Flarfing 129 Ways to Get a Husband

Getting married-don't keep it a secret!

When traveling, Learn to paint.

On a plane, train or bus

largely run by women, learn several funny

stories and make a lot of money.

Don't be afraid

to associate fishing tackle

at a sporting goods store

with a girl who is a sad sack,

and let her pull you down to her level.

Set up an easel outside

the engineering school.

Chances are good

he'll come over to find out what's wrong.

Wear a Band-Aid. People always ask

what happened. Tell your friends

you are interested in being friendly to ugly men-

handsome is a hatbox overseas.

Have your father cry softly

in a convention bureau from time

to time. Tell him the same story

more than attractive girls.

Don't take a job at a company,

Get a job with the wild kid next door,

they may have some leftovers.

forget discretion every once in a while,

get lost at jury duty, walk into a room

he is in, and volunteer to be nice to everyone.

from 129 Ways to Get a Husband 

Bot Love a.k.a. Digital Stimulation (Originally appeared in The Legendary in July 2018)

Interior: the blank void where there once was Craig's List personal ads

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Blog Poetry Revisited

Letter to Becky G

(Partially by Trillion.b715_)

   I need the gym for music. I need recovery. I want to open a new gym, call it: Trillion the G-MAN's Workout Shop, Built-in Pool. For Money. I want to become a positive celebrity. Enjoy the pool and land weights, then back to the pool. I really want to own. Work out. Get my right leg back and a hip.

   You're a good luck woman, someone to fall in love with for real. We'll love in the same bedroom together, just like the beautiful islands, beautiful sandy environments, waves, rolling under your feet, fresh ocean water. Get my abs back. Get my push ups. Get a body champ. I want a mom who knows the weights.

  I take an excavator bucket made out of iron and teeth. I gig through, put in a new pool. Mom and family land. I dig it myself. Make our own food. We eat five meals of fish. Raise children into respectful adults. Be their own. We meet up. COntinue enjoying the new music. Get a job, to go along with the gym. Get a new Mercedez with dub spinners. Have a pool for it.

   Have a list of stretches. Learn about energy drinks. Get better. Leave those crutches alone. Get my mobility back. Mix with martial arts. Get back in shape for the new rap music put out there. Buy a Polaris Slingshot. Compare auto-cycles. Leave my driveable RV. 

   Did you hear about my plan? Miami. Italy. Nieman Marcus. New Espo hat, new designs, new bow-tie. New Gucci. Whole collections of hightop buckle. Low top too. Duffel bags of leather. I made it for my gym and my job, but also for you. Write back to me. Make me a happy man who is athletic. My malpractice lawsuit check will come, and we can make a trip. In the water, you'll see I'm a man who deserves a pool.

Ball Lightning 

(Partially by DANAE 123)

I HAVE SEEN BALL LIGHTNING

MY MOTHER WAS THERE

ON THE PHONE

AND THERE WAS A LOUD BANG

(THERE WAS A SMALL STORM)

