I’m here to eat dead creatures and drink beer underneath the watchful eyes of the Beatles. It’s a poster from Let It Be. The facial hair is striking. Paul’s got a full-on beard. Ringo and George have moustaches that shout for free-love. I bet they got it too.
I think the Beatles broke up after that record.
I decided a little while ago I’d attempt to write a dirty story for submission to a dirty magazine. The story has been giving me quite the run around. I’m not sure what I’m aiming for…
Girls to like it? Guys to like it?
Beats me. I’m going to a dive bar tonight and drink pint after pint of domestic beer. If I’m not inspired I’ll quit it tonight and never write anything with sex in it again.
Oh. Before I forget…
As always Ralph is a fuck-ass. So he didn’t get what he wanted. He says, “If queers are allowed to marry in this country, then nobody is allowed to get married in this province.”
Yep. That’s mature.
“Zombies just stand there and go…’ahh’. They don’t make compelling villians”
–Roper the dumb ass
“They are too easy to kill.”
–Roper the dumb ass
Roper is a professional fuck-ass. A dumb fuck-ass. I suppose they see way too many movies every week to make thoughtful analysis but that is no excuse for blatant fuck-headery. Of course zombies just stand there and want to eat flesh. Of course they just stand there…
Those ass-holes don’t understand the beauty and magic of Land of the Dead or any good zombie movie for that matter.
They can chew it.
The Zombie movie is the greatest genre of film in history. Take a few scared, desperate human beings, toss them into a variety of environments ( farm house, mall, underground bunker, etc.), mix with flesh-eating zombies and you’ve got yourself a classic.
George A. Romero has built the zombie genre from the ground up. Tonight, I will witness the first movie from him in 2 decades…Land of the Dead. My expectations are extremely high. I’d fear I’d be let down if I thought it wouldn’t deliver. But I know it will…
A review to come…
Like anybody visits here anyway.
So, MJ–the king of pop is a free man after beating molestation charges…
Everybody knows he’ll never make another hit record to save his life. Which doesn’t really matter because Thriller has some around a gazillion copies.
So I propose he does a reality television show…but not just any reality show. It’s going to be a reality tv show with a gimmick. Okay, okay, it’s exactly like every other reality television show ever made.
Anyway.
I say MJ takes his best rhinestone glove and tours the crisis areas of the world. A month in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in Darfur Sudan. He’ll live just like the locals…only he’ll be in his stage get-up and camera crews will follow him around 24/7. If we’re lucky, and we will be, he’ll cry a lot. He’ll be sad because his gold tassels are dirty, he hasn’t eaten any $100 a-plate-food and hasn’t read any Barely Legal magazines…
The added bonus is we’ll be illustrating serious global issues for people whom otherwise wouldn’t care to learn about war and famine. They will tune in simply to see a famous celebrity shame himself on television but they will stay for the stirring and poignant images of ravaged countries and peoples.
We’ll win Emmys, I swear.
The hole my landlords opened up in my closet must have stirred a nest…or is now letting them in from outside. I find dozens of spiders crawling on the carpet, on the walls, out of the bathroom sink. I’ve read spiders only roam around when they are searching for a mate. I’ve also read female spiders eat their partners when they are finished mating.
I’m not afraid of spiders. Not like some people are. But the thought of spiders crawling out from under the bed makes it hard to sleep. I imagine their little legs, their little teeth on my skin and I’m out of bed and at the computer. I’m trying to drink enough bourbon to pass out, but it’s very hard to do so. I can drink a lot of bourbon.
I remember sitting in a junior high classroom, learning about the French Revolution. Or the Russian revolution, or something. I remember this kid rolling a safety pin over his forehead. Back and forth, back and forth. He was strung out on drugs. This cute girl is sitting beside him, jotting down notes about the Tsar or Napoleon, minding her own business. He opens up the safety pin. He jams it into his eyebrow, through it, piercing it. A great red stream spurts from his eye straight onto the cute girl’s notebook. She looks up to see this kid with blood streaming down the side of his face and this safety pin lodged into his skull. He clips the safety pin back together. She turns to her left and throws up her lunch of French fries and Tahiti treat into her friend’s lap. What happens next isn’t like Stand By Me at all. The other girl doesn’t throw up in the lap of somebody else, starting a vomit chain reaction. She just sits there and laughs, then looks at her friend with puke dripping down her chin and this punk with a safety pin in his eye.
Dear Curry Fix,
Thanks for providing great food at such a reasonable price. I’m rarely ever able to finish a plate in one sitting and it tastes even better re-heated, after the flavours have settled.
Yesterday, Ann decided to buy an Ice tea from Louis Submarine across the way from your kiosk. This was because there was a line and she didn’t feel like waiting. She is inconsiderate like that. You looked like you would cry and then I wished I was dead.
I pledge to never make you sad again. Please don’t poison the butter chicken.
Truly,
More Fergis
Coming home to see one’s Mormon landlords rifling through your collection of drug paraphernalia and pornography is an unnerving sight. The water heater broke and flooded the basement I live in. I wasn’t home and haven’t been for the past couple of days. So they had to come in and fix the thing by cleaning out everything in my closet and tearing a hole in the wall. They haven’t said anything about it and a bet they won’t, but I know they know all the dark things I keep in my closet.
I’m not sure what to make of a website that puts so much effort into gauging the end times. Maybe it is simply my heathen brain talking but I don’t think checking in means a whole hell of a lot. Perhaps it is important to know how close one is to teetering off the edge into oblivion to really enjoy not falling.
Fergis Writes Letters 
