Tag Archive: misener

Through extensive research he discovered that the only way to be completely and perfectly unique was to be everything at once. To be as normal as possible in all aspects of his demeanor and experience, his presentable “self” becoming an absurd amalgam of style and culture, a “Mega-American” archetype, a living, breathing, and speaking mash of everything so prevalent in the United States which had been rendered hollow and meaningless through media overexposure.

His ultimate vision manifested on the most American of street corners: Vine and Redman, precisely between a well-maintained white picket fence and the ranch style home it shepherded, and the always-jangling aluminum chain link of a little-league baseball field’s dugout. He wanted to climb in and out of both fences and wear them like Flavor Flav wears giant clocks, dragging the chainish symbolism behind him, a snake molting his society with the dead skin hanging on for far too long, news reporters trailing with frazzled hair and whipping microphones like ninja stars, blown away by the perfect absurdity that he represented.

It was all too much to rationalize though, and he ended up stark naked on the corner of Woodward and Voss, digging crack rock out from under his toenails and wondering if he even had a sense of smell any longer. Fuck this, he thought, I finally understand what a Katamari is.

So he began rolling, naked through the city streets, collecting all types of ghetto remnants on his skin: Burger wrappers, pennies, broken syringes, half-used matchbooks, whatever else rested in his path. His monkeyball travels continued until three days later, when he accidentally rumbled off the Ambassador Bridge, by that point an unrecognizable ball of trash and treasures, fully and instantly aware that he had fulfilled his vision unintentionally.

No one had ever smiled so boisterously the moment before their death.


Wandhands by Shawn Misener

My TV is as big as a mansion. My other TV is as big as a blimp. My phone is installed in my hand. I speak into my pinky and dial by tapping my fingers together like I’m manipulating string or gesturing like some genius conductor.

Through my hand, I can know everything. Theoretically I do know everything. I’m as omniscient as I wanna be.

Ask me anything. The name of that dude from that movie about the suicidal kid who sleeps with the hippy old lady? Bud Cort. You knew that already? Ok- The extra to the left of the priest at the funeral where they meet. His name was James Presston. Yeah. Bet you didn’t know that. My fucking hand told me that.

You could worship me, because by default my hand makes me a god amongst men. Go ahead, build me some churches. Fill dem coffers, bitch!

See, my hand just told me what “coffers” are. Badass man, I can’t wait to build my coffers.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I am from the future. Like, a hundred years ahead. We all have wandhands. Even my grandma, which is kinda cool. She even knows about Mack Haul A Call Kin.

He was a smile. The rest of him you could see through, no problem. But that smile shone so intensely that it provided a distraction from everything else that was missing.

My mother used to try and convince him to be a politician. My sister begged on her knees for him to give her head. I just needed somebody to help me find things.

I gave him the list of missing items. He looked it over quickly, then swallowed it whole with that magnificent, glowing mouth. “We’ll look for your sense of humor first,” he said.

It took six days in the jungle until we had any leads. He negotiated with birds so colorful they made crayons run and hide. He threatened enormous snakes, and when they didn’t cooperate he’d clench their jaws between his gleaming teeth and swing them around like weed whackers.

We finally stumbled upon the End of the Earth. A beautiful sight for sure, the red yolk of sun framing his levitating smile, bright upon bright. Hovering closer, he whispered “Look in your pants. The secret to humor is nestled softly down there.”

So we began the frightful journey back home. By law I was required to go without my trousers or underwear. To refuse would invalidate the rediscovery of comedy. He took hold of my shaft and used it to point us toward the highway.

In this way he guided us out of the jungle and home to my wife, where I proceeded to make love to her with all kinds of sarcastic thrusts. Orgasmic laughter all around. “I’m sure glad you followed that smile,” she later sighed, sweat dripping from her chin to her clavicle.

Infinite Penis by Shawn Misener

He finds a beach ball and  recreates humanity upon it.  Kicking it down the shore he wonders how  the little people must feel about each other.  To place them on such  a tiny globe almost seems unfair.

The only way to make  himself real is to spawn others that believe in him.  He sweats and  watches the bouncing boobs of the women who gather around him.  It’s  hard to restrain his erection.

When his pants explode  his penis is let loose with the force of a sonic boom.  The women  faint and his ball explodes into a million fluttering scraps.  He  weeps as the little people fall to the ground.

It will take him years to reel in his infinite penis, which he must do carefully.  He’s too shaken.  Nobody else should share the fate of his beach ball children.

Life is rich.  Let me tell you why.

I gots some shag carpeting that feels great on my bare feet and even better on my bare ass.  I gots a girlfriend named Wanda Rollins who drives a black 1979 LTD.

Now, I realize I’m in my sixties and my body ain’t what it used to be. But I’m retired from workin’ at the butchery and collecting disability from that time the meathook dug into my ear and drug me through the air like thirty feet.  Seems like only yesterday, though I reckon it was around 1993. My ear ain’t never been the same but Wanda, that frisky bitch, she still loves me like a hot greasy bucket of chicken from Clucks.

