FireVaney

What are your answers? The answers you provide are few and far between. Worse, your answers bleed ambiguities. That’s right, your answers are the mutilated corpses of an at-large serial killer. In other words, your answers, they have no life. They suck the life force out of every question posed, your answers do. Worse still, your answers embarrass my questions. More oft than not, when you’re around, my questions run for cover! To answer my questions—as to what your answers are—they are deadly, and, thusly, they are worthless. Indeed, worthless. I cannot overstate just how worthless your answers are , but I will try. Your answers have less worth than a single atom in a grain of sand. And you may ask, “How many atoms in a grain of sand?” And I may answer (correctly), “Quintillions.” And I will have you know, sir, that there are more atoms in a single grain of sand than there are grains of sand on all of the beaches on the entire planet! But, sir, your answers provide no hope. Your an...

The paddles do not eat the peas or the cornbread in the wind when you chase the girl with the pink ribbons in her hair. Why you don’t want to eat the juice when it’s frozen is beyond me. Then again, the dogs whimper when you lick their joint accounts that have been liquidated by thieves. But why should I care when you haven’t bothered to eat cheese with the monkeys in the desert with the blue blob from Detroit. The Blue Blob is NOT from Detroit. He lies. I mean he lies about where he hails from, although, yes, he does lie on the ground and he does make sand-angels in the desert sand – until he’s bitten by a scorpion. That’ll be the end of that in the eatery that doesn’t end anything of the sort. I want cheese fries. I want cheese fried with tomato juice. I don’t want that silly man over there telling how I should live my life with tomato sauce eating the pop tarts and the pipe dream. I don’t eat pipe dreams because they’re bad for my teeth. They’re HARD, like my cock. No, apologies: Th...

When I had the baby I didn’t think she would be so green. I figured she’d be more orange, like her mother, or, perhaps a shade of turquoise, like me. I am turquoise, through and through. I am a semiprecious stone, “typically opaque and of a greenish-blue or sky-blue color, consisting of a hydrated hydroxyl phosphate of copper and aluminum.” * But I don’t mean to brag. When I pooped out the baby, she said, “Mazel tov!” And I said, “Bitch, that’s MY line!” And I said to the doctor, “Bitch stole my line!” And that’s when the baby commenced to cry. And that’s when the doctor said that I’d given birth to a healthy baby girl. All this from eating that funky pizza. I should’ve known. I was warned, but what can you do? It looked tempting. And I was hungry. So she grew up and became a success at everything and retired young and traveled across the universe and set me up for life in a mansion atop Mount Rainier. She’d purchased Mount Rainier for a pittance. I was left all alone. She didn’t mean...

The nest is in the tree where it belongs. That is not code. That is a nest. A simple, run-of-the-mill nest. A bird’s nest, to be exact. And I had meant to write something else, something – a word – that wasn’t “nest.” Only, now, I cannot recall what that word was. I started to write it, and… oh, here, the word I intended was: “next,” but, as is evident, I wrote, “nest,” instead. And I ran with it. Rather, I tried to. But I didn’t really, did I? No. Because I stopped myself and tried to explain my original choice. My typing of “nest” was an accident. My finger hit the “s” key instead of the “x” key. And there you have it. Aren’t you pleased to have the explanation? Doesn’t it make you whole? No? I didn’t think so. But, if, by chance, it did , then how lucky for you. I really ought to run with it, though. Go with the accident. The nest is not in need of repair. It is a dandy nest. It is next to the other next. (I meant to write “nest,” of course!) An eagle’s next is next to the nest I ...

She didn’t want to get out of bed. She wanted to remain in bed for the duration of the storm. She didn’t care about work. She wanted to quit. She was sick and tired of it. She wouldn’t suck up to her boss, not one day more. And she enjoyed listening to the rain and to the thunder. She enjoyed the unpredictable flashes of lightening which lit up her bedroom. She wished she were in a boat. She didn’t care about the dangers of being at sea during a storm. She could sleep much more soundly under such circumstances. She accused everyone she knew who suffered from motion sickness of being weak, of being cowardly. She could sleep in an active roller coaster car. Once, in fact, she HAD once fallen asleep once whilst riding the Demon at Marriott's Great America, in Gurnee, IL, USA, Planet Earth, Milky Way, once. But just that once. She had, indeed, fallen into the most peaceful of sleeps, once, whilst her boyfriend feared she’d passed out. More than once, she fell asleep during sex. She lik...

