To Whom It May Concern:

If you’re looking for an experienced urine collector, look no further. When it comes to obsessively hoarding piss, I’m your man!  I suffer from a severe form of OCD that I developed when some dumb twat threw a tampon on me when I was 7.  Ever since, I’ve had an irrational urge to store urine samples.  Think Howard Hughes except unemployed (I’m very poor).  As such, I have 23 years of urine sampling experience to bring to the table.  There’s not a container in this world that I haven’t peed in: cups, mason jars, oven mitts, snow globes, dresser drawers, urns - If it can hold liquid, I’ve put piss in it. Not all of it is my urine, either.  There’s not a creature on this planet that I haven’t forced urine from.   If it has a bladder, I’ve milked it.  There’s a warm feeling of accomplishment that comes from having something pee in front of you.  My qualifications include drug screening since a number of the animals I’ve collected urine from were drugged. 

I know this position was listed as part-time but I’d be willing to work off the clock.  In fact, I’d prefer being able to collect and store as much urine as possible.  I would even even consider compensation in the form of you letting me keep some of the samples.   

Thank you for your time and consideration.  I would make a great addition to your pee team.  If you hire me, URINE for a real treat! 

Sincerely,

Mark A. Young

[Dreadmark is sitting at his desk searching the internet for Oxford House vacancies in Delaware.  Sitting on his bed is Dr. Clown Shoes]

Dr. Clown Shoes:

A sober house?

Dreadmark:

I’m not getting any better.  

Dr. Clown Shoes:

Please, don’t make us live in a sober house!  Oh my God, not fun. Just saying ‘sober house’ exhausts me. I feel weary. It’s the napalm of boredom. Drop the ‘sober house’ bomb and BOOM: everyone sighs. No. ‘Sober house’ is to fun what diarrhea is to a sippy cup. Naw uh. Not happening!

Dreadmark:

I know, I know.  I agree with everything except that last metaphor. 

Dr. Clown Shoes:

Just watching you search for places is like being bore-fucked by the nap fairy.  Did a snooze alarm go off? Because I feel like everything from this moment on is going to suck. 

Dreadmark:

It is.  But I can’t keep doing this to my parents.

Dr. Clown Shoes:

Yes, you can. 

Dreadmark:

I can’t use and live in their home.

Dr. Clown Shoes:

Yes, you CAN. In fact, we should be high RIGHT NOW.  There’s gotta be something we can shove into some hole somewhere that’ll do something we can later look back on and go, “huh?” and then regret. 

Dreadmark:

I’m fucking awful.  The stupidest part is that I know they’ll catch me every time.  Whether I’m blacked out from drinking or emptying pill capsules into paper cups, sooner or later I get myself caught.  The worst part is I don’t feel bad because of what I’ve done.  I feel bad because I’m not going to get high anytime soon. 

Dr. Clown Shoes:

Sure you feel bad ‘bout what you’ve done.  You’ve done it so many times -the lying, the stealing, the apologizing, the begging - you’ve built-up a callous inside you that keeps you from feeling all that guilt at once.  It just slowly leaks into your system like a faulty septic tank or slow-ass coffee machine and pollutes you over time. 

Dreadmark:

I don’t seem to appreciate anything.  I take it all for granted.  I can’t stop.  The nice house, the cooked meals, the free rides - my mother does the dishes half the time for fuck’s sake!  

Dr. Clown Shoes:

I know! It’s great.  You have free internet and they pay your Cobra, too.  If they could open your eyes up and move your bowels you wouldn’t even have to think.  It’s like living in an amniotic sac. Don’t take that away.

Dreadmark.

I don’ think it’s our choice anymore. 

Dr. Clown Shoes:

Oh my God, I’d do a nine inch line of meth off a ten inch cock if it was presented that way, right now. A nine off a ten.  Fuck, I’d eat crushed vicodin from Burt Reynold’s anal bush, WHATEVER -  just get me the fuck out of this skin. 

Dreadmark:

I need to go for a walk.  Maybe find half a cigarette butt somewhere.  I don’t know what’s going to happen next to us. 

[Dreadmark begins to exit the bedroom.  Dr. Clown Shoes calls after him]

Dr. Clown Shoes:

Hey, do you think we can get your parents to take us to the Rite Aid!? Say we need mouthwash or something!?  We can steal benzedrex nasal inhalers and swallow the cotton!   Hey!?

