I have been a fan of The Venture Brothers cartoon series on Adult Swim since its premiere in February of 2003.  The show went well with the original theme of Adult Swim, Hanna Barbara remakes, by playing off the Jonny Quest vibe. Even during the lengthy break the show took between initial seasons, I hoped and prayed that it would return in its full glory. Thankfully it did. The expertise in writing and direction make The Venture Brothers one of the most formidable animated comedies on the market. If your suspension of disbelief is strong enough, you might even forget that are watching a cartoon. I think that might be one of the greatest compliments that can be paid to an animated series. It might also be the Orange Kush that I smoke religiously on Sunday nights that lends a hand to my subjective reality.

With all of that said, I must eat my own words and say that the last three episodes of Season 3, ORB and the two part season finale, are insanely disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, I love insanity but I think Public and Hammer phoned these episodes in. ORB is all over the place not having a true denouement to tie up the loose ends. Even the creators themselves had some criticism of the editing of the show in the commentary provided on adultswim.com.  Doc said that the show would have had made more sense if the extra four to five minutes were left in.

The two part season finale, The Family that Slays Together, is so convoluted it makes viewing almost painful. Part 1 carries over from the abridged ORB episode so it makes sense that it makes no sense.  The true role of Brock in the whole series becomes eerily ambiguous especially the reasons behind his “termination.” Part 2 tries to answer some questions, but I don’t think that the General’s little pep talk at the end is the full truth. One of the smaller problems that I have with Part 2 is the continuity issue with the Ventures hopping a ride in Monarch’s Cocoon. It’s flying away from them in one scene and in the next; they are crawling out of an escape hatch at their compound. The biggest problem I have with the finale is Henchman 24. Seriously what the fuck? What the hell is #21 going to do by himself? By nature, he’s a codependent character.

Fuck you Jackson Public and Doc Hammer. Fuck you. I will see yall next season premiere, but fuck you guys…seriously fuck you. RIP #24. We will miss you.

   After eating two pounds of stale Halloween candy I found under the backseat of my friend’s ’93 Geo Tracker I fell into a “little mini-coma,” as the kind doc at the free clinic put it. During those seventy-eight hours of sleepy sleepy fun-time, I met my power animal, conversed with Bill Hicks, and went on a horrifying trip to the candy plantations of Central Europe. My animal is the llama, Bill said Sam Kinison and himself will personally be driving Satan’s team of fire-breathing black stallions onto Earth if Russell Crowe does anything remotely resembling his work or life, and I was awoken from the deep slumber by the atrocities that I saw in Germany.

    What I saw makes Mississippi in the early 1800’s look like a day in Candy Land.  Gummy bears are the totalitarian rulers of a dark and perverse landscape. Their ranks of masochism are differentiated by color and flavor. The clear, pineapple, ones are the highest on the sticky poll. They enjoy sexually harassing the reds, raspberry, by biting large hunks of gummy flesh from their ass cheeks. Strawberries come in second on the cruelty chart because of their collective adverse reaction to a low self esteem. It seems that since they are green, they believe they are misunderstood by the rest of civilization. Therefore, they castigate the gummy worms with black licorice sticks.

    You see, the gummy worms are the labor and sexual slaves of the gummy subculture. They toil day and night through the fields of Sour Patch Kids and gummy cherry orchards aerating the soil for proper root development.  I don’t think that the sexual part is too hard to figure out; they are pretty phallic by nature. The worst part of being a gummy worm is when the Smurfs get drunk on gummy root beer and decide to go fishing for Swedish fish with them for bait. I had to turn away at this point and puke…Smurfs smell worse than the dumpster at the animal shelter.

    Before I left, the head of tourism took me to their version of a “donkey show.” I physically cannot stomach the thought any longer, so I will leave the details up to the imagination. Right after the show, I fortunately awoke in a bed with my friends smiling all around me.

    I had this horrible ringing in my ears for a day or so, but when I finally could hear my friends told me the candy was in a big orange bowl outside the neighborhood pedophile’s house last Halloween. They thought it was either doped or semen laced, so they being good Samaritans took it before the kiddies could get a hold of it. My heavy sleep confirmed the fact that they were filled with heroin, ecstasy, and barbiturates.  They said the black-light they smuggled in the clinic confirmed the latter suspicion. Boy were they pissed they never tried any.