AT THE TIME I WAS SMALL

I WAS PRETENDING SOME

OF MY ROCKS WERE ARMY GUYS

WHO HAD DIFFERENT BACKGROUNDS

THREE DAYS HAD PASSED

SINCE THEY LEFT THE CHECKPOINT

ONE GUY EVEN HAD A KNIFE

IN HIS HEAD HE KEPT FIGHTING

HE WAS ACTUALLY BETTER

AT FIGHTING NOW BECAUSE

HE WAS PART WEAPON

THERE WAS A LOUD HISS

ON THE PHONE MY MOTHER WAS

HOLDING IN THE OTHER ROOM

AND MY MOTHER YELPED

AND PULLED IT AWAY REAL FAST

IT APPEARED TO EMERGE

FROM THE SPEAKER END

AS A FUZZY ORANGE MOVER

I'D CALL A SPARKLER KIND

OF BALL-SHAPED FLASH

THAT ROLLED AND BOUNCED

TO THE WALL AND LEFT A SCORCH

MARK SMALL LIKE THE STORM

MY MOTHER'S EAR WAS SLIGHTLY

BURNED ON THE TOP

AND THE SKIN SLOUGHED OFF

I REMEMBER SHE WAS ILL

SOME AFTER NOT TOO SERIOUS,

BUT I THINK SHE VOMITED

IT WAS VERY QUICK

A FEW SECONDS OR SO

AND IT WAS GONE I WONDER

IF THAT'S WHAT MADE HER

DIFFERENT BECAUSE WE WERE ALONE

FOR A WHILE PEOPLE

CHANGE THEY GET FILLED

UP WITH A DISASTER LIKE THAT

A LADY FARMER HAD TO

FLEE THE PRESS SHE GOT

HIT BY A SMALL METEOR

MY MOTHER WAS MORE LONELY

THE SMALL SCORCH WOULDN'T

CLEAN OFF WHEN I WALKED

BY I'D PRESS MY TONGUE UP TO

THE SPIRAL ON MY MOUTH'S ROOF
AND REMEMBER BUT WE NEVER SAW
BALL LIGHTNING AGAIN

10 Ways Airports Are Secretly Manipulating You

When you visit the airport for travel, it's easy to feel like you're in charge: you decided to go somewhere, you're probably the one moving your body, and you can make your own choices about how you'll spend your time while you're visiting. However, this feeling of autonomy is not completely correct, as nearly every aspect of airports is actually designed to manage your actions in a predictable way. The A.I. that writes our travel blog has compiled a list of the common design tricks airports use to influence unwitting travelers, so the next time you're in an airport you can have a better sense of how you're being influenced by clever commercial design.

1. Stairs: Some airports have areas where moving visitors can cross between vertical levels through a rising pathway made up of many graduated smaller floors. These jagged ramps allow arm-free travel in an upward or downward direction, and the electronic version even does all of the moving for you! Just remember to take a moment before using stairs to consider if you need to be in a different place, and if stairs are the best way to get there. Stairs are built on purpose, to move people vertically, which is not necessarily your goal.

2. Chairs: By offering a simple way to focus your weight onto your ass, these comfortable objects greatly effect the places people choose to sit. Chairs can also hold bags, feet, even trash. While would be convenient to have these essential objects in a thick scatter across all areas, airports have learned over time to put chairs in groups near things they want you to use, like food and gates. You may have also noticed chairs are strategically placed to the side of where people walk.

3. Windows: When you can see outside of the airport while personally remaining inside, you're probably looking through one of these devices (though you may not even realize it!). Translucent panels that provide visual information, windows are often mistaken for computers, but are in reality holes in walls that allow observers to see the world. While it's commonly thought by the unobservant that airports are full of windows by accident, these visual portals are actually arranged in a purposeful way by the planners of the building to control what outside is visible, while concealing the temperature of weather and the feel of its air. Remember, when you're looking through a window, someone wanted you to look there.

4. Phones: There in your pocket, I mean hand, that's what you like to use! A phone? If you have one, I bet you've taken it to the airport. Airports like to use phones to make you docile and bored, even though you probably would be anyway. Phones also make people think they're safe, as if they could text their way out of a flaming jet diving towards oblivion. Smart travelers will complain about using their phones too much, and make sure the phones are fully charged before they go to the airport.

5. Lines: Ever wondered why there's a person up ahead with their back to you, preventing you from moving forward quickly? You may be in a line, a common business trick at airports that keeps travelers from getting what they want through a common practice called waiting. Lines also encourage meaninglessness and the collapse of individual will. It's common to find yourself wishing you could have what you wanted, but try to remember, that stranger blocking you is probably blocked by their own person using the line in front of them! Lines are a constant hazard to the airport traveler, and it's easy to find yourself behind a mannequin or following someone home. That's when a smart traveler knows they've lost.

6. Bathrooms: Visitors to the airport often notice that most of the pooping and peeing gets done in a concentrated area. That's because airports have installed hotspots for voiding waste from the human body. These concentrated expulsion zones have greatly reduced death and disease, and provide visitors with another place to stare at their phones. By putting up signs with pictures of people, travelers are often divided into two categories for these centralized disposal rooms: persons shaped like a triangle, and persons who are not.

7. Time: When you got your ticket, you may have noticed some numbers on it. Some of those numbers demarcate a point during the day or night when a captain is willing to take you on their plane. How do you know you'll be there to get on the plane? You don't! Most travelers try to guarantee their presence at the right point of this ongoing dimension of experience by calling their nephew, yelling at strangers, or setting their clocks to the same number as the computer.

