Fuckin' Lord Byron.

Poems by Nicholas Cranford.

"In All Honesty"

I could really fail here,
with the rust of a bike, under a roof with Justo,
through a cigarette with Chris, over coffee with Davina.
There's nicotine and marijuana, alcohol and Adderal,
and I'm still relying on ideals.
Tired but walking, exhausted but up,
disgusted but trying, angry but tired.
Get up, I know your legs are wobbling. Get up,
I know your tired and you want to die.
Get up. I. Believe. In. You.
Fight against the gentle disappointments,
rave against the unjust mornings.
Live as you want your favorite person to live-
bravely, with honor; gently, with care.
Yes, that's gonna scar, and yes that's going to hurt.
Chin up and fists raised- this, my friends, is life.
This is life in each crushing moment;
this is life measured in minutes lost.
This is life with rusty plumbing and crooked cops,
with late rent or pent-up aggression-
I could really fail here.
I sigh, take a breath.
Let's get on with it, then.

--

"You and I"

Ask me who I am exactly, in a dirty hotel room
as you check the windows and disconnect the phone.
I am someone who picks up hypodermic needles
from the streets and throws them away.
I'm a hopelessly hopeless revolutionary, a disillusioned ideal,
A relic of the ethics of my heritage.
I'm from a generation of gods, of brilliant thinkers,
of beautiful beings dragged down by debt and reality.
I'm from an era where everyone has a muse and a chip on their shoulder,
where you smoke to avoid the smog and drive to speed past ugly truths.
I'm from a land where we live unhealthily to counteract our long life expectancies
and we destroy our icons and idols because they resemble us too closely.
I'm someone scared of perfection and uncomfortable with myself,
someone uneasy with his talents, someone intensely tired.
I am from a culture obsessed with fear and villainizing,
with arguing to avoid any self doubt.
I'm a product of a rapidly deteriorating environment,
a sum of countless media driven epiphanies,
a number, a name, an idea, an image,
and a perpetual machine run on breaths and regrets and thoughts. I am someone who realizes that the programmer programs to get closer to God,
and the writer writes, the artist paints, and the poet drinks.
I'm not as important as I think, more important than I know,
as relevant as tufts of smoke and as permanent as wind.
I'm a hyperbolic example of the human condition,
as I bitch and whine, piss and moan.
I'm the chain-smoking, silver-tongued, self-assuring
hero of our tale and I have no idea who I am.
You look at me out of the corner of your eye,
smile the smile you give at funerals and for your license,
nod and say you understand,
and you're tired of trying to hate yourself through me.

--

"Dear Estrella,"

On a star, we'll wish and glimpse,
smile deep and ever since,
you punctuated this existence,
I'll love you forever and evermore.

Smitten

By Matthew Royall

Rise and Shine

Another morning like this, watching the sun come in through the window. Not spying the sun itself, but rather the way in which, as time rolled on, the shadows she cast would stretch over him, and retreat to the rhythm of her breathing. He’d slowly steal her hand on mornings like these, and trace it amongst his fingers, either until she awoke, or until he fell back asleep. The next thing he awoke to were her eyes, and a finger prodding at his chest, to wake him, for he’d rolled over onto her arm, and now his whole body was holding it. That made it hard to get up. She got up and disappeared around a corner of his house, leaving a radiance of warmth in the spot she’d been.

She returned and jumped onto the bed, sending his being into the air for a bit, and bringing wakefulness, rather than the daze of early morning fuzz he’d just been reveling in.

"Morning" Her voice sings, an angels’ choir in one tone.

"Yes, that it is" He replies, feinting the grump of most early morning wakers.

"So what about the day? Ready?" She wondered aloud, to both of them, rather than just him, in her usual morning musing.

"Yes, always ready to combat another army of Cheerios. I swear, those things start out as powder, on the bottom of car floors, and through static or something, they magnetize into little rings of grain and lint... making cereal is all profit."