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"When I heard about it, I felt really hurt inside," said Special Olympics global messenger Dustin Plunkett. "I cannot believe a writer could write something like that. It’s the not the way that we want to be portrayed. We have feelings. We don’t like the word retard. We are people. We’re just like any other people out there. We want to be ourselves and not be discriminated against."

    Is it not a writer’s job to make people feel?  Hell most us are already sad, pathetic, retards ourselves.  Who in their right mind would chose such a lonely and unrewarding profession?  I wish I could get a job that “special people” get without even being able to spell their full name.  Well that’s enough about me.

    Ben Stiller loves to poke fun at retarded people in most of his movies anyway.  This is nothing new.  Take “There’s Something about Mary” for example number one.  The adult retarded brother is the funniest part of the movie.  Casting Owen Wilson in “Starsky and Hutch” shows that he has sympathy for special people and will even hire them when in true need of an actor.  Barbara Streisand played his fucking mother in “Meet the Annoying Jews.”  If that is not compassion for a ‘tard then I don’t what is.

    Why not spend protesting energy on something important like keeping re-re’s out of Washington DC?  Leave the hopeless alone in Hollywood and set up shop outside the Senate.  Give the people who actually matter a piece of your slightly slow mind.  Big Business, the same employers who give out greeter’s and janitor’s jobs to the mental, hand out Congressional seats like candy to make sure that no one with a fully developed sense of right and wrong can run this loony bin of a broken democracy.  Isn’t a clear sense of right and wrong the foundation of mental health?  Tell me that someone isn’t retarded when they sign their name next to “no” on a bill that would give free and proper health care to the parents, siblings, and family friends that take care of their “special people.”  I know that taking care of a handicapped person is a full time job that doesn’t pay, so why can’t these full time “employees” get the same treatment that their non-working loved ones get?

    I might be all over the place on this one, but I feel hurt inside.  Let’s all get angry, let’s all get pissed, let’s all protest.  Let’s do it for the right reason though.

This last weekend a buddy of mine called and said there was a garage sale that we couldn’t pass up.  I’m not your average garage sale junkie that wakes up at 4:00 am on a Saturday to find the holy grail of Tupperware, but I have found $30 jazz albums for a buck.  I asked my friend what was so special about this sale to warrant it as Sunday’s top priority, “Church of Satan” was all that had to say.

The crimson Victorian style house sat on the corner of a very normal old neighborhood.  Nothing out of the ordinary except for the lack of chirping birds and grass on the lawn.  There was an abundance of cats though.  My buddy said he could have swore he saw a neon green Siamese with a price tag stapled to its ear run past.  I was too busy looking at the noose rope swing set going for ten bucks.  An overly happy midget wearing sunglasses and a gold tooth said he could make a good deal on anything.

A tall skinny woman stroked his head like a dog and smiled, “Aren’t you a cute little boy.”

“Bitch don’t make bring up the flames of hell on your ass,” he said scampering away.

After searching through the dusty yard for headless sculptures and yard gnomes, my friend and I found out there was more stuff inside.  We made our way into the darkened sanctuary.  Large tapestries hung from every wall with price tags saying $5 OBO.  We tried to find the little guy to offer him a buck a piece for them.  We found him hiding in crawl space under the stairs whistling Eagle’s tunes.

“Hey man will you take a buck a piece for the tapestries?”
“Sorry night sleepers I need at least $3.50,” he hissed.
“I’m a day sleeper asshole, how ‘bout $2.75?” I asked getting a little angry at his temperament.
“Come on, help a brother out.  $3.50 a piece, nothing less.”
“What do y’all need the money for anyway?” my friend asked, sizing the midget up.
“We have to pay off our Hot Topic credit card before the interest rate gets too high.,” he said looking down at the KISS Army rug in shame.

I almost bit my lip off trying not to laugh…this guy might know some black magic, so we left him there to think about our offer.  I walked through the dining room adorned with plaster demon skulls and Franklin Mint Collector’s Plates of 1950’s movie monsters.  Music was coming from somewhere…it sounded like Black Sabbath on a calliope.

There was a crusty old pedophile playing with his organ in the kitchen.  He quit ticking the keys we he saw our faces full of disbelief.