8. Class: You may notice at some point that there are different experiences you can have at the airport. Different passengers end up in different lines and seats than others, and some of those lines and seats are definitely the better ones. This is a reflection of an organizing system called class, which is used to understand wealth. Class is a great way to consolidate comforts and privileges for a smaller group of people than everybody. In order to take advantage of class, you may want to study economics so you can figure out which class you belong to. After that, it's important to find out who your enemies are, and battle them.

9. Nation-States: Did you know war has been illegal since 1928? This was decided by institutions called countries, through which powerful aliens in disguise coerce masses of people into pretending to follow rules. While you may not have been aware of these vast entities, it is almost guaranteed one of them has claimed you, and probably wants some money in the mail. This might explain why you get calls from strangers, why some food is weird, or why you've been having trouble getting to a particular airport.

10. Ego: Many airport visitors carry around ideas of free will, and consider themselves to be selecting a route through the choices they make. Many travelers think they are in control, but if you pay attention, it's clear this is not so. Most of our outcomes have been decided based on our location, upbringing, and what year it is. Only an ambitious few can transcend the traps and lures of the common path, and rise above to truly decide their own destiny. If you think you're strong enough, break free from this cage of mediocrity and join us... in the real world!

The Purge 7: The Terror of Paw-Paw

     The last bottle of the night is brashly opened, and somehow Paw-Paw and I are the only ones left to finish it off in the kitchen of his cozy home. It's the old man's 91^st birthday, and the whole family has gone home or to sleep after a surprisingly raucous event. I am full of a love and admiration for my family's commanding patriarch, who I've never seen so brazenly happy and drunk. Paw-Paw is known for his harsh reserve, but tonight he showed a loving openness that surprised everyone, probably my father most of all. Paw-Paw even shared a few stories, revealing new glimpses of the man so famously austere that it's long been a family joke. Impressed with this new side of him, and fortified with a night of heavy consumption, I finally ask him about the part of his life that has always been a mystery. “Paw-Paw,” I say:“What was it like, escaping the revolution? How did you make it out alive?” He doesn't push the question away. Instead, he seems to take a long, sorrowful gaze into the past, and then speaks in a low, trembling voice, allowing himself to return to that faraway land, reliving the events that changed his life forever.

     “It was heavy vendetta season and all the internet teenagers had unboxed their grudges. An intersectional signal came down through secret astrology channels one grim black history month, and the Second Civil War began overnight like an infidel Christmas. Antifa super-soldiers hopped up on hormone therapy went door-to-door distributing male birth control and zines full of mean illustrations of police. The sky glowed like a bell hooks young adult novel about natural hair as male bathrooms were neutralized and white nationalists were forced to invest in public education. The welfare hegemony invaded every household, decimating our prisoner population down to North Korean levels and bankrupting the mom-and-pop payday loan industry. Afro-futurist neo-soul oozed out of music-sharing apps for an army of voluntary eunuchs who combed rural areas, annulling marriages and confiscating dip tobacco. Eager terrorists streamed through open borders and flooded the restaurant industry, driving hot dog shops and ranch dressing factories into the sea. Planned Parenthood militias dripping in almond milk verbally forced people to correct their pronouns and bargain with unions. Newly treated drug addicts and veterans with mental health issues roamed public housing lucidly, openly discussing reparations for slavery and voting rights for U.S. territories.

     In the stunned days of the after-shock, a new cultural ministry oversaw the dissolution of valuable internet debate that had previously bloomed in YouTube comment sections and multiplayer online games. Judges were replaced by legalized sex workers who banned abstinence-only education and punished the senders of unsolicited dick pics with mandatory Gender Studies degrees. Our mass surveillance system was converted overnight into a voluntary live-cam network of ethical porn.

     The history books were scrubbed clean of white contributions to Southern cooking and hip hop, and a new national anthem was introduced: a mashup of smug Rachel Maddow slam poetry to a chorus of overly-supportive drag show toasting. Petroleum languished in abandonment underneath animal sanctuaries and our fast food infrastructure was mowed down to make way for a national public transit system. The market was chained to feelings and sci-fi novels were mandated to involve themes of nature conservation and diversity. Children of the rich could no longer inherit more than a million dollars apiece.

