The Untold Story Of The Most Hated Work In Progress

Eleven? Not really. Now what? Here's an excerpt from a novel to forever remain unpublished before it's locked on the shelf and buried in dust.

David And Destiny: Chapter 3

“Come closer,” David whispered, nudging Destiny’s arm gently. The cool air blew against them and shook the leaves on the trees, falling from above, but it was quiet. It was very quiet in the forest. It was pure autumn and the colors were spectacular. Shades of brown and red and orange scattered the muddy ground. The leaves were up to their ankles. A squirrel raced up the incline of the steep hill.

He unzipped her coat with one quick motion, and guided it off her shoulders, one-by-one revealing her ample cleavage underneath her white button-down shirt and white lace bra. She looked down at his massive crotch.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said with a cold stare. “I love you. I want to be with you, but we shouldn’t be doing this.” She leaned in and almost kissed him. Wiping away a lonely leaf from his wavy blonde hair, he grabbed her tight ass and squeezed it hard. It was a sweet ass. She started to smile “Shhh. Pretend it’s just the two of us.” And it was just the two of them; alone with nature in The Enchanted Forest, where they were pressed up against each other, against the uncomfortable bark of a tree refusing to die. He touched her firm breasts. David never touched a girl’s breasts before, unless you count the time he leaned up against his mom in the kitchen and embarrassingly touched her. “There’s nobody around,” he stopped for a second, giggled then moved in. They kissed passionately, then he pulled away with a jolt. But noticing she wanted more, he moved in closer.

His fingers followed along the strap of her revealing white-laced bra and grazed the outside of her breast; then he reached in and grabbed her sweet chest. Awkwardly at first, but soon he was feeling her, breathing heavily and grabbing blindly. “Do you remember when we first met?” She wondered. “You told me that I had the body of Eve before she was ruined by Adam. You told me that I had an Egyptian handmaid's heavenly smile.” She looked at him innocently. A quick nod and he shrugged, as she stared deeper into his piercing blue eyes. David met Destiny at the beginning of summer school, so it had only been over seven weeks. They were getting to know each other in a special way and she thought that they were meant for each other. “It’s like I’ve always known you.” He nodded slightly, rubbing her chest gently and hungrily touching her skin. He softly kissed the tiny freckles below her neck. She took deep breaths and sighed, then he stopped for a moment like he was recreating the Book of Genesis.

“I was high and I told you that I was on a cloud in the sky,” he sniffed, “and everything that I said was true.” He stepped back slightly and then crouched down and unzipped her blue jeans. Lowering his arms, his hands slipped inside her jeans. Her panties were wet. She was tingling with excitement, breathing heavily and excitedly staring at him. They had never experienced true love before and now it was all happening.

“We were meant for each other. We’re perfect together."

“I want you here and now.” He was growing impatient.

“Is this heaven?” She looked up higher and the trees blocked the light. They were under the cover of darkness and she was re-living a fantasy she'd only experienced in her wildest dreams.

“It’s The Enchanted Forest. The closest we’ve come.”

“Fuck me hard,” she moaned. “I want to feel you.”

“It’s about time.” He reached up and grabbed both her wrists and pressed them back against the tree until they were sticky. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his monstrous cock. She gasped. He carefully fitted it inside her and she moaned. There was just stillness in the forest.

“It’s so big.”

“I know.” David was Jewish, but he had never been circumcised. He was one of the biggest boys in ninth grade at Holy Cross, but he was a hidden talent and was still naïve as a boy. Some secrets needed to stay in dark places, like under the shade of the trees in The Enchanted Forest, and not in the classroom. The daytime air was fresh. As he stared at her, the smile on his face grew with confidence. She admired his size. His arm stretched out for her hair and his fingers gripped her streaks of blonde hair. He cupped her breast with the other hand and thrust back and forth with his pelvis, sticking it deeper and deeper inside her. They were half naked, pressed up against the bark of a tree and he was fucking her with a wide grin on his face. There was nobody around, but there could’ve been, and that was all part of the emotional energy and thrilling excitement.

