Your Parodies SUCK

Okay, I've had it. Leonard, you're fired. I've had a good deal of patience for your unefficable work, but today is the last straw. I cannot believe you just suggested the next sketch be about pop sensation "Britney Beers". She drinks beer? "Angelina Jolly"? "Jenny McArthur"? That type of quality is inexusable. Leonard, your parodies suck.

We are a state of the art, cutting edge topical sketch quartet; we are inner city Baltimore all the way! The residents of our little slice of urban heaven need sketches ripped from the headlines. Like Ted here. He wrote a damn fine sketch about a, get this, a molestation trial featuring "Micheal Wackson". See, the name is integral. Your lame "Tom Cruisemissile" is no match for Ted's "Dennis Quaalude", or that matter, his "Bill Pull-edpork-man".

You had promise when you first started here. We had just lost Randy when he moved to Northern Virginia with his girlfriend, and we needed a new kazoo player. You wowed me at the audition, but I should've seen this coming when you proposed that god-awful "Paris Richton". It wasn't funny, but we all thought you were getting your sea legs. How wrong we were.

I remember the greats of our business, the Molly Walkers and the Steven McCapsgees. You could give you any celebrity and they'd have a bonafide parody for you in minutes. One time, Steven, I said, do you have anything for Brad Pitt? He looked at me and said, I'll never forget this, "Bad Pitt McGee". Of course, his gimmick was to throw a "McGee" at the end, but it wasn't his shortcut in the business, it was his seal of approval. And Molly, whooo she could give you a name like you'd think it was real, "Stat Cevens" and "Gel Mibson" not to mention "Gteve Suttenberg".

I'll need the t-shirt back too. We're no longer "The Four Strained Piece", another classic. Come back when you've made a t-shirt. And take your sucky parodies with you!

A Blog, A Diary. a Legacy

"A Blog on the Experience of Writing a Blog about What it is Like to Write a Blog about the Experiences of Writing a Blog."

The first sentence took a while to conjure up, but when it did, it arrived breathing smoke. The second sentence was just a small retarding flame. I nurtured the flame into the third sentence, still keeping in mind my first and second sentences. By the fourth sentence, the beast was alive and vivid with imagery about fire. The fifth sentence segued into...

The second paragraph's first sentence. My tensions rose as I hammered out the second sentence-- would it rival its first paragraph counterpart, or would it flounder like the third sentence did. This is the third sentence. My fourth sentence was incomplete because of-- the fifth sentence of the second paragraph came to suddenly and I had no hopes of faithfully ending the fourth's existence. My sixth sentence told me that I had achieved half of some great meditative truth in the fourth, but the devil in the fifth suppressed it. The seventh sentence was delayed from an IM which required attention. Now the eighth sentence is a burgeoning item, my capacity for sentences in the second paragraph is challenged, as nothing in the first paragraph could prepare me for the syntactical structure of the second paragraph. Nine sentences and no sign of stopping, this entire outpouring is magnificently, I could never have thought that the fire imagery in paragraph one could've-- oh, the words escape me-- expanded into reality. The monster of free thought is finally realized in its encapsulating tenth sentence. May the eleventh sentence save us all.

Oh, God, the destruction! the chaos! the interjections of the first sentence of the third paragraph. The rubble...the final sentence.

If you see this, make a comment!

The stairway, a corkscrew pattern between the 3rd and 2nd floors carpeted in a plush beige tone, creaked in protestation of Savio DeScindo's late night weight. Each step pronounced itself as Savio made his way down to the bottom floor of his house-- too many damn floors for an old man's legs; he thought of his father's father, and how he used to crave a ranch house, bad knees was a family legacy.

Savio's wife had sent him out to check on a noise she thought she might have heard from the den. She was fast asleep before her old (and fourth) husband was out the bedroom door.

Stupid Marla, he scowled. In the dark, the familiar niches of his comfortable decorations were alien. Now that he was closing in on the vicinity of the alleged noise, these uncanny markings were foreboding to him. The coat rack was too draped in shadows not to be feared. Each brush of a wall's edging sent a chill into his biceps. But there was still enough moonlight to avoid full on collisions.

Savio reached the front door. Still locked. The area of the front door was open all the way up the house's height, and circular windows with snowflake frames dotted the broad open space between door and ceiling. It was these windows that gave the most light during the day and even at night. Everything that was touched by the perspective was awash in casual blue luminescence, and everything removed was in utter darkness. Savio made his own portly shadow into the living room, then stepped aside so that the room could be unfolded in light like an crumbling sandcastle emerging from underneath the tide.

CHAPTER II

This isn't exciting and I apologize. You picked up this book thinking you were going to read about maybe someone dying, hopefully of cancer, a disease which could be stretched out over the length of these odd pages.

I'm sorry, but my life, as much as it seems droll to you, is even more so to me. Its dry daily activities are calming and sooth the soul, but that is the precise reason why it provokes insanity.

I have no stories of friends gone mad, people I know that took shotguns to their face for the sake of telling a tale, the bad news of a pregnancy test, or Daddys runaway to New Jersey with his new friend, “Ted”. The tension in the town is a pressure of Whogonnadoit. Someone here is going to flip out, I'm sure, and I'm anxious to hear the news.

It is not inconceivable to want this. Leesburg is a town growing exponentially, but it has not come of age until it can survive a great tragedy. People know Troy for Helen. People who can't locate Europe on a map know Auschwitz. These completely inconsequential places being thrust celebrity and thus garner their fame from sympathy, the pattern claims Leesburg as its next brood, but no one here is willing to sacrifice. Oh the mundanity of it all, to want to hear the firetruck wailing and see the billows against the blue sky like ink bleeding through paper, wetting everything it touches with the same unintentional destruction/ creation.

What else is there to be said about a town without a story?