     I was one of the legion of sad, under-appreciated men driven savagely into therapy and listening skills reeducation camps by a cabal of spontaneous street-theater agitators. We were held in a massive earthship biotecture facility and served vegan meals and homemade tinctures. I saw my friends and neighbors lined up against symbolic walls and made to repeat 'climate change is man-made' before being shot full of vaccines and de-gentrifying agents. At night, trembling in our hammocks, we could hear the rustle of giant homemade puppets labeled with obvious, overwrought metaphors. Each day sex nerds with anime hair and pretentious glasses reviewed the facility to select prisoners of war for their polycules.

     I escaped during an engrossing indigenous history lecture and fled into the foothills, my gender identity barely intact and a few meager possessions wrapped in a Confederate flag. I was fortunate enough to find a small border village with a Catholic church, and they put me in touch with allies that still existed for people like me. The church had access to an old system of escape routes they had established in the 1940's, through which I was smuggled into South America and granted asylum in compliance with international law. Eventually I immigrated here and met your Mee-Maw. But that's another story. For now, just know I thank God every day for being able to escape that hell and make a new life.”

     I still think of my Paw-Paw's story when I have to work an extra triple shift as an enforcer in the uranium mines or donate more bone marrow to the children of the God-King . When I see my fellow countrymen suggest institutional robbery of our most important castes, or insult our economic system with senseless controls, I wonder if they've lost sight of history. When agitators call eating a “right” or ask about punishing sodomy with a penalty weaker than death, I wonder if they have any idea what it's really like to live in the less fortunate parts of the world. This country may not be perfect, but it gives us innumerable freedoms which we seem to take for granted without a second thought. We must never lose track of the fragility of liberty we hold so dear, or how quickly a state can turn rotten and deranged. I know my Paw-Paw never did.

The Daily Caller's Guide to Cool Movies

The following films have been celebrated in the dorm rooms and bachelor pads of many future maverick freethinkers, and continue to inspire and entertain successful, dominant men as P.C. culture and soy milk destroy all valuable art. Almost every one is a must-see for a man who believes in justice for Benghazi and that he could have personally killed Osama Bin Laden better.

1. Taxi Driver: A man struggles in a world where veterans are disrespected and women don't know what they want. Our hero disregards these setbacks, trains at killing, gets bulked up, and takes a solid crack at cleaning up the human trash he sees around him, earning him the admiration of women and society in general.
2. Scarface: A refugee fleeing the nightmare of communism fights to make a place in the world and protect his family, which is ultimately ruined because he cares too much about the women in his life. In the end he is sadly tricked by foreigners who want his job and kill him when his guard is down. The Second Amendment is unable to save him, but he does still get to shoot a big gun a lot of times.
3. A Clockwork Orange: A rad guy named Alix with a no-fucks-given attitude and an actual appreciation for Western arts and culture lives an exciting life with his friends doing whatever they want and resisting control of the nanny-state. The authorities eventually capture Alix and try to reeducate him with some bleeding-heart empathy brainwashing and make him into a weakling. As a weakling, he is easily bullied by cops and the rich, and death is the only answer.
4. American Psycho: A hilarious, charismatic boss with an incisive view of society teaches us how to be awesome and lordly. Patrick Bateman does whatever he wants, and refuses to take shit from women and poor people. Learn how to make the world your playground with the powerful workout and skin care routines of a corporate champion. A warning: in the end, all the cool stuff Bateman has done turns out to be a dream or something, and that he's just a wannabe living in a fantasy world, which doesn't seem right.
5. Fight Club: A sniveling beta learns to become an alpha male through physical combat and by starting several small businesses that help empower sad men and address the crisis of masculinity. As usual, some woman is there to mess things up, and the storyline gets lame by trying to explain away all the cool stuff that happened, claiming it was all a fantasy in the main guy's head. Why do movies do that?
6. Fear and Loathing: A funny, trippy movie for you more artsy types, this is a biting satire of the groovy left that became emboldened in the sixties. An aging burnout takes truckloads of drugs and hallucinates a false reality as he pretends to be an writer. This out-of-touch liberal wanders around Las Vegas contemplating the stupidity of the hippy generation and ends up nowhere.
7. Armageddon: Weak foreigners and our own useless federal government are unable to deal with a looming threat to the world, so the nanny state is forced to turn to good old blue-collar private sector workers in the awesome oil industry to get 'r done. Angry dad Harry Stamper ultimately kills himself rather than see his daughter marry some sissy-boy.
8. Boon Dock Saints: Basically the perfect movie, this grand adventure is filled with manly Irish pride, a refutation of all things P.C., and an adrenalin-filled illustration of why you need a good guy with a gun to stop to stop a bad guy with a gun. That dude from the Walking Dead and another badass white dude with culture and violence skills star in this immensely satisfying vigilante tale. Along the way, the boys buy guns from the IRA, and fight Russians on St. Patrick's Day. They start off as two normal guys, but decide to become serious gangsters and it all works out. This movie also shows that homosexuals can be cool cops and call other homosexuals “fag” and it's funny.
9. Wolf of Wall Street: A man proves that you can pull yourself up by your own bootstraps if you try hard and learn to be charismatic, and understand how business works. The protagonist makes crazy money, does awesome drugs, and gets to bang Margot Robbie. They try to discredit him in the end, but at least acknowledge that a true man like that can't be held down. Cool fact, this film was even funded by money that smart business-types funneled out of a Malaysian charity fund.
10. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas: Dr. Seuss had penned this awesome revenge plot of a singular strong man who takes revenge upon a collectivized society of virtue-signalers, but left it unfinished when he died. The story was finished by his wife who (surprise surprise!) makes the Grinch soften into a grade “A” pussy who redistributes his wealth in a sickening metaphor for the welfare state.

