An Open Letter To Both Of My Fans

AN OPEN LETTER TO BOTH OF MY FANS

I know what you're thinking: "He's missed three of the last seven days! What the fuck?" Here's the fuck:

Last week wore me down physically and I got whacked with three rejections on stories which I thought were all quite good. I've got to be in a decent mood to produce anything decent and right now, I'm teetering on depression. I'm stepping back and re-evaluating. So, I'm sorry to say, you're storyless for now. But don't be upset. For all any of us know, I good could get the best blow-job of my life tomorrow and write the greatest novel in the English language. So there's something to look forward to. I know I'm looking forward to it.

Today's Special

TODAY’S SPECIAL
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Bert just figured the waiter had a southern accent. He didn’t think anything of it when he ordered the daily special for Vera and himself. When the order hit the table . . . well, that was something else, wasn’t it?

“What the hell is this?” Bert asked. Vera sat speechless and wide-eyed.

“It’s today’s special, sir,” the waiter said. “Buffalo wangs.” In the center of the table, between the diet cokes and napkins, lay three gigantic, sauce-covered penises in a red plastic paper-lined basket.

“You’re kidding me! You can’t expect us to eat this!”

“I’ll try one,” Vera said. She popped one end of a big hot wang into her mouth and worked her jaws vigorously. “Chewy. But good.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bert said.

“Why don’t you try one, sir?” the waiter said.

“Thanks, but no amount of celery and blue cheese dressing is going to make an enormous bovine cock go down easily. I’ll try the quesadillas.”

Bert found Vera’s enthusiasm for her wangs disconcerting. By the time his food arrived, she had polished off the entire basket.

“Jeez!” he said. “I wish you liked mine that much.”

“Yours doesn’t taste like that,” she said, rubbing her belly.

On the way home, they stopped at the corner store and Bert picked up a bottle of hot sauce.

Inspiration: Driving to work, I heard some DJ talking up a station promo and he mentioned buffalo wings, which, to my Northern-born ears, sounded a bit like wangs. And lo, a story was born.

THE I’M SO DESPERATE NOT TO MISS A DAY, I’LL POST ANY PIECE OF SHIT STORY

THE I’M SO DESPERATE NOT TO MISS A DAY, I’LL POST ANY PIECE OF SHIT STORY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

“I have more sex appeal in my little finger than you have in your entire body,” Myrna said. Then she proved it by doing things to me that I never imagined could be done with a little finger. Or even a ring finger.

Inspiration: Not much to say here. I heard somebody use the painfully worn out little finger line and decided to make it slightly more interesting.

Stu Early

(Author's Note: This one goes out to Art)

STU EARLY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Stu liked to get up early, get a jump on the day. The more he thought about it, the earlier he got up. He’d get up for work at eleven in the evening when work started at seven in the morning and yet still he got up earlier. Soon he was finishing Tuesday’s work on Monday. He got up earlier.

Stu found himself slowly going backwards through time as he awoke earlier and earlier from day to day. He compressed his twenty-four hour day into eighteen hours and ran into earlier editions of himself. Or maybe they were later editions. As he went further back in time these, copies started piling up until Stus outnumbered the rest of the human race and by the time of the ancient Sumerians, he was able to take over the world. He changed their names to the Stumerians and that was about the extent of his edicts. He didn’t really have time to issue more. He had to get up early the next day.

Inspiration: Hey, if you know Art, you know Stu, that's all I can say. If you call Art up right now, you'll find that he's getting ready for bed - for next Tuesday.

Eat Me

EAT ME
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Dirk’s esteem was at an all time low. When cannibals started moving into the neighborhood, he made a showy production about boarding up his windows and carrying a shotgun. But no one tried to break into his house, even before the fence went up. He’d cross the street whenever one of the neighbors came his way and he avoided the carpool, but to be honest they didn’t even look him over. After a year of shoddy treatment he left his front door wide open and sprinkled his head with Mrs. Dash. No one even tried to lick him.