The wind blew softly against parts of their bare flesh. Tall trees surrounded them and there was a trail not very far in the distance, up a steep hill. They'd been to the same spot before, but they had just kissed, nothing more, and they were just friends before. It started getting serious after she smoked weed for the first time with him and his brothers. She actually had a crush on Samuel, but he was too old, and David was the cute younger brother, around her age. She would swear he was right beside her in some of her old baby pictures. She was convinced they were separated at birth and her mom just never told her. They thought the same way, liked the same food and shared the same feelings. They were both skinny and about the same height -- almost six feet -- without a care in the world. It sounded crazy, but it was true. It was almost eleven on a Friday morning, around the same time Mrs. White would’ve been teaching them experiments in science class. Since discovering The Enchanted Forest, they were learning more about biology and chemistry. This was where they were hidden away from talking heads and stupid friends that didn’t really get human nature. The small forest was in the Green Belt, just outside of the city. It was about a forty-minute walk from the hustle and bustle of the village and downtown Holy Cross.

David was not like the other boys. He stuck his tongue out, softly licking across her chest as she leaned back and enjoyed the ride. His warm saliva tickled Destiny. She giggled and nibbled around his neck. They were embracing; her legs were wrapped around him. There was nothing better in his life than Destiny. Penetrating her felt so good. Overdosing on candy and M&M's when he was growing up with his brothers was pretty good at the time, but he could only compare sex to a good buzz from drinking, or his first toke of marijuana. His grin got bigger and bigger, and he felt like he was ready to explode. He had masturbated before, and coming felt good, but this was really good and beyond compare to anything.

Her head was tilted up against the tree, her green eyes bulged and he was close to eruption. His breathing got heavier and heavier, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He pumped her harder and felt the ecstasy inside of her tight pussy and moaned louder. Not wanting to make a mess inside of her, pulled out, and emptied his load on her thigh, it was the relief from staying erect for what seemed like forever in paradise. She lowered her hand, scooped the mess off her blue jeans, and rubbed it against the bark. “What do we do now?” She looked at him intently with loving eyes. She wanted to hug him, but he was already kneeling down and ripping open his muddy backpack. He was wiping away leaves and reaching in.

“Gin and juice.” He pulled out two plastic cups, and a tall bottle of Hendrick’s Gin and smiled at her.

“So good.” She kneeled down beside him as he started pouring for two. “Why do you call this The Enchanted Forest?” She wondered.

“Because enchanted things happen here,” he zipped up the fly on his brown cords and stared at her. “Once I was higher than a kite and talked to a tree for hours. It was magical and I learned a lot from the tree.” She looked a little stunned. “It’s hard to explain,” he said and passed her a red solo cup.

“No, it all makes sense now.”

“Yeah,” he looked up and around at the trees, “it’s beautiful here.”

"Then why do you believe in Goliath?"

On The Shelf 

Treat Me Like A Joke And I'll Leave You Like It's Funny

Whether joking or not, sometimes shit happens and I can't say shit about it. But now, I'm showing my cards to everyone... (and toning it down for the general public). Recent events transpiring made me want to jump as high as the moon, listening to radio at its highest frequency and singing the most intoxicating, foul version of The Dark Side of the Moon when it was over. But I need to start at the beginning. I tightly grasp Naked Lunch with one hand, struggling with plot development, I'm not loving its flatness, but the fine character revelation is something I'm feeling chemistry with. I let go of the book. The buzz fades and it's twisting into a massive headache, as I stand hunched over my suitcase in our room at Hotel Chelsea in historic New York. The epic night of comedy was awesome and there was no time to read. I finish unpacking everything because there wasn't time when we first got to our hotel room two nights ago. Happier than hell after happy hour, I look at the book and then look at my stolen Gotham shot glass. I smile and reflect.

A stream of talented and untalented comedians took the stage at Gotham Comedy Club. One of the comedians was a comedy writer and sucked. My tip to him would be to write a novel people might enjoy reading. Dive deeper than a mixture of Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland and Jack's On The Road. Concoct four climaxes and create a story more exhilarating than sex with a big-titted, tight-assed French prostitute who just landed in Canada after realizing she wanted to save herself and didn't want to lose her virginity in Amsterdam (there's nothing like a prostitute who just passed the immigration process). But it was a good night. I didn't read the night away, but I did learn the process of downing tequila shots at Gotham:

Lick it (salt)

Slam it (tequila)

Suck it (lemon or lime)

There was a wait before the special guest comedian took to the stage. I wasn't praying to Jesus, but I was listening to Kenny Loggins (close enough) when I started ordering a beer. Then the music faded low and I was listening to a beautiful female voice. Juice Newton's Queen of Hearts played and I was swaying my head back and forth and slamming down another bottle of Sam Adams. I needed to keep quiet and keep a low profile and it was almost like my wife needed to wear a Muslim veil to protect her identity. I realized I didn't want to shout the lyrics to "Queen of Hearts" and embarrass myself and draw attention to my Cougars T-shirt. My face turned bright red, but I was confident I wouldn't draw attention to myself. After all, I was nobody and I was still the same nobody looking for nothing in the nothingness of time.