"As long as you get your Kix." She jested through a grin, to imply the grain of her joke.

"I thought you had to get your Pops today."

A smile behind a middle finger, as she did have to run her dad around today, but was also cereal joked against. After a slight embrace, removing themselves from the warm spots they’d spent the whole night asleep making, they got ready for their separate days. After dancing around each other in the kitchen and bathroom, doing their respective preparations, they went their separate ways.

-\- A lesson in balance...

She’d come home a wreck of the day’s toils, a bunch of stress balled up into a fist, ready to punch into anything that even looked like a target.

"Looks like you had a grea-!" He stopped, as she gave him a look that said this, while also freezing the ground along with his feet, immobilizing him.

"Shut it. Now."

He put his hands up, and smiled. Her mood was an illustration in the oddity of life. His day had brought him home with an ability to fly, and a smile that nearly left each side of his face. Though now silenced, it was clear as day that he was elated. In turn, it was obvious that her mood bordered on thunderstorms, with a chance at rage.

His presence was content, and small. Hers was large and angry. He stood and embraced her, and swayed them around a little, not prodding for explanation to the red of her cheeks, the reason that she had two clenched fists. He leaned too much in one direction, and fell them onto the spring of their bed. She turned away, but he wouldn’t let go, cementing his hug around her resolve to be angry.

With each second, he increased his magnitude, thinking his happy thoughts, and with mental osmosis, transmitted them to permeate the membrane of her brain, and make the calamity seem a bit more sane. With each second, the fire died, and red cheeks turned pink, and she could feel herself shrinking smaller and smaller, fitting into arms she’d just moments ago felt like bursting out of. For a second, she felt like being angry that the anger was gone! Her emotion, stolen! What a thing! The fire was mere embers.

He liked the temperature change. He liked when she turned around, and didn’t burn him with that ice cold gaze of malice, even though the feeling wasn’t for him anyway.

He wasn’t his unusual bubble happy anymore, but a different kind. She’d calmed to a light drizzle, and her eyes were soft again. They kissed.

The (Real) Perfect Waste of Time / - /

He lied back in the tub, under a blanket of steam produced by the showerhead, which was raining water down on his midsection. He didn’t have to lift the folded towel from his eyes to know who’d come to join him. He didn’t mind as she leaned against him, between the ‘v’ of his legs, and tickled her hands up to his kneecaps. A film of water filled in the space between them, causing their bodies to glide against one another anytime she moved. Except for a smile spreading now and again, he lay motionless. She kept trying to insight more of a reaction than this, but was to her avail, seemingly unsuccessful.

Little did she know the inside of his mind was racing. His body was just not showing it. So in response, she dead weighted onto him, and they just sat there breathing in the humidity, the steam rising off of one another. She hummed, a tune from nowhere particular, but everywhere special, and his hands began to slide up her ribs, fingers slipping up them with ease. He picked up her hair and flipped it over her head to cover her eyes, water running down it, collecting at the end where it trailed off.

His wet lips almost immediately clamped onto her neck, his docile broken with such an abrupt move that she was turned red with her own surprise. In orchestrated movement his hands found her shoulders and his thumbs pressed deeply into her them, staying there, while he glided his tongue over the goose-bumping skin of her neck. Though warm, the immediate shock of these two senses gave her a feeling that made her spasm in shiver, breathing out a sharp gasp.

His embedded thumbs circled into her, loosening further anything tense that may have been pent up from before. His lips found her ear and gave it a tug, cool droplets of water which hadn’t fallen, but had remained there contrasted with the humidity he breathed. His kiss then moved to the hinge of her jaw, and knuckles slid down her back, crawling back up in a reverse of the same movement.

He slipped forward, and she spun, draping her legs over his, echoing a laugh off of the walls as she looked into a towel when trying to look into his eyes. As the cloth was peeled off, he found it hard to retain the over-serious expression he’d projected under the veil, and smiled as their eyes met. Instead of immediately moving into a burning kiss, as she’d thought, they just lingered in an eye contact, the drone hum of artificial rain pouring over them, little miniature waterfalls rolling off their chins.

