Hanukkah Haiku Night Four & Night Five 2015

Day 4 is the best

I got a dreidel full of 

hash oil and latkes

Existentialist

Hannukah 2015

the candle burnt out

Crystal Gravy Christmas Tree

lol Dave

Hanukkah Haiku Night Three 2015

Happy Hanukkah

Israel is the root of 

Most terrorism

Hanukkah Haiku NIght One & Night Two 2015

It's not Jake's fault though

Even Jews forget the start

Give me a redo

Day 2 you get socks 

I'm cool with these socks, 

Thanks Dad

Socks will save my life 

Girl & Boy Land

Dear Santa,

Good old Johnny H. Allen. We'll call him, J.H. for short. Best detective on the force. Or was. Now the best vodka and seltzer-water drinker in the city. Drinking became part of the job at this point.

Sixty-Seventh and Western. Bad area. There was not one cop on the force alright with hanging around that part of town. J.H., though, he could give a rat's ass. Loved the smell of a raw crime scene. He rushed to the location as soon as he got the call. Didn't even bother finishing the fresh vodka and seltzer he made. Brought it with. Showed up well before anyone else on the force. What is a man to do to kill that amount of time? Drink, yes. That was a given. Good old J.H. was always a bit of a reader, so he picked up the only reading material he could find. Basically had to pry it from the cold, dead victim's hands. A notebook. First page, flip a few through, the only page. A half bottle of bottom shelf gin was at rest on the coffee table above the body. Good old J.H. helped himself. Took a nice hard sit on a leather recliner that farted a plume of dusty air as it took his weight. He began to read the messy handwriting on the first, and only, page of the notebook,

"Alright. Here's a story for ya. Well, more so my confession. Oh, Merry Christmas, or whatever. Ok, so it happened last Wednesday, Christmas Eve." He put his lips to the bottle and sucked. It was three days shy of New Year's Eve, confirming the smell and look of the body as "an old girl." Precinct lingo for a not-so-fresh body. It now made sense to good old J.H. why no one else was there in that house. A smell call. Good old J.H.  loved those. He took another bottle hit and continued reading as an old wood ticking clock high up on the wall did its business, "My uncle. I hated him. Always have." She uses too many short sentences, good old J.H. thought, "He needed to go. Go for good. Like. Die." Good old J.H.'s ears perked. Death. Murder. Yes. He sucked away and read on, "He came over here. You know. Just like, out of nowhere. Christmas Eve and shit. I'm all alone. He know that. Comes on here all drunk." Good old J.H. related. He took a swig for the mention, "That mother fucker... I KILLED HIM DEAD!"

Good old J.H. sat up without a sound. Stood, bottle in hand, and motioned stiffly to the front window. He split the dusty venetian blinds just so slightly to peak outside. Not a soul. Not a sound. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wrinkled pack of Dunhills. Fingered the inside of the flimsy package as he looked at the time on his watch. Good old J.H. found he only had two cigarettes left as his eyes made out the numbers. Two AM on the dot. This part of the city was usually teaming with life at this hour. He looked out the window one last time. Nothing. Placed a Dunhill between his lips and lit it before he sat back down. He picked up the notebook from the arm and carried on,

"I didn't mean to. He just needed it. It needed to stop. Mama is never home. I just wouldn't let him. Couldn't let him do that to me anymore. I prayed. Begged for it to stop. It finally stopped. I'm glad it did. Merry Christmas, or whatever." And that was all there was.

Good old J.H. flipped through the notebook one last time. All blank. He threw the notebook on the coffee table and stood back up to his feet. Finished the remaining gin in one last gulp. The windows filled with bright white light. Good old J.H. fell backwards onto the floor and into the pool of blood. A mellow throbbing thick roar filled his ears. He could feel the sound on his skin.

Good old J.H. wondered what was in that bottle of gin. The front door opened slowly, the bright white light streaming into the house. A figure cast a shadow into beam. Good old J.H. squinted, trying to make it out. He pulled his gun. Cocked it with his frantic fingers.

"Stop right there! Show me your hands!" He yelled at the figure. "STOP!" Good old J.H. yelled once more as the figure ceased to obey his command. He fired a single shot. The gun was gone. He was hallucinating, he thought. Good old J.H. closed his eyes and let the moment happen.

The light continued to pierce his eyelids, the throbbing hum grew louder. He fished around the floor with his trembling hand in hopes of finding cigarette that he had dropped. His eyes still closed, waiting for the hallucination to pass. Nothing. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled the last Dunhill from the pack. Good old J.H. brought it to his lips with the lighter. He opened his eyes just a bit to light it when he saw it hovering just over him.

It was glowing bright white and red. It hissed and swayed. Decayed and rotting, yet a silky stream of white majestic hair flowed from it's head and face. Just like hair in water. It spoke,

"Johnny Allen..."

"Yes?" Good old J.H. replied trying to mask the terror he was feeling with a smug grim and puff from the Dunhill.

"You've been on my list..." The thing said, smacking the Dunhill from good old J.H.'s hand and mouth. J.H. was suddenly blanketed by the physical connection of the thing he was oh, so sure was not there. In his mind. It was not real.

"Oh... Oh my God... Wha-" J.H. farted as he franticly trying to stand, scoot, slide, scrape his way anywhere. He was cornered. "What are you?" He reached out to stop it. He recognized the feeling as he touched the figure. When he was seven years old he stuck his hand into a dead pig's chest in this his grandpa's freezer. It was romantically, nostalgically, horrifying.

"You started off so well..." The thing hissed, "We rarely see a revisit to the naughty list for over a decade."