To make a long story short (because I'm not getting paid shit to write this blog), T.J. Miller performed the final act at Gotham Comedy Club, strung out on Manhattan bottled water, he emphasized morality is relative, while I thought time is relative -- and morality just plays a smaller corner piece in the puzzle. I kept my mouth shut and absorbed true comedy realizing I didn't want to be the next Man on the Moon like Andy Kaufman. I wouldn't have to resort to the depths of depravity, because I wasn't starved for attention, and I'd already had a taste of the best of New York (especially after fine dining at Ristorante Rafele and Giovanni Rana Pastificio & Cucina). 

Wait Just A Cotton Pickin' Minute Here

The Function of Reading

Frog Legs -- as you digest my free musing mood, wondering what monstrous scientific experiment is about to be performed next -- stop, read and know time is how you live life through the acute awareness of the here and now. Frog Legs is actually a track from Cakewalk. Reminiscing a recent summer night, sitting back with a margarita in my hand, listening to Voodoo Walters magically fill the air with the sound of blues rhythm, I’m mesmerized again. I want to yell “Play it again,” and rage like a mad Blue Jays fan who doesn’t remember the Yankees dynasty or when I was a weary lover unable to express feelings in prose (and I'm still pretty pissed off about that). I get up and walk away.

WEARY LOVER

Over time I've been

Hiding behind a naked maple tree,

A silly disguise, sliding down 

A steep hill to where it would lie.

Finding it every time without telling a soul,

Hoping you would discover me.

The birds would fly to southern skies

And you behind a branch or two,

So beautiful like a flower that faded before

As I arrange an array of roses,

Flowers in my heart where I silently cry;

The wood ages after years

But still I go looking not wearing my mask.

And I would find this place,

Running after dreams

That I would chase.

Chasing flowers turned into demons in my head, I stop everything. I just fucking stop, wondering, if time is how you live life, then why do I own a useless collection of cheap imported watches. A stop sign. I stop my idle constipated procrastination, looking in all directions before crossing the street, I move my old feet and walk through Kensington Market with a drunken swagger. With a heart of darkness, I'm finding myself deeper in the heart of Toronto. Buzzing about On The Road, it's a hot topic of discussion among sweaty locals. On The Road Again was a hit country song. I would review the book and talk about the Beat Generation, but I want to dig deeper and finish reading Naked Lunch and Mexico City Blues. Naked Lunch is staring in front of me. I open the book and I'm slowly reading. I sober up, but now intoxicating words are dancing in my head. As I order another water, it's so fucking hot and I'm uncomfortable reading about the bastard doctor in the book. I want to read on because the words are like music and medicine. Blues or country or anything with a heartbeat is pretty much on my playlist since I’m motivated to do nothing, other than read or drive on the Q.E.W. and imagine it’s the L.A. Freeway and I’m in the Hollywood of my mind. I would love to sign a book deal, knowing I’m too old to narrate the teen protagonist in Beyond The Blue Kite, I'm wondering if anybody would want to listen to the audiobook.

If We Die... It Will Be For Glory, Not Gold

Beowulf Monster Mash

Hwæt! Wé Gárdena in géardagum þéodcyninga þrym gefrúnon hú ðá æþelingas ellen fremedon. 

"Listen! We -- of the Spear-Danes in the days of yore, of those clan-kings -- heard of their glory." I'm not about to spew lines of Beowulf on you, but those clan-kings have heard about me and legendary radio on WRICH 109.9 FM, WOW 87.7 FM and AM 2200. But now, I wish my novel idea didn’t put me on the throne as the king of Lionheart’s failure. It started out nobly as The Lionheart Sound Network, but then Lionheart Leaks ruined everything. It started out as a bad joke, but there was nothing funny about Prime. 