Their hands slipped into one another’s, thumbs in line with each other’s as they lace. Their eyes closed to keep the water out and they leaned into each other for a kiss. Their heads were tentative, not quite moving in together, also seeming to bob slightly, as if a few of the drops of water were a bit too heavy, and swayed them. He mouthed the words ‘I love you’. If in fact he had actually spoken the words, they were barely audible over the whisper of the shower. She began kissing him as if to say, ‘I love you too’.

Between their lips which darted back and forth from one another’s, water streamed, and kept their eyes closed. Their hands found familiar places around one another’s bodies, tracing in random caress as if this were the first time they’d touched each other in such a way. As their mouths connected, their kiss erupted into ferocity, and it was hard to breath, but the light-headedness only made something about the moment more exciting.

They each felt compelled to make the other one feel at ease, the way two lovers do, sort of into a battle over who would be the one to bring the other’s pleasure a bit higher first. He, with his back to the wall, eventually lost the struggle, her hands gently pinning the front of his shoulders. Admitting defeat, he sighed and smiled with one corner of his mouth raised, containing any objections or "ladies first" obligations behind sealed lips.

Her lips met his again, and she proceeded to take control, glancing her fingertips over each of his nipples. He hardly contained squirming, but did so by adopting in his mind the same posture his body'd taken, laying back and enjoying the ride. Her mouth replaced her hands, hovering her warmth over his chest, and breathing out slowly and deeply, sending a wave of breath over him which gave his skin a jolt of feeling. She kissed his body several times, causing suction and bringing his skin into her mouth, rolling her tongue over it in a quick motion.

Her hands began stroking up his legs and she pushed him into more of a sitting posture, than less of a recline, and lied on the floor of the tub. Their eyes met once more, and she grinned as he closed his. To take a vengeance on his earlier abruptness, she skipped any stage of teasing and used her mouth to envelope his dick, which had become erect during the course of the time’s sensations. As she had, he gasped, but smiled through it, and ran a thumb down her cheek, caressing her while she began to coax an orgasm out of him.

Her mouth brought a moisture warmer than the showerhead could dream of bringing. The massage she was giving him was better than the thing could do too. While her tongue lolled about him inside of her closed mouth, he let his mind wander, in they way it can only do in such a calm.

He thought of times they'd smiled, and times they'd held conversations silently. Her lips created a tight suction which caused the muscles in his legs to tense. This was furthered when she used her free hand to run water-softened fingernails over his ball satchel.

The hum of the shower and the utter relaxation that her mouth brought him put him into an almost hypnotized state. The two stimuli converged to create an even greater event than the simple act of sex that was going on. As sound and echoes were bouncing off of the tiles, he bit his lip softly, as she went for the gusto, focusing on the silky skin of his penis head. His mind raced, easing his mind into the orgasm, opening his eyes and viewing the woman in front of him, taking in every detail about her; the way the water collected above her brow, the shape of her lips around him, the look of near peace, or perhaps pleasure that was amongst her closed eyes as she performed upon her lover, legs bent at the knees, feet bobbing back and forth youthfully. Her hair was matted down under the running water, and he was pushed overboard.

No thoughts overcame his mind anymore, and his thighs and ass tensed up as he lost any control over his body he might've had, and released his seed into her almost too eager mouth. She continued despite, gingerly running her tongue over his slowly throbbing member, sucking gently, knowing she'd given a great release to the one she loved. She let his juice run from her mouth and travel slowly to the drain. She slowly inched her way, kissing the same way she'd come down, up his body, ending up hanging her lips in front of his, feeling his finally slowing breathing against her lips, restraining herself from kidnapping his lips with hers and kissing furiously. Their lips lingered in front of one another’s for what may've been an hour for all their mind's could recognize.