The 10 Best Fireworks I've Created

1. Jubilee Jimmies- Four cresting showers of blinky spectrum dust, rippled with candy clouds of sunset vermilion for a rosy finish.
2. The Grippled Guzzler-An ionized fountain of indigo streamers that introduce three orchid-pops of golden sparks and culminate in a phlox-colored brocade of spectral bees.
3. The Rusty Torch-Crickets and raver smoke to start, then a continuing stream of moonbursts and a colliding finale of zooming crackleshot.
4. That Handsome Lyre-A gallant commencement of twin solenoid antennae that usher further spangles into a glittering, zithery helix.
5. Hopscotch Nightmare-A cannonade of arduous baps opens the field for blooming tracelets that scan a pathway of skidder dots, and culminate in three glittering foxfire willows.
6. The Handy Dandelion-Eight pops of sandy crackers and an orange wisp of elastic haze precede sociable ball lightening and a twittering barrage of Sunkist polyhedral nets.
7. Clown Escape-A fat nightshade of marsh gas fluff that putters up into a flume of wizard-breath.
8. The Mystical Thistle Missile-A scoping rocket of violent radium tassels traces a turning threat into an empyrean ring shell and a rising tail of parabolas.
9. Blind Man's Backgammon-A ghost-face of silver rivulets that cross a sullen field in slashes of rolled stars.
10. A Haunted Radio-Auburn trunks of platonic gasses continue to a choir of friar's lanterns, a tri-burst of whimsical peridots, and a neon-cinnamon finale.

How To Be a Writer in Any Time

Dear Reader,

     I wish I could have been a writer in a past era. I feel like for a while writing actually mattered and everyone knew who all the big talents were and any piece of paper with writing on it counted as money. You could travel around the world and if you said you were a writer, people would let you sleep in their barn and name their animals, and if you killed their priest, you became the new priest! Even if literacy wasn't your thing, folks in the bygone days at least used to pretend to read in public; it's a great way to avoid socializing with others while still peeking at them like a creep.

     These days writing is just coming up with good headlines for people to skim while they pretend to do research for an internet argument. Today people hate words, and they only want to dryly smile at pictures of celebrities re-purposed as depression memes. Even pooping, a built-in reading period for people, is now just a time to get more germs on your phone.