I feel sorry for co-founding Lionheart Inc.™ and running the company into the ground. It was a mistake to accept responsibility. I tried everything. As a bad president, unqualified to run a network of radio stations, I’m sorry. Playing number one hit music after number one hit music, adding it up; and playing classic commercials, and then spending months trying to create an app, but nothing worked and I am sorry. The most common complaint about the network was its poor taste. It was offensive and recreating history was not a good idea for a company model. It was offensive, and although it might have been a home run if I pitched the idea in Cleveland, it was a cheap idea -- and my selfish quest to ruin the company trumped any chance of profit. I got out just in time, but now I'm apologizing and I’ll be sorry for at least the remainder of the decade. I'm so, so sorry.

All Apologies

The truth is that I've always controlled Lionheart Inc. and I've always participated in ceremonial duties. From food tours in Stratford to Mississauga, in the GTA and abroad, I've enjoyed the finest cuisine and all the best food from every culture. Just don't get me wrong. Slothful behaviour demonstrates how I'm wallowing in sorrow for wrongdoing to the company. Company expenses on great Mexican food is a fine example of how truly sorry I am -- that I want to do good, and better than good, by eating great.

Mississauga Food Tour

And I giveth you thou Burger King. May you eat plentiful and shame thyself by eating Whoppers. It sounds cruel, but in a cruel world, political correctness stifles free speech. Perhaps you’ve noticed that when the politically correct liberal rule-makers decide to name a group of humans they view as victims, they begin by creating a sense of shame to the group’s existing name. And so, somewhere over the years, the word Indian has been discarded. Nobody mentions Indians anymore. That’s because, in yet another stunning attempt to stand reality on its head, Indians have been assigned a new designation, the Indigenous people or Aboriginal people. This is an obvious attempt to make people feel better. The idea is, as long as we can’t help these people, let’s give the First Nations a positive name to distract everyone. I’m sorry, but it’s a way for government to say that’ll learn ‘em. And another thing, the closest anyone has ever gotten to the Star of David since biblical times occurred before Jim Morrison opened The Doors to Morrison Hotel. Blessed Jim looked up high into the dark sky and started singing Indian Summer. It was summertime, he'd checked out of his hotel and Indians and old cowboys surrounded him. They thought he was sick in the head, but he was just finding his way on the cross.

As a conspiracy theorist, I just don’t believe Jim Morrison is dead. He's risen for our sins. I don't believe in Juno or Man on the Moon. The closest we’ll ever get to Jupiter will be The Great Beyond. If you want to avoid 'The Great Beyond,' drink more water, and read my cat's new book, instead of trying to find water on a distant planet. They can’t even fix the water pipes in Flint, Michigan. Why not get a Juno to fly looking for water on Jupiter? Drink a cup of water and go to bed. And what does ‘Goodnight, sleep tight,’ mean? In Shakespeare’s time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes, the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Goodnight, sleep tight. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, / That I shall say good night till it be morrow” when you visit Mattress King to get the best deal possible on a good night’s sleep. New products arrive in-store on a weekly basis at Mattress King. Visit Mattress King to view their whole selection of mattresses in stock. But this is not where I promote Mattress King. Get a better sleep by reading a good book. I'm here to promote Skedaddles' new book. As a writer, I'm here to promote literature -- so buy my cat's new book now. She (I mean me) would love her book to sell. STOP what you're doing and read cat books. Imagine a furry feline discovering if there will ever be a rainbow. Get it on Amazon.

The Happy New Novel By Skedaddles

Celebrating Misery And The EU

Stairway To Heaven

Are you suffering from Led poisoning? Get the goddamn Led out of your ears and focus on the truth in media. Why do we want to hear about unhappiness? We want to hear Stairway To Hell in a heavy metal jam. You want to learn about my feelings of great distress and discomfort of mind and body. From territorial pissings to when I'm going to climb that stairway to heaven and sing about misery a final time. I can almost hear the organ now.

MISERY’S SONG

You’ve heard a song

     that’s had a struggle before,

     where twinges meet to adore

an admirer or half-

     faced rock star in a cloud

     of smoke. Yodel louder

than that melody

     within her soul -- tormented in

     anguish from lies and sin,

as lovers cross a corner

     of time like rubber-stamps 

     of harlots and tramps

that play a painful piece

     in rump-fed hearts to go

     or follow. Winds will blow

with me as I travel

     to it; a slow under-

     current as they were

   

in waves to throngs of folk

     gone fly-bitten to the ground

     where sounds do pound

like euphoria! What concert

     went astray in sadness

     to bring a heart-filled bliss?

