The Labyrinth 2.0

17 07 2008

What brutal sprawls of twisted deathmaze encroach on our precious isle of Manhattan!  What beast-infested nooks and crannies where taxis dare not roam!  What great food-trapping beards that outgristle and outgrease any post-coital Minotaur!  What cheap and chokesome wat’ry beers!  What uninspired zombie throngs that barely conceal contempt for opening bands that aren’t half bad!  What bony, unwashed sternums unearthed by plunging V-neck collars!     

Sign marking the condemned’s entrance to their existential Inferno

To think, that even I, Caligula, could find myself in that phantom world of non-dreams and overshopping at Trader Joe’s, merely by falling asleep on the B train en route to Urban Outfitters, is too hellish an ordeal to dwell on. The human disease, thy name is Brooklyn. I shall have to put the episode behind me if I stand any chance of recovery. But the memories of clove-breath and misappropriations of irony, the gnarled syntax and pizza parlor stabbings, will haunt me for a lifetime, nay, into the afterlife.  

To say nothing of the short stories that hold together about as well as a fistful of diarrhea.  

—Caligula





Standing Up For Yourself

2 07 2008

Is the dumbest feckin’ thing you can do—you think this is some old school WB sitcom where the bully can be won over by your “courage” (read: dumbassitude)?


This nerdwad crow in particular could have used my advice.  Mad ignant.  Hank the meathead red-tailed hawk is not to be screwed with in this manner.  He’s not gonna be impressed.  He’ll put up his nictating membrane to shield his razor-sharp eyes—so he’ll barely be able to see what’s going on—and he still won’t give a shit that you’re pecking him stupid.  He waited till this poetry club spaz tired himself out, then casually ripped his bowels out with, like, a single toe.

So the next time you think about challenging an illegitimate regime of oppression and fear-mongering because you listened to the Les Mis original cast recording a few hundred times?  Just cower and worship like you’re told, ya beasting cunts.  And stop singing.   

—Nero    





Why Couldn’t It Be A Sex Tape

24 06 2008

Oh, fuck me. This is just my luck. You live your whole life, spend years in flight academy, do the goddamn migrations, eat the moldy bread, preen, kill countless hours drifting on the water, stand around in the rain, flee from cartoonish and badly-camouflaged hunters, molt, go everywhere in a giant V. You do everything expected of a goose.

Maybe then you go through a messy divorce. That’s all too common, man, nobody’s gonna knock you for that. Maybe the rent shot sky high on the one side of the lake you could still afford. Not your fault, buddy. And maybe you finally have no choice but to sleep in someone’s boat for a few nights. Hell, nobody’s used it in months, what’s the big deal?

Then, say you get up in the morning to piss and came back to find some good ol’ boy and his ugly mutt trying to make off with your improvised shelter, the one thing you have left in this world. At a certain point a bird has to spread his wings and say: “Nuh-uh. Not today. Not my crappy makeshift nest.”

Well, what the fuck was he doing with a camera, anyway? “Doggone goose”—wish I’d pecked his bastard amateur filmmaker’s eyes out.

The YouTube comments? “You should have broke its neck.” “I would have ate that goose.” No, you wouldn’t have, you feckin Capri Sun-drinking web-rat virgins. You’d be dead if you tried that. I took these rednecks to school, and that joker would be at the bottom of that lake with his pooch for grabbing me by the neck if I hadn’t been so hungover. Jesus. A guy tries to preserve his dignity and the wired community takes a steaming dump on him. Real classy, Internet.

—Nero





The Gay Aughties

19 06 2008

Caligula, for one, could not be happier with how the gay marriage situation is unfolding in California.  Of course in principal I’m against the extension of human rights to any oppressed minority—still hoping someone has the courage and malice aforethought to overturn Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka one of these days—but when such disgraceful civility advances my own sick ends, it’s hardly worth resisting, is it?

Ha!  No, this is not a Caligula-coming-out-of-the-boudoir confession, no matter what my Uncle Gaius says.  Those slave boys are mere sex toys, nothing that could sustain the hellfire of my matrimonal devotion, nor indeed survive it.  Rather, gay marriage, as our prudish GOP friends will remind you, heralds the decent down a long and slippery slope, the base of which must be reached at all costs if I have any say in the matter.

