9/16/2004
Shrapnel: A Quick-Fire Conversation Between Commanders
Shrapnel: A Quick-Fire Conversation Between Commanders Killer and Kerrry Held In Lieu Of a Boring Debate As To Whom Had More Wherewithal To Become The In-Chief, And Once In-Chiefed Blow Up The Axis To Fucking Smithereens(For clarity’s sake, I’ll stamp each of the talker’s initials at the beginning of every bit of dialogue. So CK will stand for Commander Killer, and CK for Commander Kerrry. So now on with the proceedings…)
CK: And a good day to you, sir.
CK: Bah, suck my nixon.
CK: Well, sir, let me begin by saying that today in Amerrrica…
CK; Oh, suck my nixon, you creep.
CK: With such a blatant disrespect for the laws of the land…
CK: I fuck your mother through the nostrils.
CK: Knew it was small, sir, didn’t know it was that small; nostrils indeed!
CK: Nostrils indeed! Motherfucker!
CK: Well, let’s go back to the issues, if you please. As I was saying…
CK: Quit farting through the mouth, and get to it, I’ve got bigger fish to fry, you know.
CK: I don’t doubt it, sir, as frying is one of your main endeavors to undertake as a Chief.
CK: Why don’t undertake your ass.
CK: I will when time comes, sir, as it will to us all. The day of reckoning is at hand…
CK: A thought your turdy prick were at hand.
CK: Sir, too funny. But the issue at hand is too serious to…
CK: Witless wittol! My attaché-press wrote that. Good, eh?
CK: Big time, as the saying goes. But I was remembering the heroes of My Lie, that in their bravery…
CK: Your lie, your lie! Always you lie bigger’n than anybody else’s. When lying is been one of my fortes.
CK: As indeed it must be for any Chief. Preeminent among his obstreperous, dexterous qualities, primus inter pares amongst his collagenous collaterals…
CK: Quit the drivel. You were saying about the bravery in combat not holding an undertaker’s candle to the bravery of a priest who aghast must everyday face to face the malignant…
CK: You mean as in exorcism cases, I don’t really fall fo…
CK: I mean as in the case of a tumor in his fucking rectum, of course.
CK: Ah, that’s different. Let’s pray that it’s caught before it develops into…
CK: Into a full-blown child-fucker, I know. But who cares, anyway?
CK: True. As quondam my mother, such a spewer of spurious sputa, such a gossip to shame a shrew, once conveyed to my ears in rut, bless her galvanized heart…
CK: Isn’t it called a cardiologist, the heart-galvanizer, I mean?
CK: Quite.
CK: Call me idiot now!
CK: Not at all, I realize your vocabulary improves as the dead pile up; is as if you sucked from their untimely departed souls the little pool of knowledge they had accumulated through too-short spans…
CK: Short-pants! Let’s not prevaricate, they wore as they were issued as per rule the IG, I mean the GI full gear stuff of clothing and guns and such; you gonna accuse me of bilking the public by issuing shorts where long pants are more seemly and warrior-like…
CK: Not a bit; I meant that some of the soldiers knew about cardiology, others about geology, others about biology…
CK: Teacher! Leave the kids alone!
CK: I perceive, amazed, that you own your classics.
CK: Perceive what I own in my diapers, slugger. What’s what this saintly dame, your lame, I mean late mom. told you that you had grown so solemn before…You were about to say she was wise enough to advise you never to run for Chief maybe?
CK: Not at all; I mean, the malicious gossip went around spreading the word…
CK: The word of the lord? Is that so bad?
CK: Which lord? My father couldn’t care less, ugly bitch, let her to her own devises, fuck her who will. Though you volunteered, if I heard correctly, just a second or two ago. And through the nostrils, no less.
CK: A figure of speaking. You of all people surely distinguish among figures of speech and vocal ploys of this kinds. If one wants-a be a Chief, he’s got to master the skill, for harangues and public prayers in praise of bombing, and for pardoning the christmas turkey and such matters of crucial import.
CK: Well, exactly what she said: Who the fuck gives a fig for what the crappers stand for? A crapper stands for you to crap on in. Something like that.
CK: Wise woman. Not unlike my own.
CK: Women are such good soldiers too.
Ck: Don’t tell me, don’t I know. Especially for the ridiculing of the moor’s nixons. They always showed off about having small brains and big peckers, but the opposite’s been revealed thanks to our women warriors.