The rolling thunder goes

     gaily, the listeners join free

     to pass in mirth of glee

from a paradox. A fool

     went through just yesterday

     to hear the dreary music play!

Misery brings joy. The Raptors suck, but the Cavaliers rock. I want to go back to Cleveland to see the Indians play at Progressive Field. I want to hear the blues when I think about Cleveland. It's been a long time since the Indians won the World Series. It's been a long time since Indians won anything. Lately, I've been thinking about how to make sports better. Las Vegas needs a hockey team. There needs to be another Indian team to help the Blackhawks. Professional wrestling needs to play a bigger role in Bollywood. Let's face it, wrestling is not on the map like it was years ago. Bollywood needs to embrace old-school wrestling. There needs to be a Bollywood Hogan of wrestling to start a new era in sports entertainment. How can Western Culture better embrace Indians? Start by celebrating Ramadan and misery. Ramadan is a time for reflection, giving, and being truly charitable.

1. Refrain from consuming food until after midnight
2. Refrain from a cold beer until after midnight
3. Refrain from smoking until after midnight
4. Refrain from sex until after midnight
5. No sinful behaviour that may negate the reward of fasting
6. No listening to WOW 87.7 
7. No listening to WRICH 109.9 
8. No listening to AM 2200 
9. Don't wrestle until after Ramadan
10. Don't insult Catholics until after Ramadan
11. No opening Doors or listening to Jim Morrison

Vive la France. Euro 2016 is here and my eyes shift to Britain. For a long time, we had a Game of Thrones in Europe. They couldn’t get along and there were border wars and then we created something called the European Union. And it’s grown to be a huge market in many countries. Europe was starting to compete on a global scale and now Britain is going to decide whether they stay or leave the European Union. Some people might not think it’s a big deal, but it is. Start on the business side, twenty percent of our exports go to the European Union. We want a healthy EU because it’s good for us. Oscar Wilde once said “Britain has 42 religions and two sauces.” Right? It’s not a place of passion. But you cannot believe the passionate divide, and it is too close to call on whether they’ll be division. A lot of people are saying let’s have Britain just be Britain. That's great, but therein lies the debate. It’s important to you because if for some reason the EU falls apart, we are going to have to spend a lot more money, a lot more treasure, time and maybe some of our blood to try to put Europe back together. If the EU holds together, it’s good for us economically. It’s bloody good for us, because if they hold together, armies can mobilize on other parts of the planet. It relates to us and we need to join in celebrating Europe's utter misery.

Long Live Misery

All The World's A Stage Of Consciousness

My consciousness scares me. This is heaven, not hell. This is opening The Doors and finding me listening to a religious experience happening every Sunday in the church of my basement. But there's a beginning and end to everything. He rises again.

Fare Thee Well: Celebrating The Grateful Dead was a series of concerts, but never say goodbye if you still want to try. Reincarnated in my basement, I don't want to try and I'm waiting for the end of The End. I'm listening to blessed Jim, and The Second Coming gives me new life. I turn out the lights in the basement and hear my heartbeat as the music rudely stops. Finally. Skedaddles everywhere. Just the pussycat as a screensaver on the computer and it's on the chair. I throw her off the chair and Iook around, but there's nothing but darkness in a cold, dark basement. Who's really watching Sin City on Netflix?

The Basement

I close the door to the basement and exit the house. It's just after eleven at night and I'm heading to the nearby woods. The forest is quiet. My skin is cold. There is darkness everywhere. There is just utter darkness and I'm thinking I'm miles away from the laptop and cat. I look up at the stars. We're going to be landing on Mars in eleven years and we're going to have driverless cars in twenty-two years. Everyone will be reading instead of watching TV. It's going to look a lot different. I sleep under the stars and when the sun comes up, I'm a day older and praying to Jim Morrison from a new religion and a new era of time where there are no doors and everything is wide open to anyone who can read. Who's actually reading books or hearing a story?

Credit Valley Footpath

be·yond

bēˈänd/

preposition & adverb

1. 1.

   at or to the further side of.

   "he pointed to a spot beyond the trees"

   synonyms:

   on the far side of, on the other side of, further away than, behind, past, after

After normally goes before a noun, like after midnight when I stayed up all night and all day writing and revising because of my passion. And there's no replacing feeling good. Sometimes a mean piss just feels so good. 

Do You Know How Much A Gorilla Is Worth?

