion around the middle and a half head of hair. And I know I am not in the norm of America for those preferences but what can I say I am just weird twisted and sick for enjoy-ing people who are intelligent enough not to settle for slightly better than minimum wage after they hit the age of thirty-five. Now I understand that I may be zealous in my discontented state but to-day is one of those days when therapy is definitely a must. Too bad this hellhole does not offer premium insurance. In fact I believe this is the very reason they do not. Their employees would take them to the bank with the amount of therapy and medication needed to get over the con-stant and emotionally arduous strain of working here. This is my life though. Cur-rently I reside in Texas, which is one of the twenty-two right to work states. The south holds the most and personally right to work states are very much slave states. Basically, for the privileged Amer-icans that do not know this, if you live in a right to work state there are no unions, you are allowed to be fired at anytime for any reason, you are not guaranteed ben-efits and your boss is not required to give you secure wages, hours or benefits. So here in lies today’s dilemma Do I quit this god-forsaken job or do I get even?

I Hate RetailBy Mary Wienke

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