The tentative pairs finally met, joined by the water cascading down from overhead. sending trails down the various contours of their faces. They pressed against each other almost prudently at first, their heads turning once in a while to accommodate each other's noses in a series of light pecks, which made an almost inaudible smacking sound each time they happened. Their tongues met briefly, and he used his foot semi deftly to turn off the shower, creating a near silence in the room. They stood up together, locking eyes and letting the water drip from their bodies, steam billowing around the area carelessly.

They stepped from the tub they'd moments ago lied in. He grabs a towel from the rack, and begins to pat her dry, slowly and sensually as one can when simply drying another with a towel. She smiled as she was dried, nipples alert at the abrupt change in atmosphere, despite the blanket of steam. Her hair still retained most of its dampness. None the less she took the towel from his and began to remove the excess water from his body. His eyes traced the way her hands ran up and down his being, and his mind began to race a bit more with every stroke; surely hers must've been too.

She initiated an embrace, draping herself over him, almost dead weighting herself atop him. He wrapped his hands underneath her thighs and hoisted her up, her legs starting to dangle from his hips nearly dragging the floor as he carried her into their bedroom.

City Lights/An excerpt from "The Best Way to Do Shots"

City Lights*

After shots, at least eleven, at various bars on the strip, I sat on the corner, cars and lights whirring by, blur of blurs, feeling sick, fighting the urge to vomit, I made a promise to myself I knew I wouldn’t keep. I lied down, went to sleep. A man in a uniform shook me awake and told me he could bust my ass for a P I. I told him I live down the street. He told me that he was feeling generous, so he’d let me walk my ass home. I thanked him, turned, and began to stumble in the direction of my apartment complex.

When I made it to the intersection, I stared up into the red light above me. My stomach was churning. Shots of vodka + tequila + whiskey + a couple of fru-fru cocktails, holy shit. I was trying to count in my head, remember how many shots it was. And where the hell were my friends? The light went green, the little green man, frozen in step, started flashing. Already? That was quick. I started to cross the street and I could feel a tingle in the back of my neck, hairs standing. I couldn’t hold it in anymore and began puking with each step.

I managed to get across the street. I was only about a block away from home. An SUV slowed to the curb. I could see it in my blurred peripheral. First headlights, then the mass. I heard a woman’s voice, asking me if I was okay. I waved her off without looking at her. I was hunched over, clutching my stomach.

She asked me if I needed a ride. I looked up and said no, I live a block or so away. She said that she saw me drinking at one of the bars, that I looked familiar. I had no idea who she was, but she wasn’t pretty. Thin, straight blonde hair. Blue eyes. Big tits. Skinny waist. Bird legs. Plain. Boring. She was standing next to her vehicle. Smoking. Watching me as I wretched into a trash can.

I used to buy coke from you, she screamed. That’s it! You got any? I told her that I didn’t do that anymore, that I’d grown out of the rebellious spirit that one taking up that kind of profession must have. She just glared emptily at me. I don’t want to get busted on account of dumb rich teenagers, I said, blowing slobber from my lips. Oh, she said. Oh? Really? That’s it? Oh? Typical of these spoiled broads who do nothing all day but pamper themselves on their parents’ dime. I continued, ambling in the direction of my apartment.

She shouted some profanities at me and I could hear the car door slam shut, followed by the SUV screeching past me. I laughed, and then, bearing ahead faster, staggering each step, the city lights faded as I passed ‘neath the trees, closer to where I lived, my bed, invoking me from afar.

By Patrick Patterson-Carroll

*excerpted from "The Best Way to Do Shots" inspired by the short stories of William T. Vollmann

Life During Wartime

"Life During Wartime"

By Matthew Royall

As our convoy halted, the dust cloud it’d been creating envelopes us briefly while the dismounts’ boots touch the hard sand road. Covered in a helmet, a cigarette loosely in the lips, an automatic weapon serving as an extension of my arms I begin to wonder.