Too Not Good To Believe

But this is not time for change. I don't want this to fool you, so I’m warning you that this blog would be better if I was fully conscious and if I was writing from the perspective of a gorilla. If I was a gorilla, I would be blogging from the top of the Empire State Building in 3-D. I want to set up a Gorilla Academy as the last new school available to mankind.

Speaking Gorilla

This phrase stemmed from a period when the American legendary wrestler and great commentator, Gorilla Monsoon, spent time working in the city of Bern, Switzerland at a Cuckoo Clock repair shop. The clockmaker would insist on cleaning the face of the clock after the necessary adjustments had been made. On the point of sale with a receipt in the hand of a customer about to exit, Gorilla popped up from the workshop, located at the back of the store, and declared: “He just got his clock cleaned!” It was charming at first, but Gorilla did it every time with every customer after that, and soon it began to tire and he was fired from the job and banned from Switzerland. Whenever I’m asleep, it’s like I’ve been punched out by a gorilla in the middle of a monsoon. The more you learn about the dignity of the gorilla, the more you want to avoid people. For some reason, lately, all of my dark thoughts are with axes.

It’s like I’m drugged out of my mind, but my head feels lighter than a cloud of alcoholic vapor. Turning onto the other side of the pillow, I wake up still drunk. The alarm goes off and it’s the sound of a soothing jungle, but something seems a bit wrong and everything doesn’t quite add up. I’m confused and laughing at my mistakes. Dreading going to work without taking a shower all weekend, I’m feeling the static electricity pulling at my hair, causing it to stand up. Everything seems crazy and it’s even more weird that my dreams are becoming real. Quickly, I grab a pen and paper and write at a time where I’m feeling sheer panic and I’m at the height of paranoia. Popping a few bedside pills, I write more and feel relaxed in the darkness of thoughts.

I put down my writing devices and check my phone. My phone has pictures of trees from The Enchanted Forest. As I check my Facebook profile, there are links to the Hole problem. I check iTunes and my playlist is everything Nirvana and the Hole dark romance. The ape truth.

The Hole Problem In A Nutshell

I’m stuck in the 90s but Home Improvement is real and no longer a show on TV (my wife called to have renovations done to the bedroom bathroom). As I turn on the TV, the enlarged picture of a dead gorilla is staring me in the face. Kurt Cobain’s suicide is not being reported from Seattle. 

(But The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air is still a funky fresh flashback. The morning news is live from a zoo in Ohio. But why do I care about a fucking dead gorilla? And why am I scared I won't be able to afford banana bread when I'm free to write about the jungle of life? The lost banana?)

I’m bad axe throwing every Saturday and convinced I need to take the sharp axe to the talking tree in The Enchanted Forest on the edge of reality. I’m reading The Legend Of The Wicked Path while passing out staring at a can of Coke beside the night table of the bed. My head falls backward onto a pillow. I close my eyes and want to take an axe to the forest and chop down the talking tree from my fucked up flashbacks. Running faster and faster, sweat is running down my forehead. I’m madder than a gorilla with a sharp axe, but without bananas and fearing death from the animal response team. I’m looking behind me and see nobody. I’m alone in my dreams. I look up and see the tree that’s been talking to me. I hear voices, but the animal response team probably think I’m causing a riot on the golf course. Just because Hunter S. Thompson would golf on acid doesn’t mean I enjoy hacking. I fooled the animal response team. My eyes open; now I hear the sound of a ringtone. It’s Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and With A Little Help From My Friends. I’m listening to a high-pitched radio frequency in my mind with nobody around. I grab my phone, playing fucked up Beatles music, and I throw my phone against the wall. It smashes and the music stops and there's nothing but the legendary silence of darkness.

Unpublished on most planets

The Edge Of Reality: Can't You Smell That Smell?

Credit Valley Footpath was quiet and I was quietly lost in the middle of nowhere and there was nobody and it was awesome. All of a sudden, a tree started talking to me. What the fuck? I wouldn't talk back to it and it wasn't Skedaddles the Cat, but wow, it was a fucking big ass tree staring at me with wooden eyes. Looking down at me, it wouldn't leave me alone. Its leaves were huge, tree trunk enormous and round with roots spreading out, dominating the forest -- there was nowhere to hide.

The tree said to me, "You don't have the credit to be in the valley of my footpath." The tree was right. I had blown my savings on Amazon, betting on Indian sports teams, Nyquist as the Triple Crown winner, and NyQuil. I wanted to go home, but I was curious about the talking tree.