     In our era it's harder to do anything, so I've been feeling hopeless and reading up on my ancestors, who were mostly famous writers. I even found some personal histories and advice these writers had left for the benefit of future generations. I decided to spare you all their fancy word construction and break it down into easy step-by-step formulas for achieving literary success. Hopefully these steps will give you some perspective on the art of writing throughout the ages and show you how simple it used to be.

Primordial Ooze Era:

1. Emerge.
2. Feed.
3. Turn into a new color.
4. Replicate.

Caveman Era:

1. Dream of a new understanding that speaks through you.
2. Draw a symbol that illuminates a hidden flower of the mind.
3. Record the symbol in a place of magic and timelessness.
4. Die, content and whole, with a whisper for the eons.

Bronze Age:

1. Get born into the aristocratic class and show confidence in counting and animal sacrifice.
2. Spend your days agreeing with the king and pressing a stamp into bricks of clay so he knows the numbers of sheep and grain and bricks of clay he possesses.
3. Preserve a traveling legend by continuing an oral tradition through generations until writing gets more developed.
4. Bore future schoolchildren.
5. Get portrayed in a big dumb movie by someone with breathtaking abs.

Ancient Greece:

1. Live in a giant sea shell in the market square and yell at merchants about reality.
2. Found a school that studies a particle you invented.
3. Travel to Egypt to steal their coolest ideas.
4. Donate a ragged treatise carved on goatskin to the library of Alexandria, to be lost forever.
5. Float around Wikipedia as a name with almost no info attached.

Medieval Times:

1. Receive a boon of education from the church.
2. Trace an idea in your mind for twenty years as you labor ceaselessly at a harsh craft.
3. Pine for an unreachable love.
4. Get banished.
5. Send a beautiful letter to a rich person.

The Renaissance:

1. Find a mad patron dying of gout.
2. Make up how logic works.
3. Fuck with alchemy.
4. Somehow advance Western thought for the betterment of humanity.

Colonial Era:

1. Go somewhere subjected for your approval.
2. Throw yourself into an abyss of drugs and disease.
3. Collect a dazzling and misunderstood folk tale.
4. Buckle up the swashes and add a heaving bosom or two.
5. Throw some Christianity in there.
6. Find the most racist illustrator available.

World War 1:

1. Study agonizingly boring texts while the schoolmaster hits you.

2. Discover sex through a hideous cartoon manual for men and start repressing.
3. Run off to join the jolly old war.
4. Discover war is bad, and write home to tell them the news.
5. Sell long-form rhyming poetry about atrocity during a world-wide economic depression.
6. Become a schoolmaster and hit children when they remind you of your war friends.

Modern Era:

1. Be cruel to a woman; push her until she breaks.
2. Throw yourself into an abyss of drugs and sports.
3. Write about the disagreement with the woman, but make yourself a soldier or a doctor or something.
4. Publish the story to acquire wealth and new women.
5. Kill yourself.

Post-Modern Era:

1. Find a fiery, self-aggrandizing group of artistic riff-raff.
2. Pick a cool name together and reject all other human knowledge.
3. Use the media to spit in society's face and receive massive critical acclaim.
4. Decide you're apolitical, or secretly embrace fascism.
5. Still alive? Retire to exotic locale and claim everything was your idea.

The Present:

1. Feed sad people lies about their suffering, and say mean things on the internet to the celebrities of the opposition.
2. Get the call-up for some mostly symbolic government position and look the other way while terrible things happen.
3. Write a book on how you were right about everything.
4. Get a podcast so you can sell t-shirts and mugs promoting inside jokes.

Future Era:

1. Leave hidden resistance communiques as you flee fascist robo-soldiers.
2. Invent a spray paint can that melts enemies' faces off when you graffiti them.
3. Travel back in time to rehash 2016 yet again.
4. Make positive hip-hop in an underground city of anarchist cyborgs.

     Keep in mind that if you are able to time-travel into any of these parts of the past and follow the easy steps, they still might not work for you. I can only provide a general illustration of what I remember these guys probably said. Keep in mind my whole family has always been rich, white, landowning males (even before race and land ownership were made up), and this possibly could have helped in our achievements. Please remember that literary success is measured in a variety of ways, most significantly that after you are dead, people who seem smart say that you were special.

