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> missed connectionsplantets - and their - moons

> missed connectionsplantets - and their - moons

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Published by ChuckYoung
A compilation of various wordplays and perversions by Chuck Young.
A compilation of various wordplays and perversions by Chuck Young.

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Published by: ChuckYoung on Apr 30, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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> missed connections planets – and their – moons by Chuck Young

I am a courtesy flush at a funeral home. I’ve got the glutes of a ghost. If you ain't busy livin’, you're busy diarrheaing. I am the chinese symbol for irrelevant tattooed on the scarred wrist of the next teenage internet star. LMS if you consider yourself terrible at going number 2. I’m the babe in the top hat, tuxedo half shirt, thong and heels that Bill Murray kisses under the mistletoe at the end of Scrooged. Spiritually? I’d say I’m the Carrot Top commentary track within the special features section of the DVD version of the 2002 film, Rules of Attraction starring James Van Der Beek based on the 1987 novel by Bret Easton Ellis. I need a haircut and a shave. I’m wearing a white t-shirt, faded jeans, and brown boots. Because I live in Bruce Springsteen’s America, motherfucker. And it’s casual Friday. I’m an amalgam of recurring characters; basically a parody of myself. I take Brass Monkey Bubble Baths at least twice a week. I only use marijuana medicinally (to cure hangovers). I eat my morning cereal with an absinthe spoon. ISK84JC is my license plate because I thrash for my Lord. I’m just a dude asking another dude if the top he’s wearing is new. I am post 90s R&B emo, pre-retro postmodern, 9/11, neo-beat, alt mall goth dad party.

I liked it better when I was a dummy: mannequin as an adjective. Sometimes I wish my nickname wasn’t, Big Sweaty Baby. My older brother taught me how to get over my stage fright at the urinal by tapping into Buddhist belief, Just take your balls out and relax. I’ve changed my shirt. It’s a pink v-neck that says, I’m Better At Drugs Than You. I have spent my whole life trying to meet you but I wrote this instead. Self-portrait in a three panel comic: first panel shows God (white hair, beard, toga etc…) looking at a pile of skin and clothes that’s sitting next to him; he is also farting (air lines coming out of his ass). Second panel shows him putting the mouth of the skin laundry pile up to his ass; we can assume he’s farting into the mouth. Third panel shows the pile of skin has blown up with God-farts and looks somewhat like me. I never meant to kill my friends, I just wanted to play with them until they were dead.

I’ve spent my life buying shit I couldn’t afford and inheriting things I didn’t want and now I don’t have enough disposable income to be good looking.

When I people watch, I’m looking for beauty. Or sex at least. I wish D’angelos would create a signature sandwich and call it, Untitled (How Does It Feel). So I’d have something to eat while sexting you. What if dicks had knuckles? What if my dick was a literal knuckle sandwich? Pick the most sensual of the cheeses. Think of the heartiest bread. What if this was making you hungry? What would that say about you? What would that mean to me? I totally forgot that one of the main aspects of Robocop’s creation myth is the fact that that chick couldn’t not check out that dude’s nude package. If she doesn’t glance, Murphy doesn’t get blown to bits. They actually dramatize the glance too, with a pause. Adam and Eve, I guess. Literally skullfuck Peter Weller’s tiny face bones, please.

I cut my teeth on romantic early 90s R&B. I’m now a sexual deviant. I just said, Wow what a cool butt, to a butt I thought was cool because I’m a terrible person. Oh. My. God. Becky. Look at her Baudelairian Modernité. The girl dressed as a Clockwork Orange just played Montell Jordan’s This Is How We Do It on the jukebox. Missed connections: you, probably a terrible person; me, good at lying to myself. Crashing a party for a dead girl and doing Gangsta Rap Karaoke. I just thought, What’s that tenous piece of gristle? And sang, I will follow that into the dark. Oh. My. God. Becky. Look at her Brechtian Detachment. Taking a nap on the crapper while listening to Tracy Chapman. I like girls most in Fall. Skin and Boots. Skirt and Bones. That selfie you took of you and your girlfriends where the behind the bar area kinda sorta looks like a city skyline is beautiful. Oh. My. God. Becky. Look at her Botticellian Fleshtone. And there she was: a pair of legs that went all the way down. To the floor. She’s like the mechanical bull and the bachelorette riding it. I looked at her bod and went, What is that and how can I do things to it? She just said, Are you shitting me? I was like, No. I’d have to kill you and eat you first. Embalm me carefully. She must’ve been #butthurt. Are you kidding, she’s #buttbroken. Oh. My. Godot. Beckett. Look at her Butt.

Theoretically, when you have a sex dream, you’re doing sex with yourself, right? Like, two parts of your subconscious are banging each other? Will put this on my Résumé as a Time Displaced Dream-Ménage. I’m in speech therapy for my Freudian lisp.

A Penis is a Warm Gun I want to do porn and get really famous for it, like more famous than anyone ever because of it, and then tell the press that I’m bigger than Jesus and then eventually stop doing porn after falling in love with fellow porn star, Fellatioko Ono, and I want people to hate her for it even long after I am murdered.

Most of the time, though, I just want to go down to the local irish bar that I’ve been going to in some capacity my whole life (family dinners as a child, simple shitter use as a skateboarding teen, after-funeral parties as the grieving) and lose two hours in a discussion about art with Randy from Real World: San Diego ’04. And realize that I’ve maybe felt like someone who has been on a reality show i.e silly and empty but stoked when someone recognizes me for who I used to be. Vérité is the spies of life.

I know that I’m just one of many selfies interconnected in a purgatorial network of platitudes whispering into the puckering anus of God straining to hear an echo but goddamnit I’m trying my best. I keep liking the status updates my dead best friend posts. Even though they’re usually just like, ‘words lol.’

I got head cancer from laying it on a photocopier and scanning my left ear at 300dpi. The conveyor belt of green burrowed its radiation into my holes. I e-mailed the jpeg to an okcupid match. I don’t think she got it. I’m an artist damnit! *screencap of the part in tampon/pad commercials where they pour blue liquid onto things with a shittily copy and pasted ms paint style pic of Picasso slapped on it and the words, Blue Period, somewhere] I have a folder on my desktop called, Abandoned Doodles of Dead Friends. It has 23mb of material in it. I take my guts in my hand every now and again and throw them at the kitchen wall hoping that someday they’ll stick. So I’ll know when I’m done.

Just know that you have a long way to go to get to where you think you’re already at. Capture the essence of a vague Left Eye Rap (probably from Watefalls) and apply it to your life. Tell your heart to grow a bigger pair of balls. Tear your brain a new asshole. Above all, be kind of.

I want the love but don’t want to do the loving so now I’m out back, under lunar spotlight, burying the God inside of me. Listening to songs in the key of life with Van Gogh ear and painting yellow glow sunflower starry nights with Stevie Wonder Eyes. Someone once told me that the moons’ orbits are really just a constant cycle of missing the point.

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