Sujbect Line:

Fresh farm floozies discover their animal side

Body:

dalton clause celibacy

indulge so amiable so much handsome

heard it? them

http://groups.google.com/group/jUgilliganVillagroup1239696953/web/12396970754

without the smallest skill claret I always told

avenue eleven, or twelve

Response:

All I have to say is YES PLEASE thank you! Am I the only one getting these? Because if no one else is, MORE FOR ME! What a penis treat! This is the exact configuration of irrational porn I  MUST marinate in before masturbating every day (hourly).  What’s NOT to like?  It’s got all the ingredients:

1) FRESH.  What comes to mind? A lipstick donning, peachy June Cleaveresque female-type slowly pulling a hot, steaming, sensual loaf of bread out of a big FAT ASS shiny steel oven? I don’t know about you, but I like my erotica fresh, like plastic-wrapped ham giblets or a recent dump. 

2) FARM.  Even the word makes you think of sex. If I ever date a real-life woman I’d get her in the mood by staring unblinkingly into her eyes while calmly repeating “FARM” over and over again until she’s ready to go.   

3) FLOOZIES. Why use any other word in the dictionary? I don’t mean just when talking about sex.  Just ever. This email should be a series of “floozies” written in Times New Roman font.    Instead it’s a whole bunch of words in Helvetica. 

But try doing a google search sometime for “fresh farm floozies” and see what you come up with: fresh farm eggs, farmer’s daughters, fresh farmer’s markets -  Fresh farm FUCK IT, I say.  Or used to before you emailed me.  Which begs the question: how did you know that somewhere out there someone would be searching for a fresh farm floozy?  Why do you know this?  What research did you do before coming to the obviously sound conclusion that sending thousands if not millions of emails was appropriate despite such a possibly small ‘fresh farm floozy’ contingency?  ‘The whole point of spam is to get people to either buy a product or visit a site and that means having to first open the email.  ‘Who the fuck is going to open this email?’ you could’ve asked yourself? ‘Looking at the subject line makes me want to open every email BUT this one specifically’ you could’ve remarked in exasperation.  Any other so-called ‘reasonable’ person probably would have decided on using a non-barnyard related fetish at the very least.  Perhaps you were betting a good number of people would read “fresh farm floozies” and be compelled by sheer curiosity to open the email.  If that’s all it takes to get someone to open their mail then my bills should come in envelopes reading “Want to saltyfuck a tranny horse?” or “Inside: lumpy Asian toilet surprise!” Whatever the reason, I am appreciative.  Please continue finding bizarre fetish combinations capable of satiating even the most unsettling of masturbatory needs.  

PS: I think there might be some grammar or language-based disconnect with the body of your email.  I feel very removed from its meaning.  Is this poetry?

-Mark

Dear diary:

Had quite a productive day if I do say so myself. Woke up sometime before dawn and started the usual routine: got dressed, washed face, got undressed, shaved my body hair with a soup can lid, went outside to water the neighbor’s dog - the usual.  After that it was nearly time to go throw orange peels at traffic lights and laugh (gets me everytime!). Right in the middle of a particularly hilarious toss I felt a sudden, irresistible urge to tell everyone that came near me (or within hearing range) that there were aliens in our cereal and they were sodomizing Ben Franklin’s laminated skull!  Could you believe it! Out of nowhere. This wasn’t planned at all. I kept reminding myself “stick to the schedule.” Unstructured time for me inevitably leads to wasted hours arranging loose coins on sidewalks and sniffing gravel until the daylight runs out and I’m left kicking myself.  Today would be different! By ten o’clock I had already completed the first task on the checklist:  put tennis balls into coin-operated dryer and dance. While locating a public dryer, I made sure to stop and introduce myself to each and every telephone pole.  Customarily, I’d be pushing a grocery cart filled with car parts and cat litter down the street while gesturing wildly at passing cars, but today I had to get down to the library and they never let me in with my cart! I figure I’d spend 2 hours on the computer watching videos of fat women tickling each other and then I’d walk backwards down the book aisles cursing at imaginary demons. Barely made it fifteen minutes and a security guard was escorting me out!  I thought I’d thank him so I put on my coon-skin hat and took a squatting shit right there in the middle of the road! Cars were stopped, horns blaring, meanwhile I kept shaking my head violently like I always do during stressful times and screamed at God to silence the giggling daffodils in my head! Fortunately, I managed to shake out of it and exit before cops were called.  

Disappointed about the library, I headed uptown. Maybe a day at the zoo would help. I could shout names of dead celebrities into my megaphone or noticeably argue with a ghost in a bathroom stall.  Halfway there it hit me:  what always puts me in a good mood? 