I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve lost sight of my objective here. This isn’t about you, the reader. No, this isn’t about amusing you. This is about me, the writer – the streamer. Thus, we’ll summarily dispense with all reason. Henceforth (or, at the very least, until the bottom here is reached), there’ll be a whole lot less forthright insight into what makes the FireVaney tick. The sky is grey because the bombs are not dropping on the sun at five o’clock in the morning when the trees are wishing for a new potato crop at the next summer fair. You’ve been to the summer fair, don’t say you haven’t, don’t lie to your uncle FireVaney. Dude, to say that the dreams are not true just because they’re dreams is like saying that the potatoes are dreams in the minds of so many apple seeds. NO, I won’t eat bananas naked anymore. That was a fad, a trend, a phase. Yes, we all go through the nude eating banana phase. Don’t tell me you didn’t skip to the tree’s beat last Saturday night. I saw you. I was spyi...

Rufus ate potato chips all of his life. He ate all kinds of potato chips, but only potato chips. He did not eat hotdogs or hamburgers or French Fries. He ate BBQ flavored potato chips, cheddar cheese flavored potato chips, sour cream & onion flavored potato chips, you name it. He ate all brands and all varieties. He ate potato chips. And milk. Chocolate milk. Made with chocolate syrup . And so he’d munch all varieties of potato chips and he’d wash them down with chocolate milk made from chocolate syrup. And the milk was always 2% milk from the fast food place down the street. The fast food place down the street only sold milk in the half-pint size. Rufus only drank milk and bought potato chips from that fast food place, so he gave it a lot of business. He gave them so much business they started stocking bags of potato chips just for Rufus. (Or so he believed.) They weren’t the big bags, they were the little bags. But Rufus didn’t care. Rufus went on like that for many years. His ...

Yeah, sure, I pray for poontang. So what? I should feel guilty? God, after all, did say,  “Be fruitful … [mumble] and multiply.”  [ ALT : God, after all, did say, “Be fruitful …” and that other thing.]  Hey, lookit, I’m only trying to fulfill the Lord’s wishes here. Why should I feel guilty about that? And you might say,  “Why not pray for world peace? Or an end to famine and poverty and AIDS?”  Come on. Like my one little prayer could put an end to all of that. Like the Almighty is waiting on little ole me to fall in line with all the other World Peace and Prosperity Pray Mongers. It’s not like I spawned the scourges of the world. Aw, but what the hell, I’ll give it a whirl:  “Yo, Yahweh, I didn’t come up with the fan or the shit that’s hitting it. You did. And even if You didn’t, You let it happen. But never mind that. Never mind I had nothing to do with it. Never mind how powerless I am to do anything about it. I’m still begging You to fix it. ‘Cau...

The restoration of the giant shack next door was NOT  proceeding according to plan. This much was clear given the view from my window. * The fools they hired botched the job and the shack toppled into my building. Either the shack was stronger than it looked, or my building was a great deal less stable than it seemed. Whichever the case, I had but minutes to gather all of my valuables and escape certain death. I loaded my backpack with rare books. I took an autographed first edition copy of Mamet’s The Old Religion (in which he scribbled ((to me)), “Thank you for your most kind words”), along with a first edition copy of his first novel, The Cabin (which I have yet to read † ); I also packed my Harry Potter books (British editions all, and a bulky lot, to be sure); and somehow I managed to cram in my thick, hardcover volume of Richard Matheson’s The Twilight Zone Scripts . And then, just as the walls of my wee studio efficiency apartment gave way, I fled.  Over the next few...

You people who whistle—I mean while strolling down grocery store aisles, while changing your clothes in gym locker rooms, or just generally whistling around perfect strangers—what the fuck is up with you people? I’d like to know if anyone ever says to you people, “Oh, what a lovely whistle, please continue.” And why are you whistlers always middle age or elderly men? Fifty years ago, did everybody whistle wherever they went every time they left the house? Is this the cultural effect of Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs? And why always men? Have you ever heard a women randomly whistle in public? Does some law forbid it? I’m not talking about whistling at beauty. That seems to’ve fallen out of fashion in most civilized communities. But whistling for the simple enjoyment of it, you’ll still hear it every now and again. I’m sorry, but there is too much noise pollution in the world as it is—what with sirens, car horns, stereo speakers, jackhammers, cicadas, cell phone chatter, barking dogs, etc. ...