“See something you like?” he asked turning on his stool to face us.  “That’s the biggest 18 incher I’ve ever seen.,” I said staring between his legs.
“Yeah this subwoofer is evil…pure evil,” he said laughing with a crooked grin.
He turned back and let a low E rumble from the keyboard to the woofer.  The whole house shook in appreciation.
“How much?” I asked when my teeth quit vibrating.
“What do you do?” he asked looking between the two of us.
“I sell wine,” my friend said.
“Evil wine made from the blood of the first born?” he asked scratching his crotch.
“No just grapes,” my friend quickly replied.
“I write,” I said.
“Evil writing?” he asked grinning.
“Sometimes I write about eating my neighbor’s pets,” I said hoping that was evil enough.
“Have you ever done it?” His smile got larger.
“Just once.  This guy had a wild hog that he let run loose.  He looked like good eating, so we BBQed him one Sunday morning.”

“That’s really sick kid,” he said losing his smile, “Take the damn thing and don’t come back. You’re fucked up.  You know that the eating of swine is prohibited in most all ancient religions.  You should really think about going vegan.  The modern life span is shrinking due to our diets….”
He was still rambling about crazy shit as we made our way to the van with the one hundred pound behemoth.

“Those Satanists sure are pussies,” my friend said as we sped off.
“Yeah pussies,” I laughed scratching the spot were my pecker used to be.

7) Honey Badger: (mellivora capensis)
    This particular subfamily of Badger’s love for honey compels my interest to see if helps flavor the meat.  I’ve had the Eurasian Badger and was impressed, but the addition of honey would only heighten the pleasure of the pallet.  I would also like to prepare it myself this next time.  The Eurasian Gypsies like it rare on a stick, I prefer mine dead and skinned first.

6) Winnie the Pooh: (disney ursidae)
    Come on who wouldn’t want to eat a jolly pre-sweetened bear with a Honey Badger?  Maybe even stuff the badger with cornbread stuffing and then stuff it in Pooh.

5) Piglet: (disney suidae)
    We all know that bacon makes everything better.  Plus he has to have dipped a little in the honey jar, if you know what I mean.

4) Tasmanian Devil: (sarcophilus harrisii)
    It is rumored that Devils have the strongest bite of any mammal in the animal kingdom.  I like to remind animals that I am the top of the food chain.  I will eat it roasted with parsnips and add it’s teeth to my collection of sharp objects.

3) Baby Leopard Seal: (hydrurga leptonyx)
    I got to see for myself if they’re worth clubbing.  Hey it will be tender.

2) Kting Voar (Pseudonovibos spiralis)
    Though many scientists believe this snake eating Asian bovine is a mythological creature, Dr. Wang, my personal mammalogist, reassures me that the animal does exist and makes a great pot of spicy chili.  Apparently the snake venom adds a little zing to the meat.

1) Dachshund (canis hotdogious)
    I have always wanted to make a hot dog from weiner dog meat.  Question is: what type of mustard do I use?

“What brings you here today Mr. Bird?” the doctor asks.
        ‘My back hurts all the time.  Mostly my lower back, but at night when I lay out flat the pain shoots up between my shoulder blades and begins to spasm.”  I deliver the line like I mean every word.
    “Motorcycle wreck?”
    “Yes sir.  I fell off the back of a dirt bike and landed right on my ass bone.”
    “Your coccyx?”
    “No just my ass.”
    “Well let’s just take your vitals.” He leads me into a small barren room with only a sphygmomanometer and a thermometer sitting on a folding table.
        “Open your mouth and roll up your sleeve.”  He plops in the temperature stick under my tongue as I take off my jacket and roll up my t-shirt.
    “Nice tattoo,” he says strapping on the blood pressure cuff.
    “Yeah, it’s a work in progress.”
    “Is that Bugs Bunny?”
    “Yeah, when it’s done it will be a full arm honorarium to Chuck Jones.”  The cuff tightens so hard Bugs’ eyes bulge red.
    “Yeah I was young and stupid once.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing against you or your tattoo, I was stupid on my own accord.  When I was working on my bachelors, a few of us in the dorm decided to go to Maine on spring break.  All the other guys had cool tattoos of pin-up girls and flaming skulls so I had to have one too.  They got me hammered drunk the last night and we went to this old parlor on the beach.  My buddies said they would pay for the work if they could pick it out.  Since I was low on cash already, I agreed.”
    The pressure cuff began to loosen as the gray haired doctor looked me square in the eyes.
    “Son, I hate to say it, but you have high blood pressure.  Lay off the sodium in your diet.”
    “Is it bad?”
    “No just use garlic instead.”
    “What?”
    “What what?”
    “Is the blood pressure a bad thing?”
    “Not at your age, but a pink lobster holding a pirate flag is.”
    “Excuse me?”
     The doc points his finger under the table and lifts his pants leg just over the sock line.  A lobster’s pink claw grasps a brass flagpole waving the Jolly Roger like a high school twirler.
    “Don’t drink on these pills either,” he says drawing my attention back to eye level.
    “Don’t worry about that.  I use them mostly to fall asleep… without pain of course.”
    “None of these are sleeping aids Mr. Bird.”
    “Every time I take a xanax I fall asleep after losing my keys and wallet.”
    “Mr. Bird please step back your dosing on them.  You might try only half of one from now on.”
    “My anxiety is …”
    “I have one patient who is so afraid to ride in a car she has to take two just to go to the grocery store.”
    “How does she shop like that?”
    “Her system uses the effect of the drug for the ride and kind of represses it while she’s shopping.  As soon as she gets back in the car she normally passes out until she gets home to put up the groceries.”
    “She doesn’t drive herself, does she?”
    “Heck no, my dad’s dead so I have to cart the looney around.”
    “Uhhhh……..”
    “Yeah so have yourself a good day now.  The nurse at the window has your prescription and your receipt.  Goodbye now.”