"How did you know that?" Maybe the tree put on a suit and tie and worked at RBC when nobody visited him. Everything was trippy.

"I've read your diary," the motherfucker echoed. "You're a poet." Shit, I had Lionheart Leaks and unreleased installments. It was worse than the Sony cyber attack. I was going to sue his goddamn wooden ass.

The tree grew a second face with three eyes bugging out at me, another mouth formed under its two noses and it grew nine branched-out arms. It was the most wood that I had ever seen. It tossed my diary at me with two of his hands. His third arm reached out and grabbed a fat joint underneath a log. Buddy was into the herb and Indians.

Indian Teams

Buddy rolled another joint. I took a mean piss on his ugly roots. It felt good to relieve myself and I wanted to piss off the tree. The tree tried to grab me with his arms. Wood was flying everywhere, but I escaped. I started running away. Stopping once to look back, the tree turned around and mooned me with his wooden ass. His deep crevice spat out birch bark, but I was beyond his teepee and the edge of the magical, enchanted forest filled with giant mushrooms and eleven-leaf clovers.

Credit Valley Footpath

Urn Your Way To The Top

Get Rich or Die Tryin' was a hip-hop biopic crime film starring 50 Cent. I couldn't reinvent rap or the steel, but I wanted to help the economy by shopping at the LCBO. I bought a shitload of liquor and brought it home. I opened up one of my half-pint bottles. I drained it in one continuous shuddering swallow, licked the mouth of the empty bottle, buzzed wildly and imagined I hadn't just drained my bank account like I was a professional wrestler feeling hard times. The TV was on The Kentucky Derby and I had sports on my mind. I drank Tennesse Whiskey and I was ready to wrestle my inner demons whilst wearing my Undertaker T-shirt. 

Downing the NyQuil™ felt so good after the whiskey, and shit I was tired, but it didn't take long to watch Nyquist win the fastest two minutes in sports. Blasting WOW 87.7 FM and roaring louder than Chewbacca on a heavy dose of wookie steroids, I obsessed over the female form. I went to bed and groped my wife and woke up the next day around noon in a sticky mess. Feeling nauseous, I turned my head and puked in a stylish cremation urn next to the bed. It would help if I knew the professional and functional purpose of the urn.

Heavy Metal

Lo And Behold Bisons And Good Drinking

Bisonmania

The Blue Jays and Herd have been streaky. Batters are getting time in the cage and pitchers are pitching a lot of innings. LeBlanc has been hot. The beer at Coca-Cola Field is top notch; and I'm urging anyone who likes to drink ten or eleven or twelve beers, and is not driving home, to go see a Bisons game and power drink.

Buffalo, New York

We went to see the Bisons on the same day that we went to the Burlington Humane Society and picked up our new cat. We took our cat to the game. Ten or eleven beers later, it was the seventh inning and I skedaddled to the car to spend quality time with Skeddadles, our new cat. It was around this time, I started tripping out, having acid flashbacks, hungry and craving metal. I needed loud music. I put the key in the ignition, ran the battery in the car to power up the stereo, and pumped WOW 87.7 FM in the Bisons parking lot. I was hungry for heavy metal music and so was Skedaddles. To hell with the Herd, I wanted to be alone with the cat because we were craving loud, headbanging music.

Skedaddles the Cat

Heavy Metal Awareness

My wife was sober when the game finished and she joined me in the car because it was time to go home and the Bisons won, 2-1 over the Syracuse Chiefs in a nail-biter. My long nails were scratching the cat as my wife drove out of the parking lot. We were listening to WOW 87.7 FM for the drive home. My wife was driving; I was buzzing badly and repeating the same things over and over to myself. "Wow," I said to my wife. She just looked at me and said, "Wow." All of a sudden, I realized there needed to be a week dedicated to metal awareness. I was like a heavy rolling stone and my head was weighing a ton, but we couldn't drink in the car. Cranking the sound up in the car, I was thrashing my head side to side and pretended I was writing deeper than a rolling stone writer too good to write for the magazine. Wow.

Heavy Metal Appreciation

La Buena was so good and I started thinking more and more about Lionheart Leaks and holy shit it was like a religious experience in the car going over the Skyway Bridge, driving from Hamilton to Burlington. WOW, it was so good and I didn't want to get out of the car when we got in the driveway, but my wife reminded me that I had to work the next day. WOW....

Lionheart Leaks