Ragtag groups of children dressed in the outfits you’d see in refugee commercials crowd us, lust for handouts in their eyes, so they could perhaps take something home and serve their family, or keep it for themselves and break the monotany of desert existence. God don’t let any of em have a bomb... “Water Mister!” A voice behind outstretched hands. “Chocolate Mister!” Different voice, same anxious palms. And the first thought that comes into my head is “What are these kids’ first words?... Mama...Papa...Mister please?”

One kid spies the cigarette dangling from my lips and raises two fingers to his. ‘Cheeky bastard!’, I think. But part of me can’t help smiling. So with one hand on my pack, and the other on my weapon, I toss a few at him, and I don’t really watch, or care if he gets them or not. I consider giving one of them my Pork Rib MRE as a joke in bad taste, since they could probably read as much of my language as I can of theirs.

I see our Battalion’s HNIC, well, SNCOIC (Staff Non Commisioned Officer in Charge) is dismounted, and the adolescents stand eye level with him while the younger one’s come up to his chest. He is the portrait of a little man in a big world. SgtMaj Reyes is walking with a bag of candy, and life’s little essentials, pandering to the sea of brown skinned black haired urchins that revere him like a god...as long as he's got goodies.

Other dismounts handed packages to the older villagers. This was winning the hearts and minds of Iraq in action. Although while we were training the motto’d been ‘Two to the chest, one to the head’... not make everytime we pass through here the reverse of halloween... the ones all dressed up giving out goodies almost door to door. It makes me wonder if the director for the Peace Corps and the Marine Corps got their documents switched up on the way to their respective meetings. And if they did.... what was the Peace Corps doing right now? I also know with great conviction, in the part of the country where someone dies today, there will be media coverage, not where things have been settled... not where people’s frowns have been broken.

Everyone returns to their vehicles, and we prepare to start the dust storm up again as engines thunder, laboriously pulling their cargo, bodies and the armor weighing them down. The desert passes by... at times its like watching the same 60 frames of looped animation, with minute differences ever 20 frames or so. This scenery combined with the sensation of flying through an oven is like hypnosis for some people and can lead to complacency... luckily I can focus on the jarring of my knees as the humvees are driving over roads that might put some in Dallas to shame... might.

The first part of our convoy set to take a different route veers off, and I imagine a Y shaped dust cloud from an ariel shot, like a pretentious car commercial. In 45 minutes I’ve managed to go through 15 smokes, not including the ones tossed at the young diaperhead. The town we head through seems deserted, and it most likely is as we have a base on the other side of it. Picture cardboard boxes with windows... the size of a normal building, most of them having a sign with arabic scrawled on them somewhere. Coat said boxes with low grit sandpaper of various colors, add a pillar around a fountain that will never see water (a momument to ‘who gives a fuck?’), and an occasional bush that looks like Michael J Fox took a match to an afro. That’s kind of what this place looked like.

Inside the base, after unloading a belt of rounds touched by the desert heat and ensuring the weapon wasn’t capable of accidentially killing anyone we got out our food in the form of MREs... Funny name... Mr.E... cause if it says its beef patty or whatever, it might be... reminds me of cafeteria lunch at schools...mystery meat... just, without old fat lunch ladies I fantasize about (hairnet, potato scoop and all) serving me, or the taste.

“Why don’t you go let him stand on your back?” Cpl Sandoval, asks me, pointing over to SgtMaj Reyes. The SgtMaj was the center of another portrait, little man and a big urinal. The urinals were PVC pipes stuck deep into the ground, waiting like a german raunch star for you to get your dick in and release. “Cause then his nuts’d’ be resting on my ribs.” I replied chuckling “You remember when Sgt Williams’ tall lanky ass came from the shower all red faced and pissed off, banging wall lockers, screaming of how unfair it was that God gave Reyes so much, but most men so little...especially taking into account their height differences... a good foot and a half between em.”