The time has come for all men to eat their cookies after dipping them in milk. This must happen at the same time. All men must do this at the exact same time. We shall define a man as any male having had at least one wet dream. That should do it. Scientists have recently discovered that a build-up of testosterone – combined with the consumption and absorption of milk and cookies (chocolate chip cookies) – will result in a physical and chemical reaction that will, ultimately, decrease global warming. Regrettably, the latest research also shows that when women come together to consume milk and cookies their collective estrogen level has the reverse effect – indeed, global warming increases . Thus, scientists have theorized that the best way to fight global warming is not to attempt to reduce so-called “green-house” gasses, but to round up men and get them to stuff their faces with milk and cookies. Yes. Milk and cookies. How wonderful. Nobody is going to believe it, though; hence, we are...

We know we have evolved beyond the wilds of Mother Nature because we clip our fingernails. Or we paint and polish them. We know we’ve evolved because we pierce our earlobes and fill them with bits of pretty metal. We know we’ve evolved beyond the wilds because we’ve invented toilets and sewers and landfills. We’re evolved because we use Charmin, or White Cloud, or Cottonelle. And if we’re really evolved, we use a bidet. (That’s right, some of us are more evolved than others of us.) Many of us gargle with Scope or Listerine; this is yet another indication of our evolved status in the animal kingdom. We use Speed Stick and Right Guard (but hopefully not at the same time). For these reasons, and many others, we belong at the tippy top of the food chain. Included with the aforementioned “many others”: the fact that we drink bottled water; and the fact that we use Sharper Image gadgets to trim the hair out of our respective nostrils. (Well, I do. Does that make me more evolved than you?) W...

Ralph never wanted Toy soldiers to invade his papier-mâché teepee. (Who would?) But they did. And they took him prisoner—that’s right, the Toy soldiers did. In fairness, Ralph didn’t mind being held prisoner. Toy soldiers are famously courteous and well-groomed chaps. ‘Twas the fate of the papier-mâché teepee that worried Ralph. He is , after all, a bit of a neat-freak. Plus, as you might expect, his humble abode was a rather fragile affair. Ralph deliberately built the teepee here, on the ever-calm shores of Flapjackistan. Here, in Flapjackistan, the wind nearly always blew less than a half mile per hour. Serenity prevailed. That is, of course, until the invasion of the Toy soldiers. To be clear, these Toy soldiers were not the tiny green plastic men you might have in mind. No, they were brutes from Toyota. In sooth, they merely fancied themselves as brutes, for they were really quite civil. Indeed, shortly after becoming the World’s #1 auto-maker, Toyota went into the real estate bus...

I woke up in my childhood bed. I didn’t question how or why. I threw off the covers, stood, and staggered to the bathroom. It was exactly where I’d left it, fifteen-odd years later. But then bathrooms don’t tend to move, do they? Particularly when they’re one of seven rooms in a single-story house. The bathroom’s sink and tub were overflowing. On the bright side, they were overflowing with water. So, it could’ve been worse. StepDude didn’t give a damn. He’d left the water to fill and overflow. In fact, all of the sinks in the house were overflowing—with water—which, at least to the eye, seemed clean. Thank God. There’s always a bright side. If your house must  flood, better if it’s flooded with clean water—as opposed to rusty colored water, or saltwater, or sewage. But I hadn’t realized something. Since I’d moved out, fifteen-odd years ago, StepDude inexplicably had sinks installed in every room and also in the hallway. That makes nine sinks—nine sinks and faucets * —if you coun...

She thinks she can get away with murder when the clock strikes three because that’s when she turns invisible for some inexplicable reason. It’s something she’s struggled with all of her life – this odd, God-given talent that only occurs between the hours of three and four o’clock. Yes, that’s twice a day, between three and four AM and three and four PM. Twice a day, for an hour, for the hour specified, she simply vanishes. Up until recently she hasn’t figured out where she goes, either; but she always returns to the exact same spot. At first, when she was but a child, she thought that her brothers were playing some kind of practical joke on her. Somehow, they’d sneak into her bedroom (or wherever she was) and change the clock and her Minnie Mouse watch. Somehow, they’d be able to do this without her knowing it. And she would hit them. She would pop back into reality, hunt them down and beat them. Her brothers began to fear her – particularly, of course, around four AM and four PM. And ...