"You can't be real. This is not happening. No way." J.H. covered his face with his hands and tried to psych himself out of it.

"You have no reason. You're selfish. You lie. You Cheat." Its breath smelled of stale cookies and rotten milk, "You stole the lives of the good officers you've thrown under the grating with your evil ways, little Johnny Allen."

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone!" J.H. screamed in defense.

"You hurt everyone you have ever known. Your partner. Your friends. Family. Wife..."

"STOP!" J.H. continued trying to convince himself that this was all just some sick moral subconscious hallucination.

"Your son and daughters." The voice hissed softly.

"You don't know anything! They were all accidents!" J.H. began to sob.

"I know the truth." The figure rose to the ceiling.

J.H. spotted a clean getaway to the front door between deep gasps of air to calm himself. He decided to take it. As he started for it the dead body on the floor disappeared. The front door slammed and the room fell pitch black. Utter silence. He fell still,

"Hello?" J.H.'s shivering voice bounced off the walls in a thick echo.

"You know who I am, don't you?" A hissing whisper.

"A fucking figment of my fucking imagination!" J.H. shouted into the darkness.

"No..." The whisper was close now. Close enough to brush J.H.'s arm, "We've met before."

"I just need to relax... Chill. Let this pass. Oh God, let this pass." J.H. closed is eyes tight, shook out his hands and arms. Took three deep breaths. Counted in to the silence. Opened his eyes.

"I'm good old Saint Nick, and you're going to Bad Boy Land, good old Johnny H. Allen!"

J.H. felt nothing as the ceiling disappeared and he was lifted into the mood-lit clouds. Good old Johnny H. Allen had never before been more at peace, rushing high towards the stars, towed by the strange ghostly Santa Claus.

Is this true?

Truly yours,

IM Cunj

Ed Sluggisha's Star Wars Christmas Tree!

Ed from Sluggisha Tapes has a very, very badass (and appropriate) tree this year: 

Gotta appreciate the love for the prequels, amirite?

The Troll of Christmas Yet to Come

By Phil Collins

Craig stood from his bed and haltingly paced across his room to open the drapes. The mid-afternoon sun pierced his consciousness as it lit up his space. Craig opened a mighty yawn, stretching his arms as high into the air as he could.

“Looks like another beautiful day,” he said to himself in an indecipherable rumble.

He took a seat on his black rolling desk chair. He flipped open his refurbished laptop. The seasoned veteran sputtered and choked before it began waking itself up. Craig stared into the monitor for a minute. He shot up and headed toward the coffee maker.

“Drinking black coffee, drinking black coffee,” he said to himself as he entered the living room.

“Good morning,” a cheerful deep voice said. Craig’s roommate sat on the couch watching Elf. Will Ferrell’s eyes had lost their lids.

“Just three days until Christmas,” Craig said.

“Ho ho ho,” Craig’s roommate said.

Craig smiled, returning to his room with a piping hot cup of store brand coffee. His desktop illuminated the monitor. He double clicked to open Internet Explorer. Facebook loaded slowly. He took a sip. The page pieced itself together. Craig immediately started typing. His fingers flew across the keyboard, posting within seconds.

Craig Mason Just three days until Santa gets a thousand wood logs stuck up his fat ass. What does he expect to happen sliding down rando chimneys? I hope that stupid elf that decided to be a dentist takes up proctology instead.

Scrolling down, there was an endless feed of posts. An old high school classmate posted a video of a cat spinning the wheel of a bicycle. It autoplayed in Craig’s feed. He watched the black cat spin and spin the wheel.

Craig Mason Looks like your cat is getting more exercise than you, you fat fuck. Why don’t you give that poor animal some space and take a bike ride. I hope the frame can hold you. Only one way to find out.

Another sip of coffee tasted like heaven on Earth. Craig scrolled onward. Someone with a last name he didn’t recognize posted an article about a bombing in Not America.

Craig Mason I got BOMBED last night on Jaeger. There were three victims – the Melvin I puked on and the two blondes I wrecked afterward.

Craig looked around his empty room. He put on a light jacket and walked out the front door. Snow tracked the sidewalk and parts of the street. He walked across to the convenient store. His skin started to numb in the short walk to the shop. He pulled open the door and walked straight to the cashier.

“Two packs of Pall Mall, please.”

“Craig, how are you doing, man?” The white-bearded worker turned around to grab the cigarettes.

“Can’t complain. How are Sammy and Patty?”

“About to be on Christmas vacation, so they are bouncing off the walls.”

“I remember those days,” Craig said, thinking of his own time at Middlebury Junior High. “Tell the whole family merry Christmas for me.”

“And a merry Christmas to you, buddy.”

Craig pushed back out into the biting air. He lit up one of the cigarettes and took a drag. He was feeling more awake all the time. He stepped out into the street, headed back toward his apartment. A bell sounded from his pocket – a notification from an app. Several apps used the same sound. Craig slowed as he wondered which app the notification came from. Just then a suburban utility vehicle sped through the intersection, slamming into Craig as it screeched by. Craig watched it fade into the distance as he drew his last breath.

During the next few days, Craig’s Facebook profile page became a memorial. Post after post on his timeline championed his role in his friends’ lives.

Rick Lawson You were the best babysitter. The kids loved when you would come over.

Sandra Flynn I owe my job to you. I never could have gotten it without your advocacy. You were a class act.

Scott Kelly I can’t believe you’re gone. We’ll pour one out for you tonight.

This was followed quickly by a new post.

Craig Mason Merry Christmas, slaves to the corporatocracy. I hope the talking fucking furball under your tree was worth the new asshole Wall Street ripped for you today.