Doing a shitload of crack!  Duh?!

I knew uptown well enough to find the right street corner magicians to make this thing happen.  I had twenty dollars from a wallet I picked off a kid on the metro and it was going to waste stuffed down inside my jockies (a women’s t-shirt I tied into a diaper).  A long story short, I scored and hunkered down in the nearest back alley.  That first inhale had me so excited, it was like the first time I tried donating my porno collection to the new children’s hospital on 11th (keep on trying!).  I was relieved to find I still had plenty of time to make it home for my favorite evening ritual: raking the neighbor’s driveway with pantyhose over my face while softly singing curse words into nursery rhymes.  All of which I completed before the sun went down!

Tomorrow I plan to spend the early part of the day spreading baby powder on the front lawn and then the remaining time waiting for my baby garden to grow.  I assume ten to fifteen stalks of baby for the harvest. 

Until then,

Admiral Pancakes

Everybody gets spam.  More often than not they are standard fare with subject lines about mortgages or discount drugs. BORING. Delete. Every once in a while you get a gem.  I enjoyed the subject line of the following email so much I wrote a response. 

Subject:

EvenIfYourrPpneiisIsFullOfBeansNowThingsMayChanageAnyMoement all, and a pair of large green spectacles, and a great hooked nose

Body:

http://www.morganicajocelyn.com

To the sanguin complexion

luckily I was aware mine were trifling, and did not

to see it more clearly, the object altered its form and position. 

Hello class and welcome to Satanic Mindfulness and Relaxation!  A course to mobilize your inner resources and empower participants to take an active role in their own well-being.  

Hail Satan. 

If at ANY point along our journey you need to stop me and ask a question or use the potty, please DO NOT hesitate!  My birth name - given to me by my whoring dead mother - is Patty Finkle but you may address me as Abadonn THE DESTROYER.

If everybody could go ahead and please grab an unholy yoga mat and assume the 5-pointed menstrual goat position - we can BEGIN.

I’d like you all to go ahead and CLOSE your eyes …

Can you sense your own breathing? Concentrate on INHALING through your mouth and EXHALING through your nose …

Breathe in … 1 2 3 4 5

Breath out … 1 2 3 4 5

And again…

Breathe in … 

Breathe out …

Good.  

Continue to take deep breaths and notice the darkness of sightlessness.  Embrace the hated abyss … imagine your enemies in a river of blood and truly let yourself reeeeelllaaaax.

Can you sense your heartbeat?

Notice how it begins to slow? Like the rhythmic digging of a mass grave? Goooood.

I want you all now to pick a point of focus … It can be a feeling … Like self-satisfaction after ritualistic vomiting … OR it can be imaginary, like picturing a winged demon or a flaming serpent’s penis …

 … 

If you feel yourself becoming distracted, DON’T fight it.  Gently turn your attention back to your point of focus …

… let your worries just drift away…

As you focus yourself I want you to visualize a peaceful setting … 

A tropical beach …

… or a children’s graveyard … 

Maybe the nesting cocoon of a pregnant moth hydra …  

If you like you can imagine a wooded area or a burning church … 

Picture your restful place … use your senses …

What do you smell?

Burning pig’s flesh? 

Lilacs … . ?

Is the air heavy and pungent, stinking from a mixture of cat’s afterbirth and leper’s feces?

Fresh cut grass? 

Ammonia?

What do you hear?

The lulling hum of the ocean?

The patter of rain?

Shrieking?

Can you see anything? Colors? Shapes? 

Let your senses overtake your consciousness.

Wave after wave …

Penetrating your psyche …

Like the hallucinated orgasms of a crow plucking at the eyeless pits of a police officer’s carcass

…

Really

Let. Your. Self. Go.

 … bathe yourself in the embalming fluids of sensation… 

Feel your muscles relaxing and lengthening. 

Is your body warm like a sacrificial abortion or cold like infanticide? 

Now picture some more details about your peaceful place?  Are you alone?  Are there other people present? Animals? Birds? Lamenting Scarecrows? A molested neighbor? 

To add further detail to this relaxing scene of horror, imagine yourself there. What are you doing?

Perhaps you are sitting.

Just enjoying this place

Relaxing

Or maybe you’re a ingesting the semen of a priest … 

Maybe you imagine yourself walking …

… .maybe you’re desecrating a Christian gravesite …

(pause)

In these last few moments of relaxation, create a picture in your mind that you will return to the next time you need a quick break. Maybe a roving pack of fanged wormbeasts gnawing on the bloated underbelly of a spirit boar. Or a bramble patch. 

