Tag Archives: satire

“Quarry” by Sterling Arthur Leva

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“Quarry” by Sterling Arthur Leva

I invented time travel for one purpose and one purpose only: to murder Jackson Pollock.

When that glorified finger-painter hit the scene, he opened the door for every talentless dribbler to proclaim, “I’m an artist, man!” The effects of his work would be long-term and nefarious, indeed: technical skill, diligence, and honing one’s craft would become largely irrelevant as malformed clusterfucks of color gained prominence. It was nothing personal against Jackson, though: how was he to know that his drunken masturbatory experimentation would forever taint art as we know it? No, it was nothing personal; the fucker just needed to be stopped.

I knew I had to get to Pollock before LIFE did that infamous spread, in which some philistine journalist asked the rhetorical question, “Is he the greatest living artist in the United States?” Fucking LIFE, man. I couldn’t allow this to happen: I had to make sure he wasn’t living period. But I didn’t want to deprive the guy of his entire life. I’m not a savage, after all, and I wasn’t about to go back in time and off his pregnant mom or strangle him in his stroller or anything like that. I just needed to get to him before his silly artistic ambitions took hold.
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Wait For It

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Wait For It

People don’t pray to me too much anymore. Not like the good old days, at any rate. Mostly just the occasional dingbat or screaming loon seeking divine direction for some two-bit revenge scheme. Sometimes I provide it, sometimes I don’t. I mean, after all, I’m a god damn trickster god, dig? Unpredictability is part of my charm.

But ol’ Hermes don’t get called on too much these days. It seems the desperate are more inclined to take their business to the major players: Yahweh, Buddha, hell even Satan gets more clients than me. I just ain’t in vogue in this modern age. Maybe my asking price isn’t high enough– I’ve never been interested in collecting souls, just punch lines. I just love a good punch line. I ain’t shook about the lack of clients though, because every once in awhile I get a real gem of a gentleman caller, reeking of resentment and pettiness and malignancy, and it makes up for all the down time. Lee Harvey Oswald was one of my favorites– that was a hell of a punch line, wasn’t it? Told him I’d make his little assassination dream come true and provide a patsy to boot. I stuck to my word, didn’t I? I guess I may have interpreted the deal a little differently than he, but that ain’t my fucking problem.

There are some lesser known good ones too, some real unsung heroes of tricksterdom that I lent my services to. I remember Foster Conley and his rumblefish restitution racket. That was a real knee-slapper. You see, Foster had this wife that he couldn’t stand. She was always on his case about this or that, chiding him over house chores and salaries and keeping up with the fucking Joneses (who, incidentally, lived next door). Foster may have been able to bear all this horseshit off his old lady if it wasn’t for her god damn fish. You see, she had this expensive as hell aquarium with these prized rare fish sporting stuck up names like Goya and Francois that she coddled and cherished and it drove Foster nuts because she treated those cocksucking fish better than him.

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The Aesthete’s Lament

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The Aesthete’s Lament

He sees a pair of sweatpants and pants and sweats.
Has panic attacks over unpressed khaki slacks.
Grimaces over Christmas sweaters and jackets with letters, man.
He can’t spot a sports jersey without feeling queasy.
Someone’s got Crocs on and it’s making him uneasy.

He finds function over fashion a dysfunctional passion.
He’s all ascots and porkpie hats,
smoking jackets and backpocket handkerchiefs.
A dapper child of Oscar Wilde
getting sick at the wardrobes
from the Wal Mart aisle.

He saunters down the street,
glances sideways at a department store display
of perilous apparel and garments gone
astray,
and starts bleeding from his eyes,
leaks crimson on his finest peacoat,
collapses on the pavement,
and chokes a sob from his throat:
AESTHETIC IS DEAD.

Composed 2012. Gratitude to Michael Lohrman for the title. Read the rest of this entry

A Little Matter Of Nomenclature

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A Little Matter Of Nomenclature

I’ve been meaning to clear something up for some time now.
It’s a little matter of nomenclature.
Every time some caveman motorist screams from his lifted truck,
“Hipster faggot!”
or some such endearing expletive
and then screams off to the sports bar or whatever,
I never have time to make my rebuttal,
which is:
I’m not a hipster, I’m a dandy.

I can see how your feeble, just barely functioning minds
might get confused on the matter.
After all, anybody with a style,
any style,
that’s not sagging shorts and crooked caps and Metal Mulisha
is,
by default,
foreign
and therefore fair game
for your limited intellect
and insults
alike.

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Rent Boy Conversions: Sex, Red Leotards, And Trolling

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Rent Boy Conversions: Sex, Red Leotards, And Trolling

I wrote this in response to an ad I found on Craig’s list for Christian singles to write articles about dating. The poster requested from all applicants an explanation of how they came to their faith. So I made one up. I hope I got the gig.

Dear Fellow Bachelors And Bachelorettes Of Christ,

I saw your advert on Craig’s List, and I am very interested. I am a single Christian male in the Year of our Lord two thousand and twelve. I must admit that it is a bit ironic that I would come across your listing on Craig’s List, as my spiritual journey has been a long and difficult one that has also involved Craig’s List. You see, brothers and sisters, I was once an inveterate sinner who once used the Adult Services section as a means of supporting my licentious and libertine lifestyle. Allow me to explain.

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A Letter To Herbert Mullin

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Dear Mr. Mullin,

First off, I would like to assure you that I am not a longhair. I know how deeply your disdain for hippies runs, and I wouldn’t want you thinking that you were receiving mail from some peacenik Berkeley graduate or something. I just wanted to get that out of the way. I’m sure you understand, Herbert. Actually, may I call you Herb? I know it’s a slang term for marijuana, which you understandably despise, but it’s just got such a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I will call you Herb for now.

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The Fall Formal With Saint Philomena

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The Fall Formal With Saint Philomena

The wages of sin will stretch your picaro’s pocketbook real thin. Why the pissed demeanor, for a couple of misdemeanors? Check out Miss Doomsayer over there, with that robe she aped from Death and her Pavlov’s gavel (I ain’t your dog, bitch
and I can’t be conditioned,
no matter what condition my condition is in).

Order in the court:

I’m on the docket with a prayer in my pocket
(Oh Philomena, I didn’t mean it. I’ll be a good boy).
I even listened to Jailbreak (Phillynot is a saint, too)
and read Casanova’s memoirs (breaking out of jail requires candlesticks and paintings of saints),
but I still don’t like the look on the bailiff’s face
(he’s all handcuffs and strip searches, latex gloves and Miranda fights).

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American Hipsters Use London Unrest As An Opportunity To Display Music Knowledge Through Obscure References

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The social unrest in London has set off an unexpected chain reaction throughout Britain’s trans-Atlantic neighboring country.  American hipsters, mostly via social networking sites such as Facebook, have been using the London riots as a timely vehicle for showing off their familiarity with obscure bands, songs, and lyrics.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for something like this,” says Randy Shoegazer, 23, of Oakland, California.  “An opportunity like this doesn’t present itself every day, so I’ve been making the most of it.  I started off with the obvious ‘London’s Burning’ allusion, but that became way too trendy way too fast.  So I mixed things up a bit when I referred to London Police as ‘Werewolves of London.’  I really wanted to show my musical credibility wasn’t merely limited to 1977 British punk.”  Shoegazer punctuated his last statement by removing his horn-rimmed glasses (he claims they’re prescription) and wiping the lenses clean on his V-neck shirt.

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