Dating Site Excerpt

Likes/Dislikes:

     Like with most people, texture is important to me. I don't think that it's unreasonable to have preferences about what kind of material you want to interact with in your life. I want to be transparent about who I am so potential suitors can know what to avoid messing around with if they want to be in my life.

      I can't even look at cardboard. I get this reflexive shudder that tingles through the roots of my feeling, a prairie wind shivering through my brain's discomfort center. I feel phantom rakes of cardboard passing in the softness between my fingers and toes with a rough crackle, or sawing the backs of my knees. Imagine gnawing on a crispy Styrofoam cup and trying to grind up that squelching, rubbery mass with squeaky teeth. Picture etching on a thick window with a metal strut, and the sound it would make. I can feel the chirping friction moving through me like electric blood. My brains taste the barking seal whimper of someone slipping in a bathtub, that sound of rubbery flesh squawking against unyielding vinyl: it's like a slurp of rotten juice right after a minty tooth-brushing. Even describing it to you now makes all my skin clench and thrill in horripulation like a shocking change of temperature or an impending bowel movement. I recently saw just the words “dry rub” on a spice packet and was enveloped in a sensory field of chaffing, crunchy waves of texture: a hell-spa on a beach of blasted asbestos where someone rubs packing peanuts against a crumbling brick wall with an itchy hand, where powdery, flaking lips brush a sun-bleached shell and splintered fingernails scrape a desiccated scab, where a dehydrated sponge rasps dead skin off a crumbling forehead. Sundered in this sea of violent texture, I am reduced to a twitching nerve ending, a screaming chalkboard in the night.

     There's food stuff, too. It's the chomping. That Bugs Bunny gristly bite like two glaciers battling in my skull. Why even make food crunchy? The hollow, frictional ca-chunka of some horse-mouthed pervert burying his fangs in crispy matter is like a clawed hand tickling my balls from the inside or a cold tooth hitting hot soup. It's like a hot blast of a strange animal's breath into all your breathing holes or hearing part of your own body snap. You ever see your dad crush a bloated roach with a flip flop in '93? Don't wonder why I'm unable unable to eat hash brown patties or pretzels or croquettes or stroopwaffles or felafel or rice krispee treats. How do you tromp through this tactile discord, oblivious and unbothered? Why not just see what your fingernails feel like bent totally backwards or how far you can push a chive up into your head through your nasal cavity? Why not bite a fork or try or touch your eyeball with a toothpick?

     Some people just have these things. It's not all the cute synesthesic playground of these happy-go-lucky ASMR sensationalists tingling away to the radio or some rolling co-eds experiencing a whispery futurist playing with rain-sticks or farofluid in a darkened gallery. I know a guy who gets mad whenever he hears a harmonica and another who would throw up if you said “wet cheese” to him. I've read about an heiress who sneezed at the sight of butterscotch color and an uncle who soiled himself whenever he smelled burning rubber.

     So keep the TV on loud, slurp your coffee, protest deodorant, just don't open a package around me. Keep your skin properly lubricated and don't drag things or work with wood. Watch your fingernails. Machines should stay oiled and alone. Cereal should be left to sog. Velcro is unnecessary. Animals can work out on materials away from the house. You are better off not scratching yourself anyway. Rust should not be permitted. Carpet is lovely; why leave a floor naked? This is not a thing that does it for me. Why do people think if you hate something enough it must be the key to getting your rocks off? Do you think drowning, or headcheese, or war is sexy? You probably do. Well I'm not like that. A wet friction is fine. I don't want you to bring sandpaper or borax into the bedroom. I've got claws of my own and I don't need any dried animal bones or bow drills in my life. I have in fact tried meditation and medication, but you know what? There's a dryness that cannot be tamed, and I don't plan on spending my time burning in the fires of my disgust. I want to live my life with proper texture, not screaming frisson dancing along my tightening flesh.

     I'm also not really a dog guy.

Hangover Tinctures

In honor of Jazz Fest season and the tincture sister who created this ancient blog, V.R. Has compiled a short list of local remedies for party casualties struggling with the morning after an odyssey of bad decisions. Consume at your own risk.