IT BEGINS

First, you see, is the establishment of boring heterosexual marriage.  Then little cracks begin to appear in the institution’s sanctity—polygamy is the next logical step, followed by same-sex couplings, with all attendant tax breaks.  By now quite a few leaks have sprung in marriage’s fortified dykes (ha!), and all manner of minor deviants trickle through.  Soon people can be wed to mundane inanimate objects, chairs, toasters, unicycles.  Then the big one: bestiality sweeps the nation!  It’s not uncommon for a man to take a harem of squirrels at this point.  The bar is raised for object-marriage as well: people wed hydrogen bombs, oil slicks, Ikea, the Sahara desert.  Eventually the door is opened for hostile marriage—yes, you can marry people and things against their will, and it’s all 100% legal!  From there it’s a hop, skip and a jump to blood rites and accidental marriage via fleeting eye contact.  

And just as the fabric of space-time is starting to tear from all this immoral stress, my fantasy achieves fruition: interdimensional marriage.  Yes, if I can’t fuck beings in other universes, I can damn well be symbolically bound to them.  Till death do us part, hive-minded sentient gas-clouds!

It’s a long and twisted road ahead, but even the journey of a thousand perversities begins with a single unholy union.    

—Caligula





Chexmate

18 06 2008

The indignities just keep coming.  

My temp job is so dull you couldn’t cut a blade of grass with it.  And since I don’t enjoy the comforts of my own computer or a desk to display bobble-heads on, I have only one pleasure: a daily 75¢ bag of transcendently salt-infused Original Chex Mix from the break room’s vending machine.  

Oh, believe me, I’d like more than one bag a day, but the machine isn’t restocked very often, and if I indulge my Chex addiction too much, I’ll be left deliberating whether trail mix or Juicyfruit gum would be the less vomit-inducing alternative.  Not a great selection in that machine.  But I have a system, and it works.

Usually.

The avian community agrees: Chex Mix is worth risking your life for

There are some days, however, when the ever-sadistic machine decides that you can’t have anything from Row C.  Row C, C as in the row Chex Mix calls home.  Put in a dollar bill—or exact change, which I’m always prepared with—and push C-3; a light goes on next to the phrase “make another selection.” The Chex Mix is there, begging you to free it from its coiled metal prison, but the machine thinks you might like something in another row better.  Either that or its playing dumb.  You press your forehead to the plexiglas and sigh, defeated.

And then there comes a time when you can’t let junk food-dispensing robots win.  

You see where all this is going, don’t you.

I’m still in the neck brace.  And I’m pretty sure I got fired, but who knows—after my head had been stuck in the slot for 20 minutes I sorta blacked out.  And I couldn’t pay my hospital bill, so they kicked me out a little earlier than is customary in these cases.

But not before offering me trail mix.

—Nero

 

 

 

 





Brand Subconsciousness

17 06 2008

Facebook community, Caligula is so sorry.  Sorry I coded an application so special, so visionary, so geared to your fickle yet stunningly limited 18 to 25-year-old imaginations.  An application you should have loved, god damn it.  But now I’ve heard your whiny voices, and I’ve gone and pulled the plug on HotLists.  Just too ahead of its time, I guess.  No, you shut up.  You Generation Y-ers turned out to be nothing but Generation Why-ers.  No, worse than that: Generation Liars.  Um….Generation Criers.  Generation Pli—whatever, you get the idea.  You were not the high-concept hedonists the mainstream media led me to expect.  You must be in denial: deep down, you don’t even care about branding, do you?  Disgusting.

If you’ve got a better idea, you probably stole it    

Someday soon you’ll understand what I was trying to accomplish, but by then it will be too late.  “How can we identify ourselves without invoking Jessica Alba and Starbucks?”  Here’s a hint: you can’t.  Good luck getting through life without telling people you’re all about Family Guy…Generation Die-ers.  

Get it?  because…I’ll kill you?…ah, fuck it. 

—Caligula





What Is The Sound Of 290,000 Veterans Rolling Over In Their Graves?

23 05 2008

To The Caretakers and Groundskeepers of Arlington National Cemetery:

Do you always assume that someone standing around the JFK Eternal Flame with a fire extinguisher is up to something?  Sheesh.  Just trying to lighten the mood—it’s Memorial Day Weekend, not Fat Tourists Pretend To Be Moved Con 2K8!  

You know, I’m glad I was banned from the premises for a year.  Make it life!  I would never have made the trip down to Virginia in the first place if I’d known you’d make American military history so boring—I expected friezes of huge gory battle scenes, maybe a few naked statues representing Fortune and Victory, for eye candy’s sake. Instead I get unimaginative tripe like the “Tomb of the Unknown Soldier” and “Visitor Center.”


All I can say is, any self-respecting risen-from-the-dead soldier would take the curators of this blandarama and render them FUBAR for making their final resting place such a bore.  Sleep, you damned curs, and dream that zombie Robert E. Lee is coming to settle your grits.

 

Mortified,

Caligula

P.S. I want my coffin exhuming equipment back.