“Its like the dick version of Cain and Able...” Sandoval says through a mouthful of bread and cheese spread, continuing to watch SgtMaj do his thing... “I wonder how girls would use that thing...” He mused, and I could see in some far off place... he was really going over it in his mind. I wondered if he meant the SgtMaj’s pipe or the PVC piss tube he was tiptoeing in front of. I decided to oblige him the details from my own thoughts on the matter. “Well first, they get into like a crab walk position then another girll pulls back on th-”I was cut short by a bark, not getting to disclose the one i thought he was thinking, leaving room for both.

“SandyBawls! Get yer ass over here, the meeting’s starting.” A random voice of authority made its subject move. Sighing, he leaves his rifle with me, trudging to the shack the meeting’d be held in. Sgt Stoutmoore approached me, his left sided grin and aged steel set eyes matching my withdrawn glare and similar smirk. He claps me on the back, and I’m sure dust flies, “How is it, now that you’re not a virgin anymore shorty? Want me to hold your hand since your cherry’s been popped?” He asks grinning as I hand him a can of snuff. “You aren’t going to get all emotional on me now are you?” He jested, as since we’d been in the country, it’d been my first time off base, and first time on a mission in a foriegn country, however small this one was. “Emotional no...” cocking my head and batting my eyes at him “Clingy... yes.” I answer, mocking femininity and fluttering my wrist in the Oak Lawn gayng sign.

I watch him load his lip with a pinch of snuff, and tell me he had to join the meeting Sandyballs had just run off to. He spits, and when it lands it looks like when the coyote falls into a canyon. I walk over to center myself in a portrait complimenting SgtMaj Reyes’s...Another little man and a big urinal.

5-23-09

Genetically Hip

“How about the cheetah skin?”

“Only posers do cheetah.”

“Scott Sapien’s got cheetah skin.”

“Scott Sapien’s a poser.”

“Fuck you, BioCore rules!”

“Adam, what do you think?”

“BioCore rocks. Scott Sapien is a sell out, not a poser, big difference.

And, cheetah skin is a little played out. Take a look at the zebra, not a lot of people have it yet.”

The doc pulls up zebra on the screen.

Harley’s pale Caucasian skin changes to black and white zebra strips on the screen. It’s a good look.

Harley smiles and starts clapping her hands.

“That one, that one.” She screams out.

Her girlfriend, the doc and I laugh.

“I guess she wants zebra.”

She sits in the chair while the doc gets the needle ready.

“You ready to be a genetically hip,” I say as he puts the needle into her arm.

A few second later she screams from the pain.


As we walked down Commerce toward Malcolm X, Harley asks me if it still hurts that bad every time I get grafted.

Considering it’s her first and Laura, her girlfriend, only has three, I guess it’s a natural question.

“Yes, it still hurts if it’s your 1st, or 20th.”

“Oh.” She says and I know she probably won’t get another.

“The eyes are the worst.”

Laura looks over at me and stares into my cat’s eyes with her own.

“Well, actually supposedly gender swaps are the most painful, but I don’t think I’ll be crossing that line anytime soon.”

Harley grabs Laura by the waist.

“Why don’t you babe? We can finally be boyfriend and girlfriend. It’ll make my mom so happy.”

“Fuck that!”

“I’m lesbian. I like pussy. But, just because I like pussy doesn’t means I want to have a dick. Me dikey. No dicky.”

We all laugh as we turn the corner, making our way to Elm.

“Oh, that reminds me, we need to stop by the record store so I can pick up the new MaryJesus Magdalene album, ‘God Complex’”

We sing aloud to “I lost my dick, but found god,” just the latest hit form the transgender pop punk goddess.

Harley looks over at me, a goddess herself with her dirty blond hair, hour glass figure and now zebra stripped skin, still puffy and blotchy with freshness. In a few days it will settle down and she’ll look like she stepped off of a fiction writer’s wet dream.