The Gilded Age Glider 

(A.K.A. Garfield's Patent Medicine Death Fluid)

This tincture was first popularized over a century ago as the formula forced into dying President Garfield as he succumbed to his assassination over a period of weeks. This recipe has been used as a old wives' remedy in New Orleans for generations for prone, unresponsive people who might be dying or sick.

➤On an industrious day free of dust storms and cholera, combine beef bouillon, eggs, laudanum, rustic lye, pickled pig lips and Worcestershire sauce in a trough and mix with a scythe of a seventh son. Administer as an enema. Will not prevent death.

Solo Juice 

(A.K.A. Burnout Levee Libation)

Recovered from a U.F.O. abduction site on local festival grounds, this tincture is good trip fuel and works as a charm of protection for a lonely fest-goer who has ended up on their own mission in the ghostly morning.

➤Take a thermos of fermented tea and shake in ground maca-maca, sorghum, guarana, and qat leaves with an old chopstick. In a sweaty backpack, put the thermos next to a chillum of dry, inexpensive weed and a box of cold fried chicken and wander down to the Mississippi at the bottom of the Quarter. Experience the savage eye of the molten sun radiating prehistorical energy, and the cold fluttering windlets off of the river. Sit with a crowd of confused families and meandering drug users and think about what your dad used to feel like, and the limits of language, and what's going on in your stomach.

The Jogger

A healthy, motivated choice for the vacationer who is addicted to destroying their legs and looking weird instead of sleeping.

➤Awake in the steamy pre-dawn and consume two pellets of mycoprotein and a micro-dosed Powerade while listening to your Joe Rogan Investment Strategy audiobook. Put on those toe-shoes and build a luminous sheen of sweat around your reflector gear as you canter through trash and vomit in the dark. Run against traffic, wearing headphones that inoculate you with powerful fitness hip-hop.

Crustlord's Punch 

(A.K.A. The Trainhopper's Wife, or the Oogle Plus)

A favorite of New Orleans' most-hated population of transient neutral ground dwellers, this communal libation provides relief from society and features lingering digestive effects.

➤Wring out a heavily used bar rag into a Styrofoam shell of forgotten french fries. Drink a King Cobra halfway down and refill with a pre-2008 Sparks Stinger and hot kraut juice. Knock over a generic Midwestern beer and put more stickers on your guitar. Try and stop your dog from fighting and serve tincture in a barrel of fire.

No Rest for the Wicked

Created by the sad teens at Cafe Beignet, No Rest For the Wicked is a recent New Orleans tincture based on a folk recipe enjoyed by libertine service workers since the dawn of capitalism.

➤Wake up still drunk after two hours of unconscious drooling and groan on your lurch to work, dry-heaving and expelling phlegm loudly. Ask your coworkers for investment-banker-grade Adderol, 5-Hour Energy, Excedrin plus, a large ice coffee with espresso added, and a bite of something warm out of the oven. Fight through the shift like a dying samurai and serve customers a dried smile of despair. For an extra New Orleans twist, include a family emergency, a rat on the loose, or a customer who needs you to help them have a really special day.

Double Down 

(A.K.A. Stag Party Toughguy)

A stupid cocktail for the morning after you've thoughtlessly mixed dangerous combinations of substances all night and you realize you're invincible and can destroy your body forever.

➤Assimilate DayQuil, clamato, and chocolate wine together in a skull goblet and garnish with salt and a dead cricket. Enjoy with a Smokin Joes Red 100 at a bus station. Sum up your life in a single short sentence and leave a dirty flip-flop on Nicholas Cage's mausoleum.

Doctor's Orders 

(A.K.A. The Expert)

A hangover is a wonderful thing if you have the time and expertise to enjoy it. This local favorite is available to residents and visitors alike, but is best enjoyed in a messy, comfortable home containing the first smells of summer funk.

➤Take a slept-in, miraculous day off and combine with pirated television on the lap top and powerful cannabis, preferably the Deep Cheese or Alaska Thunder Grape strains. Walk around the sunlit apartment naked or at least in your most busted undies. Steal your roommate's LaCroix and combine with a Goya ginger beer and whatever juice dregs live in your fridge. Consider getting breakfast delivered, eating a whole box of cereal, or making a decadent, imperfect frittata. Bonus: if there's someone there you fucked last night, fuck 'em again!