Urban Legend

28 Jul

If you’re looking for something nice-nicey to digest, then you can just stop right here. I can’t do it for you. I can’t give you the “summer read.” I can’t get my shit together to print out documents. I can’t even burn them anymore. And so, if you want something good and nice…go to the Chick Lit section. Rif lit. Light lit. Beach reading. Whatever they call it now.

I have four stacks of single-spaced paper with verbal diarrhea on them. Words, like. Probably over a hundred and eighty thousand. At last count. The way to go about it normally would be to start sifting through all of it and picking and eviscerating. But I can’t. I can’t even leaf through the damned thing. This is my sofa. You know those guys, those pack rat bachelors who drag along their shit sofa with holes and broken frames and springs? Those sofas which smell like foul ass? That’s me and my stack of written papers. Stories. Last year I burned some of them in a pit outside, but I can’t even get motivated to do that. I can’t even start a fire, much less throw pounds of paper into it. This is my ass-smelling sofa.

On weekends I sign sponsor sheets. Twelve-steppers. Alcoholics, sex addicts, pedophiles, druggies. Whatever. They give me their official sheets and I throw down my John Hancock. And off they go to their support groups. It’s my repentance. Sponsorship of the downtrodden. It’s how I set things straight with God. I had to re-read that. It makes me laugh. Doesn’t it?

What I send out now is made up shit in the form of urban legends. If you’ve heard any of them, you’ve read my work. The cell phone one where people pop raw corn is my latest. A phone company bought that one and made a video out of it. I got a residual in the mail for my work. Only the way I originally wrote it, it was an egg that got cooked. Egg in the middle of two cell phones ringing. Or better yet, four mobiles. Someone dials the individual numbers, phones begin to ring. Egg gets cooked. That’s it. It was viral. That’s what they call it: viral. The 809 area code scam, that was mine too. The Ashley Flores one. Aspartame as the substance responsible for an epidemic of diseases. Coca-Cola becomes carbonated by accident. Coca-Cola as an effective spermicide. Drug runner evades detection by driving a black, fast truck at night while wearing night vision goggles. The gang known as The Crips take their name from an acronym for “Continuous Revolution In Progress.” Its gang members depositing a lethal mixture of LSD and strychnine on pay phone buttons. All of them are mine. Of course, now they’re debunked fast by various websites, but still. It’s an addiction. It’s a vindictive addiction. Middle finger to society. Some people send computer viruses. I send them in stories. We’re all addicts. Some of us manufacture the drugs, and some use it. And some do both. Those are the real degenerates. Let the roaches cannibalize themselves. Are they? It beats sifting through two hundred thousand words, trying to pick the best of the best to send out to some gentrified brownstone in Harlem where a privileged twenty-year-old decides which and what to publish in his hip rag. The one about the man who uses his sperm to seal envelopes sent to various government offices. A human penis is found in a jar of fruit punch. Restaurant after-dinner mints contain urine from customers who fail to wash their hands. A girl requires surgery after swallowing a wire that had come loose from a barbecue grill cleaning brush, and was cooked into a hamburger. Baby carrots are made from deformed full size carrots that have been permeated with chlorine. All of them are mine. All debunked, but still…we’re all addicts of some sort. I write them to get off, you read them. Food contamination works best. I’ve done my most brilliant work sending out rumours like this. Insects and weird bugs work well, too. Girl in India wakes up with an inflammation or trauma to her eye. Turns out a spider laid eggs just under her eyelid while she was sleeping and now she has baby spiders filing out of her left retina. And then there’s that one about the guy who sits in his apartment at the computer, naked, making up shit and sending it across into cyberspace. He’s an addict too. Like all the others. Like all the ones who read his stuff.


5 Responses to “Urban Legend”

  1. momentofchoice 28/07/2008 at 4:28 PM #

    damn, i was really hoping for something uplifting to read today.

  2. momentofchoice 28/07/2008 at 4:28 PM #

    hahaha the avatar says it all.

  3. maria 28/07/2008 at 6:42 PM #

    Made me laugh.

    Probably not uplifting-ly.

  4. Wellum Hulder 29/07/2008 at 5:06 AM #

    That is funny shit. I like the bitter tone and the odd ball list of legends.

  5. Alex Pruteanu 29/07/2008 at 9:40 AM #

    Thanks Wellum; must saunter over and read your stuff. Soon. But soon.

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