The Honda Dream 50 cut through the heart of Houston with poetic precision to be parked in the den under the care of a demonic kitten.  We were a six pack deep rolling stoned to the concrete cage in which some like to vent their rage.  Deep blue walls punched inches in…hard outlines of mushrooms and skulls.  Ink still unseen should whisper the written yells rather than the screams that make me want to plant this pen in his fucking eye.  That folks is a performance piece.

I’m drinking gin on top of wine, just to let you know.  It kills these ear piercing whines.  His bitches go to 11.  I think his parents didn’t beat enough.  Holy shitting pope, he’s published.  Do his books come with a warning, are they sold at the suicide booth gift shop?

“Ready to bail?” a voice from behind asks handing over a beer.
“Thank you, yes.”
We pile back into the sardine can sharing the last bottle of brew amongst the fish in the back seat.  We rant about the absolute shitiness of the evening and argue what is worse…the poetry or our munchies.
Leftover Chinese ends the debate.

Its 7:30 Sunday morning and I’m suffering from the effects of a coffee overdose.  About an hour ago I drank twelve cups of black South American speed.  I think I’m up to piss number eight and I feel the ninth coming on.  The Great Cornholio is a geriatric compared to me right now.

It is to the point that I feel like I’m tripping my balls off.  Shit keeps moving in and out of my peripheral, and I think a colony of ants is waging war on my pickled skin.  I don’t know how to come down or if I really want to.  The classic country radio station is the only stimulus I can handle at this moment.  Something about finger picking is a calming harbor.  My urine smells like a Dunkin Donuts.  Donuts sound good.  I’m scared shitless to leave the house though.  Any cop would haul my ass in thinking I just smoked a gram of meth.

I think I’m going to have to swear off the java for a week to make sure my kidneys are still functioning correctly.  If there is such thing as a caffeine hangover, I will surely have it. Oh shit, Glen Campbell is singing…there is no drug on this earth can that make him bearable.  If I could concentrate I would finish typing my longhand manuscripts but the keyboard is beginning to move a bit too much.  Signing off for now, I think my colon is about to erupt.

    Poetry readings normally carry the stigma of stuffy rooms filled with turtlenecks, thick smoke, and wines you can’t pronounce; well this one had all those except it had pretty damn good poetry.  Poems of smelling a girls shampoo while pounding her from behind, five year old pool sharks being hoisted through bars by Mexican bikers, and drunken Europeans dancing in Chucky T’s and whitey tighties.  Yeah, there were laughs even from the old man who couldn’t seem to pick out all his nose gold throughout the night.

    There was even some good background music coming from the bar next door.  A band of seventeen year olds, The Blue Threads, were playing Zeppelin covers while drawing away the poetry crowd one by one until just the regulars were left to hear the old nose read his lines one more time just in case someone missed them the first time.

    We split to go back to my old friend’s pad for a quick smoke and memories.  We realized that we had been friends for over ten years now and haven’t physically seen each other in almost two.  Nothing really has changed except that our poems only talk about lost loves and not the bubbly young ones that we try desperately to remember their names while eating breakfast.

    He and thirteen other local Houston poets are doing the “Word Around Town” poetry reading beginning this Sunday and touring through Htown bars and coffee-shops until next Saturday.  Look it up online and plan on going one night…you won’t be disappointed.  Say hi to me if you see a wild haired drunk with a goatee dripping week old nacho cheese.