CK: Not that big brains mean big intellects, of course. You only got to look at the elephant. There’s no sillier beast extant in the roster of silly beasts, don’t you agree.
CK: I think you slander the monsters. I’ve been to the circus oftener than I’d care to admit, and the elephants and their big dicks have always been a sizeable attraction.
CK: We agree in everything, perhaps we should share the responsibility of In-Chiefing the hapless troops. What d’you think.
CK: Dream on, buster.
CK: No, but did you see in Europe, the two main Fascist groups, the national-socialists and the ultrarightist popular party formed an alliance by which half of the time one of them would preside the concern, then the other. We could do the same here. Are we less Fascist? Come on!
CK: Say Europe and sink, pardner.
CK: I don’t mean Europe per se, I’ve forwarded the example as belonging to the animal kingdom per se, and our enlightened audience per se, if any, knows it.
CK: Sink, sink, sink, baby, and it ain’t Chinese.
CK: Let’s no go ethnic, or the monkeys will hackle their feathers…
CK: So preciously put. But I don’t get the allusion to the monkeys…
CK: Sir, you wouldn’t, I understand they themselves don’t even get that the hideously offensive image reflected on the mirror is their very own.
CK: We’ll lose the public, they’ll heckle our monkey-feathers off, if we stray too deeply into the scientific. Let’s keep at generalities, shall we, where by the way we excel, or so I’ve been told.
CK: But your brown-nose attaché-press, no doubt.
CK: Getting racist again; what if he’s brownish.
CK: Don’t dissemble, my drift’s unmistakable, you’ve been acquiescent to it up to this point. Oh, and a propos of the gooks, the heroes at the My Lie massacre of hallowed memory and…
CK: Are you saying My Lie because your lays at My Lay were only geek…
CK: Gooks. I mean, the proper term’s wops; Worthy Oriental Persons…
CK: Worthy indeed, but at what, I mean, for what?…
CK: Is that a rhetorical…? And what’s wrong with your eyes?
CK: Whatever; don’t run the tangent, though; geeks, gooks, whappers, the point is: are you afraid the public, as it has the sovereign right to do, will associate your shady jungle activities with such perverted fauna and shall, indeed as it must, question your tastes?
CK: Aren’t gooks good lays, that’s what you are saying?…
CK: Nothing of the sort, don’t put mouths into my words; as to how good they are as lays or not, hey, boy, you are the expert; me, I wouldn’t know; now, would I? My fucking tastes are strictly christian. Not catholic, if you see what…
CK: Are you winking at me? Because if you are know that I’m not one of those…
CK: Shttt, don’t tell, don’t ask…
CK: No, but I do tell: I’m no fruitcake, not on your life, no sir…
CK: Uh-uh, methinks that with thy protestations thou spillest a lot…, as Hamlet said.
CK: Uh-ho, who’s being high-brow now?
CK: High-brow, but not high-brown brawn, and here’s the rub.
CK: Brawn, brown?… Which rub?
CK: The rub of the rubber, you wanker.
CK: Wanker?! I wonder the company you keep…
CK: The wonder boy!
CK: You goggle a lot today, something wrong with your peepers?
CK: My peepers’s fine, and so my wife’s…
CK: Meaning?…
CK: Hey, I don’t look for meaning, not wasting the tax-payers time with meaning while the terrorists…
CK: The who?
CK: The who indeed! Read my wife’s vagina’s lips…
CK: Yikes!
CK: A christian lady’s, and not no whoremaster’s gook’s. Read ’em, and the tasty public at large: I’m not never not raising the ghastly specter of war and taxes again…
CK: Not never not? Meaning what? Until next time?
CK: Meaning whatever.
CK: Not never not, ha! Is that even grammatical?
CK: Who cares for grammaticals when the lives of men are on a stake?
CK: At stake.
CK: Whatever. Join the grandmotherians.
CK: The grammarians?
CK: Whatever, the marines; all are mothers, anyway.
CK: Sir! You surely don’t mean…
CK: Yeah, join the worthless oriental grammarians, and leave the In-Chiefing to us, that’s what’s called experience and having the feel of the object at hand.
CK: Quite a dab you are with the object at hand, quite a churner, it seems.
CK: Not everyone’s got time for a waste of the gift of gab, while valiant men and women are sacrificing their druthers and brothers so that we might live and die in peace.
