I'm half asleep, and I just woke up, so without further adieu
here is Kevynn Malone's guest post.

Edward James Olmos Scissor Hands…

I suck sometimes. Writing sucks. Lemons suck. Vacuum cleaners suck. I can put off things like a motherfucker. Vicodin sucks. I hate that crap. Makes my stomach all queasy. You feel like you want to go to sleep, but cant. I hate pills. I hate taking aspirin, I just figure by the time the stuff is supposed to work, you’ve probably already forgotten that you took it anyway. I don’t like that crap in my body anyway. But don’t listen to me. Remember – I’m the one who drinks more than yo’ mama.

Do you remember Webster, the TV series with Emmanuel Lewis? The Different Strokes rip-off? Except that he didn’t have an older brother and a crazy-ass older sister that you know secretly wanted Willis? You know she would’ve put the moves on him if Janet Jackson weren’t all deep into the Drummond house shit. Anyway, what bugged me about Webster was that he didn’t have an independent bone in his little body. I remember where Arnold and Willis came from. They were poor and their parent’s died somehow. But little Webster was a lap dog. He never really game his foster parents any shit. He acted…scared. He had a big football player as his foster father and a dyke-y lookin’ foster mother who he always called “Maam”. What was that all about? How come he had to call the guy by his first name and the lady “Maam?” Explain this to me, please.


God Damn. That’s all that I have to say right now. That’s it. 60, one of my cats is to my left. Looking very Charlie Chan right now. I found her on the freeway. Poor cat. Somebody tossed her because she was pregnant. Bastards.

My grandmother’s name was “Bubba”. She wasn’t fat. My father just couldn’t pronounce “Mother” when he was young. So she was “Bubba” until she died. Bubba was the only grandparent that I knew of mine. Her husband, my grandfather – died before I was born. From what I’ve heard, he seemed like a pretty cool guy. Really low key. He had a limp from Polio. Was a woodshop teacher, architect, and a high school principal. My grandmother was a hard-core, bible thumpin’ Irish, Baptist and ran the show. My grandmother was a Latin and an English teacher.

My mother’s father, I’ve heard, wrote some books on engineering out in Vietnam. He died before I was born. My grandmother on that side died maybe a couple of years ago. I never met her. Never spoke to her. My mother’s never been back since she left, and I never had the money to go to Vietnam, so that’s that. Maybe it’s a good thing that I’ve never been to Vietnam, though. They’d probably stone me for being a half-bastard gook. I don’t have the slanted eyes. That sucks that I don’t, because then I wouldn’t have got in trouble all of those times in Economics in my senior year. Gooks never get blamed for falling asleep in class.

I really would’ve liked to have the opportunity to hang out with all of my grandparents. Though, I couldn’t really picture them all hanging out with each other. One set never spoke English. One Grandmother would’ve tried to recruit the heathens to her religion, and one grandmother would’ve eaten the other’s pets. Two wrote. That’s nice. They would’ve hated my writing. I write like a retarded Walrus would write like. What does a retarded Walrus write like? This. They all sounded like nice people. I did know my bible-thumpin’ grandmother for a little bit. I think that she died when I was five. I remember her making hamburgers, and then answering the phone and giving the responsibility to my brother. That made me jealous, the fucker. I remember her moving to California to live with us after she broke her hip. She hid Easter presents in her closet. But it was all bible stuff, so it didn’t excite me much. She taught me how to read when I was in pre-school. That was something that I’ll forever be thankful for. Dick and Jane was first book. Yup, Penis and Jane. She’d be proud of me. Appalled at my grammar, spelling, syntax…and my frequent use of the word, penis. I remember Bubba’s funeral. That was sad. I remember finding all the crying grown ups interesting and wondering if I should feel guilty because I wasn’t. ( Crying, not interesting. )

This is a ramble, I know. All that I know is that I would’ve liked to know my grandparent’s more. If only to answer all my questions about my parents. Why didn’t they stop the wedding? I would have. How could you pass up the opportunity to change history? To make sure another Viet-ler wasn’t born? It never would have worked, though. Me and the grandparents. Me and parents don’t work. Me and girlfriends don’t work. Me and friends work. Me and pets work. Houseplants and me work. Me and me? Ummm…I don’t know yet. I can’t deal with the family stuff. I don’t know much about it. I like other people’s families. They love me. I love them. They’re always cool. Everything’s fine. If it isn’t? I leave. Good deal.

I like being by myself. I’m not agoraphobic much. I used to hate visitors. But, I write a lot less now, so it doesn’t matter. And now I live with my girlfriend, so there’s no such thing as private time anymore. The best thing that you can do for me, folks…is to give me a crap load of money and read all of my shit. Buy whatever I’m selling, listen to what I’m saying. Do it. Because you never know what I might say. Everything about me is like a stray dog that you might try to pet. You’ll end up two ways. Full of love and better for the experience, or bleeding, and with your ears ringing.

Lick, Lick.
Ruff! Ruff!

I love Bubba.

Thanks Kevynn, it was worth the wait, and saved you a bitch slapping from the mighty #117.
I hate when he writes good stuff like that,
and I envy him him his yoot
and his half gookness
and his hippie girlfriend
and his Bubba Malone, and didn't Bubba Malone used to play 3rd Base for the Cleveland Indians back in the 50's?
Or maybe the Ho Chi Minh City Gooks back in the 90's?
because my Bubba Malone was half crazy, well on her way to being full crazy
and his isn't much agoraphobia, which is cute, compared to my much agoraphobia, which is treatable, so it isn't a problem anymore, but I bring it up anyway as a lame cry for pity and sympathy
and peace, love and understanding,
and what's so funny about that
Mr. Costello?
I am dizzy.
I AM BOX, I mean BOZ
I am going back to bed.
Forgive them Je-sus (Hay-Zeus) for they no not what they're doing,
BABY!!!