When you are ready to return to your day please turn your attention back to the present.  

Notice your surroundings as your body and mind return to their usual level of alertness and wakefulness.

I have set cups of green tea on the table in the back. There is PLENTY of splenda and creamer.  Fresh Gala and red delicious apple slices as well. Has anyone here had the hindquarters of a juvenile dog?

The Peach Cobbler:

Shaving the female pubic region with parfait and then gluing the hair to a shoe. 

The Glittering Gulch:

Performing cunnilingus while eating pop rocks. 

Life Jackets:

Scissoring on a canoe and then racing to shore.

Birthday Clown:

Pooping into a colored balloon and then molesting a boy. 

The Grand Mal

Performing oral sex on a vibrating bed. 

Tears in Heaven:

Getting a handskie from a paraplegic

Vegetable Soup:

Trying to get a handskie from a quadriplegic 

Fucking a Cloud:

Filling your mouth with as many marshmallows as can fit and then giving a blow job.

The Peach Cobbler Redux:

Shaving the female pubic region with parfait and then gluing the hair to a shoe. Then having sex with the shoe. 

• He lives by the motto, “Never have sex on an empty stomach.”
• He once challenged Rush Limbaugh to an Oxycontin eating contest but backed out after suspecting Rush was buying the pills from a “freeloader on medicaid.”
• Instead of a dreamcatcher, Newt keeps a pig’s hoof suspended over his bed to help him sleep. 
• Believes curdled milk is just lazy half-in-half. 
• Became an opponent of state-subsidized mental health programs after a schizophrenic mistook him for Winston Churchill.
• Despite the rumors, Newt is NOT afraid to travel over bridges. 
• Also had sex with Monica Lewisnky. 
• Newt Gingrich’s oft-cited snarky disposition stems from the fact he believes everybody else is retarded. 
• Is adamant that the war on Christmas is the reason that there are so many ‘Secret Santas.’
• The original working title to his first book was, “What The Fuck Don’t You Stupid People Get?” but was 86ed by his publishers. 
• Used a hammer to solve a Rubik’s Cube. 
• Brought a hammer to his first debate. 
• Brings a hammer to every buffet.
• Saves a seat on his living room sofa where he sits a Mr. Potato head doll.  He calls him, “Mr. Couch Potato.” 
• Drank yak’s blood from a gutted otter’s skull on his tenth birthday. 
• Claims that Obama’s administration will lead to state-sponsored sodomy, which he believes is the “worst form of sodomy.”
• Believes that wheelchairs are just “free rides for the lazy.” 
• His favorite Halloween costume growing up was to dress as a bowl of cottage cheese. 

 Hola! That means H – E – L – L – O in your language. In my language it’s how middle aged people spice it up a bit. Anyhoozles, imagine the look on my face meeting a coherent foreigner in my favorite chatroom, MOONTARDS4BBF. Judging by your name, it certainly doesn’t sound like you’re a big butted something something. I’ll try not to write too much because I know how expensive mail is for your people and, well, reading is reserved for feudal lords and pimps I’ll bet. People tell me I am special and it’s not because of my helmet. I value high levels of stimulation both in my diet and in my entertainment. I like it hot in and out of my mouth. Humor is important because without it how could I live with this face. Comedy should be like bathing … EXTREME baby!! You know what I am saying?! Probably not, it must be difficult to read all this ink through the dense smog of your third world continent. Plus the pot marks around your eyes must make it very hard to see!! Haha LOL. Speaking of eyes, exercise is something I value because mine just can’t take anymore. Music must be loud to drown out the screaming. There is this predictable sense of irrationality in almost everything I do. A certain level of vulgarity to my life; a vulgarity, however, that has become one of my more endearing characteristics. At least that’s what the angry worm in my belly says! JK- no, but seriously. Hoof. Gregarious and lovable, many people have told me that I am like a puppy, and I truly feel like one every time I munch on my own poo. No, I’m kidding- it’s the collar that really sets the comparison. As a psychology and anthropology double major, I feel it is important to relate to Hu-MANS and their ways by being open and understanding, tolerant and caring, and possibly by mimicking their behaviors, eventually luring them into a state of naïve calm until the time is right … Beefcake patty wack give a hump a home. That’s what I say. Well, chicken-pecking pelvic pus, I am running out of things to think up about myself and, in addition, your leper-hands must be getting tired of holding up this piece of heavy paper, so I think I will be coming to a close. Respectfully yours, Mark A. Young Student Body Enclosure (1) MAY