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

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Obsessively, Compulsively Wrong

16 07 2008

HEY! WAIT A SECOND! You know this hurculean piece of junk that Howard Hughes built back in the day?

The fact that this nightmare of “ingenuity” is even in the air

suggests the use of some old-timey photoshop software

I just realized that the name “Spruce Goose,” which I always thought was a rare instance of goose-flattery, is actually kind of an insult! This airplane is a big fat failure! A joke! And you know what the worst part is? It wasn’t even made of spruce! That’s, right: it was a BIRCH goose. Which means they had already settled on the “goose” stamp as a way to insult the aircraft and needed a rhyming kind of wood for their retarded, fact-trampling, species-insensitive bon mot! Well, fuck Howard Hughes, and fuck the trees that gave their life for him. It should have been called a birch…lurch. Furch. There’s bound to be a bird name that rhymes with “birch,” just fucking look it up yourselves. I hate you all so much.

—Nero





My Own Olympus

15 07 2008

Naturally, once Caligula found out Manhattan had an “Olympic Tower,” he simply had to have one of its converted condos on the 51st floor. Even the fact that a filthy Greek like Aristotle (and I was never one for scholastics, either) Onassis was one of the driving forces behind this behemoth’s construction could not stanch my gliterati greed for a perch in the opulent roost. That I could shit out my window onto St. Patrick’s cathedral was too much to pass up: feces-flavored icing on the anti-monotheistic fungus cake!

Worship in my ugly, modernist shadow, Christ-humping Irish scum!

Of course, I did have to suffer a shade of buyer’s remorse. For where in my unit was the vomitorium whereupon we purge between meal courses? Surely no hedonist’s home is complete without it. The landlord calmly explained that no such vomitorium as I described it ever really existed, not even when I was Caesar of Rome—the idea was nothing but pure misconception, he said. I took the opportunity of his open mouth to deliberately regurgitate a half-digested duck confit entree into his face to make a point, and bid him to clean up the resulting mess, for as Seneca writes: Cum ad cenandum discubuimus, alius sputa deterget, alius reliquias temulentorum [toro] subditus colligit — “When we recline at a banquet, one [slave] wipes up the spittle; another, situated beneath [the table], collects the leavings of the drunks.”

And though I did not drool, I was supremely hammered at the time, and most of my “leavings” did end up under a Mies van de Rohe glass coffee table. Luckily or not, my landlord happened to be a rare emetophiliac, which meant he found the whole barfing display erotic and arousing.

I can’t say I found the sight of duck goo and bile in his mustache quite as enticing, even after licking some off.

—Caligula





What Have You Done For Me Lately?

30 06 2008

As a flight academy grad used to people trying to shoot me out of the sky, I’m glad General Wesley Clark had the cajones to take a huge steaming dump on John McCain’s military experience malarkey.  Basically, he said, crashing your plane into a lake in Vietnam doesn’t qualify you for the presidency. *ZING* 

After I cackled over that envelope-pushing takedown, though, I got to thinking maybe Clarky didn’t go far enough.  Remember that McCain crashed his plane twice before the war even started.  Oh, don’t worry about avoiding those power lines, John, the taxpayers will be happy to shell out a few million to buy you another A-1 Skyraider.  

Also, if McCain was such a war hero, why did he get caught by the bad guys?  

McCain didn’t even use his shattered limbs to fend off Charlie

Why, when McCain could have been released early due to his father’s position as a top U.S. admiral, did he choose to hang around for five years in the Hanoi Hilton?  Hiltons are posh, swanky, luxurious places—Christ, I’ve never even been allowed near one.  If he’s such a super soldier, why didn’t he opt out of POW status and hop back in a new bomber and lay waste to Cambodia and Marlon Brando and turn the tide of the whole feckin’ war?

Speaking of which, if McCain’s such a military genius, how come we lost in Vietnam?  In fact, John McCain’s war record is 0-1.  Every war he’s fought in, we suffered a humiliating defeat, which he unequivocally accepted.  Not inspiring a lot of confidence there, buddy.  

No, John, if you want to be commander-in-chief, you’re gonna need Rambo as VP.  Hell, you might even learn something …quitter.

—Nero

 





Caligula’s Dreamlog #5: The Nightmare

25 06 2008

Ordinarily, waking to the drab world around us is a bothersome chore—how horrible it is when one’s bladder brings about the end of sleep at noon and demands access to one’s carved marble water closet—but this morning I could have kissed even the toilet lid with gratitude.  And I did, because I woke up with my face in it, right as this nightmare reached its happy conclusion:

THE DREAM

It begins, innocently enough, with me using pliers to extract my own teeth while the Supreme Court hands down a delightful decision: no death penalty for child rape.  So far, so good.  Hordes of beautiful trusting children start filing into the murky basement the justices and I have selected for this gleefully macabre affair: time to celebrate the rule of law!  

