Desperate Otto, the Jarhead Ventriloquist (to the tune of 'Desperado')

Desperate Otto, wipe that lipstick off your handses
You're no Señor Wences, so go along now
You're a jarhead, I guess you must have your reasons
That top spot you're leavin' can help you somehow?

Don't chew the spleens of caimans boy
They'll eat you if they're able
Chicken hearts are always your best bet
Now it seems to me some wine things
Have been spilled upon your table
And that's probably why it's surface looks all wet

Desperate Otto, you ain't gettin' my number
You're dumb and your dumber, it's drivin' me mad
And boredom, well that's just some people's pastime
I told you that last time. I didn't? My bad.

Don't your ears get cold in the winter time?
You're almost bald, but your scalp don't shine
It's hard to tell your noggin from your neck
Your hair's like an inverted beard
It isn't full, but simply weird, your deck

Desperate Otto, wipe that lipstick from your handses
Don't diss Señor Wences, you're not in his league
You may be clueless, but there's a blueness above you
So slap a hat on that rug, you'll be as swag as can be!

Yet another Stormy Monday cover

Oh they call it stomach acid
But heartburn's just as bad
Reflux worse
And ulcers oh so sad

The treacle flies on fried eggs
Scrambled eggs is another way
Suddenly my insides lurch
And I go down on my knees and spray

And I say lord have mercy
Lord have mercy on my retched soul
Baby I just lost my lunch
And no one can bring it back to me no more

Strike Four

Slank was up next, but I was still standing at the plate with my arms crossed and the bat leaning against my thigh, staring at the ground. The basemen mugged at each other. Over on first Collins threw up an arm to get my attention. I ignored him. Finally Gonzalez the catcher jumped up, opening his mask and butting me in the back a couple times with his chest protector. I stood my ground. Slank wandered over and stood up next to me, whacking his heels with his bat and glaring at me impatiently.

All of a sudden Harcourt started warming up on the mound. Gonzalez crouched back down behind the plate and pounded a fist in his mitt. Slank turned around and dropped his bat and went back in the dugout. As the fielders got into position, somebody cackled up in the stands. The windup came. A sinker. A swing and a miss. Didn't even nick it.

The umpire burst forward with his hand in the air. "Strike four!" he announced. Peals of laughter came from the stands, the outfield, the bullpen. Gonzales stood up, pantomiming a big kick to my ass, and everybody roared even louder.

I spat, nudged my cap forward on my head, and turned to go down the dark corridor to the lockers.

I knew would never again be anything to anyone. But I had made my point.

Bivalve

Diogenes Whamfurter reclined in his barkalounger. It was going to be a hot one today. If only Elektra hadn't short circuited the air conditioning unit the other night by knocking over a pitcher of capirinhas she'd set on the ventilator grill to cool.

Mars Colony 1602. The last of the archipelago still extant. Who would have imagined, 20 years ago, that he and Elektra would finish out their lives in a place like this? A plight made all the more ridiculous by the fact that the Colony wasn't even on Mars, nor they themselves, technically, even truly alive. Everything here - Diogenes & Electra, Li'l Welton, Garbage the dog, the endless expanses of red desert outside - was code running on an innerworld server.

Unfortunately, all that didn't make Diogenes panic any less when he heard air hissing through a new crack in his suit while out on expedition. It didn't keep rolls of fat on Electra's upper arms from swinging back and forth like hammocks when she brushed her hair in the morning, or convince Li'l Welton to stop acting like a complete retard all the time. Diogenes almost wished they had never told him about it in the first place, but then, that's what his mission up here was all about. Because if the innerworld code was responsable for Diogenes' existence, the code that made innerworld exist was merrily executing  away on an unobtrusive little PC on the shelf right next to his stereo. It was a classic bivalve setup - neat as a pin. And if you thought that all sounded like a bunch of hokum, well, you aint heard nothin' yet.

Your Browsin' History (to the tune of Your Cheatin' Heart by Hank Williams)

Your browsin' history
Will make you fret
You'll lose your job
And go in debt
Your wife will bail
Whate'er you do
Your browsin' history
Will tell on you

When links scroll down
Like fallin' rain
You'll click around
Tryin'a delete their names
But the web's for keeps
So whate'er you do
Your browsin' history
Will tell on you

(Instrumental chorus)

Your browsin' history'
Will ruin your sleep
Thinkin' o' what you had
That you can't keep
'Cause it's too late
Can't start anew
Your browsin' history
Always tell on you

When links scroll down
Like fallin' rain
You'll click around
Tryin'a delete their names
But the web's for keeps
And whate'er you do
Your browsin' history
Will tell on you

Hippopotamus Eye

Don't look at me with your hip
Not at me with your hip
Don't look at me with your hippopotamus eye

A rap lyric that popped out of nowhere. My brain must have been working on it in its spare time. It started the other night as I was going to bed. I reached over to switch off the light and there he was with that eye of his, a disembodied eye that doesn't belong to a face. Sees right through you. But it's not scary. Leo's still my friend after all these years. Just don't look at me with your hippopotamus eye. And then we go to sleep.

No one can know what it means. Nobody knows the story, except me and Val. Maybe Mad, if she remembers. I told her once. You can't guess what it means. It isn't something you can guess.

A boy testing the limits. Going where he's never been before, violent, out of control. Leo flung down hard onto the blacktop from the roof of the playhouse. Didn't make a sound when he landed. Just pop. When Val picked him up we saw it was bad. That cracked glass orb. The horror. We saw what happens when you go where it's not safe. People get killed. They break and you can't fix them.

We sacrificed a hippopotamus nobody liked. Touched the eye up with orange watercolor and glued it in with Elmer's glue. That dead, leering eye. It was sixty years ago. No one could have guessed what rap music would turn out to be one day, or anything else, for that matter. He sits on the nightstand now and wishes me good night every night as I turn out the light. Still my friend after all these years. Just don't look at me with your hippopotamus eye. And then we go to sleep.