Middle school. Gym Class. Outside. Field. Football. Picked last. As usual. Snubbed by quarterback. As usual. Playing for losing team. As usual. Gym teacher: Mr. Klip. He stops the game. Pulls a large EGG from his windbreaker’s pocket. Tells the class: “Go long.” We—the class—we’re confused. He Hail Marys the egg. I start running, hesitantly running ( hesitancy runs in the family), not fast enough, not to reach the egg before it hits, before it SPLATS, the ground. (Not that it’s clear that it’s not hard-boiled.) Doesn’t matter. Why? Egg DOES NOT hit the ground. No. Instead: A great brown bird, it BURSTS from egg. Flies past goal posts. Lands on tree branch, a low-hanging tree branch. Everybody: aghast . “Everybody,” but Klip. (“ Aghast ” not at low-hanging tree branch, no. “ Aghast ” at bird burst egg, or egg burst bird, or what have you.) I walk to tree, look up at bird—adult hawk, mayhap. But maybe, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Staring. Klip, he’d given me a leather gauntlet. When? Dun...

No, really, there is a smudge on the inside of my Daewoo’s windshield. It’s an odd sort of smudge. You only see it at night or when the sun is blazing itself directly at it. I’ve tried wiping it away with towels and water, and then with towels and 409, and yet the smudge remains. Where did it come from? I have no recollection of spraying the windshield with any sort of smudge-creating liquid. Could it be the amassed leftovers from my periodic sneezing? If so, wouldn’t that make it organic and hencethus wipe-away-able? Despite my efforts the smudge remains. The smudge remains despite my efforts. Or, perhaps, it recurs. Unless it reoccurs. What I’m saying is that it comes and goes. What if the stuff of my sneezes is inorganic? Or at least not organic. Or semi-organic. Or semi-inorganic. Perhaps I am a Cylon after all. What makes (the “reimagined”) Battlestar Galactica so good, so seemingly REAL is, perhaps, the “fact” that it IS real. Or was real. Or some nearly accurate variation of w...

Wherever I was, it was hilly and rural and green. Maybe it was Scotland. I’ve never been to Scotland, but I’ve seen Highlander and Braveheart more than twice. And I do have Scottish blood, according to my mother. Wherever it was, I’d driven there in a car reminiscent of the “ General Lee ” from the “Dukes of Hazard.” Presumably, the muscle car, true to form, leapt from the continent (presumably the North American one) to the island (presumably the British one), since I don’t believe in airplanes, and since I’ve no recollection of how I found myself behind the wheel of said vehicle. The car belonged to my father. Or that’s what he’d led me to believe. Unless it’s what I’d led myself to believe. I stood (and presumably parked) outside of a massive, red bricked citadel atop a wide, curving ridge. The stronghold’s impossibly tall walls weaved over the length of the ridge like a colossal brick snake. My father rang my cell phone. If I took the call, I didn’t mention the car. Had I “borrowe...

Alright, yes!  I am a glass of orange juice.  Rather, the orange juice itself.  The glass is merely for containment.  Though perhaps it’s something of a fashion statement.  But yes,  that’s right,  one hundred percent,  fresh-squeezed,  pure Florida orange juice.  Absolutely,  positively,  not  from a concentrate.  Even so,  please,  I beg you,  refrain from consuming me.  Yes, your eyes indeed deceive you. These appendages, the clothing, the face? Simply a disguise. You haven’t a clue as to what it’s like: Every morning—people staring at me—a thirsty gleam in their eyes; and then, every evening, terrified to go to bed; fearing that ever-recurring nightmare where huge unwashed hands grab at me and spill me all over the kitchen floor—so that a big dog named Butch can lick me up. I was perfectly happy housed in a peel.  It’s dangerous propaganda, I tell you, all this talk about the benefits ...

I…  myself,  hand deliver,  to you,  where you,  “work,”  red roses.  I do so every day of the  “work” week.  Friday nights, I… present to you, a new, sparkling diamond ring, or, if not that, a pair of new sparkling diamond earrings. Or, if not that, a new sparkling diamond bracelet. Always Friday nights: a new sparkling diamond something .  Saturday nights, I… present to you, a new, radiant golden necklace, or, if not that, a new, radiant golden watch, or, if not that, a new, radiant golden brooch. Always Saturday nights, a new radiant golden something .  In my Hummer limousine, colored Day-Glo fuchsia, with the open-air hot tub, and always, with your preferred chauffeur, Jacobs Jacobsonzweigsberg (preferred because he has only one arm, is blind in one eye, lazy with the other; but more so because he’s an unabashed cracker of dirty jokes, a connoisseur of rare tuning fork timepieces, and an inveterate BASE jumper); yes, I escort yo...