I dig the pliers into my gums to pull out a bloody tooth and make the children cower in reverent fear, but what’s this?  I pull out a piece of candy instead.  A laughing child snatches it away.  I try again: more candy. Soon the children are clamoring all about me, and individually wrapped candies are pouring out of every orifice I hold dear (all of them).  I try to beat the ragamuffins off, but every would-be blow turns into a hug by accident.  They love it, and smother me with that love.

“Scalia!” I cry out to the bench, which seems to grow ever more distant in the brightening room.  “Help!  You owe me!”  Scalia also looks concerned with this state of affairs, as the murky basement has finished turning into—gods preserve me—a Whole Foods supermarket, with hippies wearing nothing but hemp vests streaming through the aisles, studying the nutritional information labels on every item they consider.  But even as the other judges fade from sight, Scalia tramples over the children to hand me a beautiful gleaming handgun before falling off the dogpile and turning into a …it gives me an awful warmth to say it…

a unicorn.

OH, FUCK

Sobbing, I fire the gun repeatedly, but it’s already too late: the once proud weapon is just a rainbow in my fist that emits only sunflowers and Mozart sonatas.  All the pristine civilization man has achieved in spite of my work raises me above the children and hippies, and I soar, riding clouds of of high culture, love, peace, innocence, respect, and compassion, never to find my way back to the nadirs of humanity I had so proudly pioneered.

ANALYSIS

Judge Antonin Scalia is all that stands between us and a nightmare world of pure harmony.

—Caligula

 





Public Disservice

20 05 2008

I woke up in the Fortieth Precinct’s drunk tank again this morning, and you know what that means: community service.  Judge said I could do it in the form of a public service announcement regarding belligerent geese. Thought that was real funny.  Originally I figured I’d just copy-paste eHow.com’s rules for surviving a goose attack, but most were way off the mark, so I’m gonna do you a solid and bust some myths along the way.  Let’s get this over with. 

  •  Pay attention to the actions of the male goose when you enter his territory. If he sounds a warning, that is your signal to leave the area.
It’s funny how many people take that sound to be friendly.  Sometimes it is!  In fact, think of all goose body language as an invitation to inspect our carefully hidden nests.     
  • Show no fear. Geese are particularly attuned to body language and a show of fear may increase the intensity of the attack.
Unless you’re Sir Ian McKellen or another knighted actor, we’re going to see right through this ploy.  You’d better just lay down and submit by leaving your face, stomach and genitals exposed. 
  • Maintain eye contact. Geese have excellent vision and interpret loss of eye contact as an act of fear.
Also, you have nothing better to look at.
  • Stay calm. Don’t yell or try to hit the male goose. The female may join the attack and then you will be in real trouble.
No kidding.  Note the dual attack points on a victim of husband-and-wife serial peckers Tawny and Flyde:
  • Keep your body facing directly toward the goose. Never turn your back on an attacking goose.
This is actually wise.  A glimpse of your backside will invite the equivalent goose reaction of “Oh-No-You-Di’int!”
  • Walk slowly backwards if the goose hisses at you or spreads its wings. Use your peripheral vision to avoid tripping over obstacles.
Really?  When trying to escape a threatening bird, you should not fall on your ass like it’s a 1920s silent film?  Thanks, Internet!
  • Continue facing the goose and back slowly away at a 90-degree angle from the goose if he flies up at your face.
The time it takes to figure out the geometry of this move will cost you at least one eyeball.
  • Make your escape and exit the area through a gate if possible. Geese rarely fly over a fence.
WHO THE FUCK TOLD YOU THAT
—Nero

 





AW HELL NO

8 05 2008

O NO YOU DID NOT DO THAT SUMNER MISSOURI TELL ME YOU DID NOT CONSTRUCT A HUGE FIBERGLASS STATUE OF MY MORTAL ENEMY FROM HIGH SCHOOL AND DECLARE IT THE WORLD’S BIGGEST GOOSE I WILL SO RAIN DEATH UPON YOUR DUMB MIDWESTERN ASSES IF YOU KNEW WHAT THIS BITCH PUT ME THROUGH IN ONE SINGLE DAY OF ADOLESCENCE YOU WOULD SHIT YOURSELVES OUT OF PITY AND YOU KNOW WHAT START SHITTING YOURSELVES ANYWAY CAUSE I’M COMING FOR YOU

—Nero