Just yesterday she rolls over in bed after kissing me with that breath that smells like mouthwash and Budweiser and I realize something new about her, something pretty damn cool.  She has two asses.  And two fine ones at that.  One’s her normal ass, the nice big double watermelon one I grab onto just for kicks, but this other one, it’s unique, it makes itself known only when she’s layin’ there naked on her side.  And you know what it is?  It’s the two rolls of fat on either side of her back, pressed together by gravity, creatin’ this long enormous hot dog bun ass!  Who cares if it ain’t a proper ass?  It’s the most beautiful thing in the whole goddamn world.

“Damn, baby, if you don’t let me make love to that frank fence I just might go crazy!” I moaned.

There’s a wall on the beach.  It doesn’t connect to anything.  No intersecting walls, floor, or ceiling.  Seems normal enough.  Just a bit of wall about ten feet long and fuzzy on both ends.  There’s art hung there.  Still life of fruit.  Three of them in ornate, bronze frames.  A pear, an orange, and a neon green apple.  Completely unremarkable.

Listening closely, the sound of the waves.  Much closer to my heels than expected.  In fact, right up there, tickling the rubber sole of my sandal.  And loud as shit.

Then it’s all underwater in every direction.  No more wall or beach.  Just blue, lit up by something other than the sun.  I’m completely flipped out, panicking, dying, until it’s just the beach again, and the wall.  This time it isn’t fruit, it’s cartoon crabs.  I laugh because they look so damned stupid.

Now it becomes absolutely imperative that I get behind the wall.  Impossible, since the fuzzy edge stays just exactly out of my reach as I walk along the wall and reach for the edge.  And the paintings keep repeating.  I wonder if there’s away back to the fruit, that seemed like a more safe world.  Just keep walking, knuckles against brushing the edges of the frames.

Dwarf Abdomen by Shawn Misener

I spent years embraced in the thorns of a recurrent nightmare where surgeons scooped out my guts, sent them away with the mailman, then reconnected my chest makeshift to my legs, wherein I resembled a chunkish dwarf minus an abdomen.

A giant stoma the size of a toddler’s fist blossomed out of my right side and constantly rocketed liquid shit everywhere I went.  Even when I tried to cover it with a shirt the force of the spewing blasted through the fabric and continued to relentlessly spray the walls, the trees, people, whatever was around. In the end I would lock myself in the bathroom and stand hunched over in the shower, hot water barely sheathing my body while the stoma wriggled and firehosed away.

The doctors and psychiatrists bombarded me with sleep aids, anti-anxiety drugs, even painkillers, until my quaint little medicine cabinet became an addict’s dream, and in the dream, I became an addict myself. I shoveled three codeine bombs and four tiny barbiturates just to entertain the concept of a restful night.

But when it really happened all of the final threads tying me loosely to reality were violently cut, one by one, day by day, as each act played out before me. First the cramping, then the doctors, then more doctors, then IV units and heavy drugs, intubation and shiny knives, and finally a seemingly infinite recovery. The real stoma was tinier and less aggressive than it’s dream brethren, yet in many ways just as terrible. When they eventually tucked my intestines back into my grateful stomach after more than a year of sitting on my ass, reality came back to greet me in all it’s beautiful and terrifying forms, from work to sex to debt, but the nightmare never left. Me, without an abdomen, baptizing the innocent in feces.

Greg Samson woke one morning to find himself transformed into a giant tuna. He was flat on his side. With one eye he could see the silver table upon which he rested, his reflection confirming his metamorphosis. With the other eye he watched a man standing over him, dressed in a white chef’s outfit and running a large knife methodically across a well-used flint.

 Greg’s gills involuntarily quivered and released. The air pressed down uncomfortably upon him . He could smell ginger, and wondered if fish could smell at all.

 “Hi Greg,” said the man, expressionless. He continued to sharpen the blade, speaking in a determined, manner-of-fact tone. “I remember when we were freshman, and you picked that rock off the playground and threw it at me. That was a really nice throw. What do you think, fifty feet? I still have a tiny indentation behind my ear.”

 Greg couldn’t speak. He suddenly felt heavier and wiggled his slimy body against the pressure.

 “Ah, yes. But you certainly found success, did you not? Wealth, happiness, a beautiful wife.” Shving, shving, shving. The blade. “And I ended up with a brain injury. Barely made it through high school. Got addicted to crack. Lived in my grandmother’s basement for twenty years. But uncle Tony saw something in me last year, I don’t know why. And it turns out he was right. I learned a trade. Can you guess what I do for a living now?”

 Shving, shving, shving.

 Greg widened his mouth but could not speak.

 The man showed a restrained smile. “My name is Bob Kafka, and I’m a damn fine sushi chef.”