CK: Well, that’s quite a well prepared speech, I suppose, sir. But let’s not be constrained and stiff like some long piece of stockfish hanging at the butcher’s, let’s be more ad-libitous for the sake of our illumed audience… More peppy, you see?
CK: Peppy, peppy… I cringe at the sound, some kind of gory song with craven ravenous gluttonous claws… Ah, the sweet nostalgias of the fraternities of yore…
CK: Ahem. Let’s indeed, without growing too emotional, not depart from our alma mater’s motto: Our oar to our hour owes our wows... It’s wows or vows? — with both makes so much sense — and much more in Latin.
CK: I’m good in Latin, with all the spics in Laredo, you know.
CK: Quite an advantage for going nowhere. Spic and spics are doomed.
CK: Too ugly.
CK: Monkeyish.
CK: Tut, tut, getting scienty again…
CK: Sorry, unhelpable. One’s like he is. Pass the booze, shit, I’ve getting horse and sour…
CK: With the hour of the oars that as they row it roars.
CK: Nothing to do with the motto, you are kibitzing here…
CK; I’m what?
CK: You are stopgapping… Many holes in your build-up…
CK: Not as many as in your sister’s ass.
CK: Let’s be less childish, sir. That was uncalled for.
CK: Like who is calling the shots. Here’s my chest, I’m a frank type of warrior. Look at the pair of us! Who’s the Chiefiest, I ask you of you all?
CK: Not fair hogging the audience. You are much better known the world over, having killed your fill and at the very least North Dakota’s, that’s if we consider the prorated ad hominem…
CK: Lost you, buster. No idea what the fuck you’re talking about anymore.
CK: Well… Look if it makes any sense to you… We, the Amerrricans… Who like coning cadmiums in cones for the cads to mew on, and measure in the sappy spas with pristine emanometers the radon isotopes, who give to lasses billions, billons, bullions, feign to embog their buccals with our kisses, while romancing the sin, collocating the rot in their due rows, inch by inch, anent the enwalling of the scum…
CK: As much sense as gibberish…
CK: And yet I’m extracting the speech from one of yours…
CK: The extraction’s what wrong.
CK: What about oil?
CK: We’ve agreed oil’s beyond.
CK: So it is, sorry. But back to my lass and her dross. She eats romaine like a slug, and the slug who eats the pink romaine between her legs, what an illusory pair for saint Norman Rockwell, as they poke their lambkin in its crib. But wait, through the radio the better ratable pops pop their rennins down your ears to dissolve your brain’s milk, as the Sun’s excesses yapoks your skins. After her emboldening sleep, she’s back to nursing the deaf elderly. The running mobs in the mean streets the lass frighten so that all her savings she darn spends for the end is near, anyway. The doneness of animas concern her not a whit as she roams bemused, while the enamored slug numbed remains at home, feeding the lambkin mollusks...
CK: I heard you naming the mob and, in the same breath, how commodious, ok, the dagos — all of ’em, I know ’em well, Horatio, semiprostitutes. My penmen tell me the public craves stories about whores and nuns who roam by nights the discos, and have no more sense than goats as they abandon the sly crones they were censed to keep hale as camels for the rock and be-bops the simian mobs dance in dampened bins.
CK: That’s the irony, yes, sir. They let loose their blondish manes and go full-blast through the local rondos, smacking of whiskies and other fogging pocuses, entering into lush romances with roadmen, and ragmen, and other unseemly characters, the ignoblest cronies the Sun’s bound ever to see, as they cuss and fume and exchange other gems, and the rods of their magnums poke in where the dams are bound to break and engulf the naves with slippery secretions at the heretical light of multifarious neons, as we the poor husbands, there we are, all lonesome and despondent, busy at our querns, grinding the seeds of discontent…
CK: And so we are, man, so we are…
CK: Ah, the spiel, badinage for ballots, don’t you love it?
CK: The whatever the bullocks, but let’s decamp…, I’m drunk, I’m bombed, and anyhow, everyone else’s asleep.
CK: The bunch of the crappy ancient bureaucrats, and those that would’ve, but even those shittiest of jobs they couldn’t reach.
CK: The whole stinking menagerie sound asleep…
CK: Indeed, as the lass after her little homely fuck…
CK: Before she went to have the real ones outside.
CK: Brother, you got it.