“What if it doesn’t take? I know you told me its ok, but how will I know if my body rejects it?”

I pull my sleeve and show her my left arm.

If it doesn’t take it part of your skin will be normal and part will be ani.

“How much of your skin is snake?”

“Just half of this arm, but my dick has fangs.”

Her eyes turn into saucers and her mouth drops open. I try to keep from laughing, but eventually Laura can’t hold it in any longer and bust out laughing and soon I’m rolling around on the filthy sidewalk with tears in my eyes.


At Sunshine Records, I grab a copy of God Complex and stare at the image of my own personal savior, damn near naked on the cover, strapped to a cross and wearing an engraved metal chastity belt.

It’s worth it for the poster alone.

I move on to the used music and check out Genetic Dump’s 2nd album. It’s a rare Australia only release, so I grab it and start counting my cash in my mind.

My attention is diverted by the DJ’s hot mix and I finally look up at the booth to see a living light show.

She has the same cuttlefish genes as me, but instead of in her hair, she has it on her skin. She’s spinning some new RiboSleaze mixed with some old school Baby Ann and I notice that she’s staring at me.

She smiles with a canine enhanced smile and licks her lips with a long lizard-like tongue and I know tonight’s gonna be fun.


I stretch out in my bed next to the RiboSleaze trance artist smoking a joint. The euphoric loss of equilibrium rushes my head and I’m transported just out of my body.

As I look down at my mutated body, multicolor hair, snake skin patches, cat’s eyes and claws, multiple piercings and tattoos I wonder if god ever intended for us to change ever thing we born to be.

As I come swimming back into myself, I forget about all that and go down on the custom made freak beside me

The Alphabet (an introduction to the utilization of language)

The Alphabet.

Aa, Bb, Cc, Dd, Ee, Ff,

Gg, Hh, Ii, Jj, Kk, Ll, Mm,

Nn, Oo, Pp, Qq, Rr, Ss,

Tt, Uu, Vv, Ww, Xx, Yy, Zz

By Patrick Patterson-Carroll

Pet Sounds and Pretensions to the Poetic

“Pet Sounds (a drunken tribute to The Beach Boys)”

By Patrick Patterson-Carroll

Wouldn't it be nice?


My bottle of scotch and i have decided that we love mayakovsky, who is, by far, the greatest Soviet poet. Now, some of you philistines might point out that it all starts with yesenin, and well, you'd be right, but... the bottle and i have made our decision. We are wholly incorruptible.

if we were older...


My bottle of scotch and i think it might be best if you leave. You are not old enough for this ride.

then we wouldn't have to wait so long...

My bottle of scotch and i are happy with our decisions in life. Sometimes we lay out in the night air, our lips locked, and the drunker i get, the more i think, "well shit, i could die right now and be perfectly okay with it."

and wouldn't it be nice to live together...

My bottle of scotch and i see eye to eye on many things. We are both vehemently against the criminalization of drunk drivers and feel that if one is too drunk to stumble home, then one has no other option than to drive. Perhaps the bottle and i are more corruptible than we once thought. But no one's perfect.

in the kinda world where we belong?

My bottle of scotch and i always get excited when a new woman enters our life. It's amazing how, the closer we are to one another, the prettier these girls get.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up in the mornin' when the day is new?

My bottle of scotch and i love the beach boys. We think they're almost as amazing as the village people. They're like, the heterosexual precursors to those freaks. When the bottle and i say freaks, we mean it in the nicest way possible. But yeah, those beach boys. Holy shit are they good. pet sounds is the greatest album ever right after william shatner's masterpieces.

hold each other close the whole night thru?

My bottle of scotch and i are always questioning our heterosexuality. We do sleep together, after all.

boop boop wooo oooooh... baby...

My bottle of scotch and i are finished. Sittin' in my car outside your heart...

(2007 or 2008)