“Is there something wrong with me?” he finally asked Marla, the girl next door/cannibal/neighborhood floozy.

“Watcha mean?” she asked.

“Do I smell bad? I mean, like I’ve . . . gone bad?”

She sniffed him and he felt a nervous thrill with her hard white teeth so close to him.

“Is that Secret?” she asked, pulling away. “Girls wear that.”

“Hey, it’s strong enough for a man! The ads said as much. Is that why you don’t want to eat me? Because of Secret?”

“Why would I want to eat you?” she asked.

“Because you’re a cannibal.”

“Well, someone thinks very highly of himself. Let me ask you something: Have you ever seen a cow? A real one, up close?”

“Yeah, once at my grandfather’s farm.”

“Did your mouth water? Did you want to eat it then and there?”

“No.”

“Exactly. On top of that, who the heck wants to go through all the trouble of skinning and cleaning you? When I want man-meat, I go to the store, just like anybody else.”

“You can’t buy people at the store!”

“You ever look through the deli? I mean, the entire deli?”

“No. I guess not. Look, thanks a lot. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh, no problem. Listen, you want to come in for a drink?”

“Um, sure.”

They had Yoo-Hoos with vodka chasers for most of the afternoon. To Dirk’s surprise, when they were both too blitzed to see straight, Marla ate him.

I need one of those twist endings here, so I should specify: Not in the way you’re thinking. Of course, I don’t know what way you’re thinking, but it’s probably that other way. Do you know which way I’m talking about? Good.

Because I sure don’t.

Inspiration: I had just done gangbang and shit stories. I was trying to come up with another taboo. And I thought, what if everyone was a cannibal? Maybe I'd been influenced by my recent reading of I am Legend, in which everyone is a vampire. But what if everyone was a cannibal and no one wanted to eat you? Sure, you'd be relieved at first, but after a while, wouldn't you ask yourself, "Hey, what's wrong with me?"

No Gangbangs In Heaven

NO GANGBANGS IN HEAVEN
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Life sucked, yeah. But Claire had death to look forward to. Death was going to rock. After she bought it, Claire was going to get it on with John Wayne, Sean Connery and Mr. Spock for all
eternity. One heavenly gangbang with the three greatest studs the human race had ever produced.

It looked good on paper. But then Claire died. For a good long while the Duke had her all to himself and that was nice. Then Connery came up and he and Wayne fought over her endlessly
and the lovin’ dried up. Eventually Spock appeared but all that freak wanted to do was fondle her fingers. She grabbed his wang to give him a hint (he was half-human, after all) and he gave her some crap about sex after death being illogical.

“Hey, fuck your logic!” she said. She couldn’t tell but if he was fucking his logic, that was the only thing he was fucking. Connery rolled past her with a bloody nose. He drew his Walther
PPK and had it out for the ten-millionth time with the guy who brandished the Colt .45.

Death sucked too, yeah.

Inspiration: After nearly twenty years with my wife, I've learned what she likes. She may dig a muscle man here or there. But these three guys get her hotter than any of the young, sexy celebrities out there. Sure she's an oddball. That's why she's with me.

Squeezing One Out

SQUEEZING ONE OUT
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

You had to figure it’d be a New Yorker that came up with the idea. Joey didn’t have time for his wife’s goddamned pug to sniff everything and screw around in the park.

“C’mon! I got shit to do!” he shouted at the dog. “You been out here like three minutes now!”

More sniffing.

More rolling on her back joyfully.

Joey had had enough. He grabbed the little pig-dog, gave her belly a good hard squeeze and stuff came out the back end. He did a quick survey to make sure it was only the stuff that was supposed to come out. For the most part it was. Good. He didn’t need Gina giving him a hard time. He went back in with a strangely quiet little dog under his arm.

A good idea is a good idea. Joey told Dom about his new method and Dom told Deke and Deke told Ed and pretty soon guys all over the city were playing their dogs like bagpipes. The kids got into the act and soon made a game out of it.

“Jesus,” more than one tourist was overheard to have said. “When I was a kid we used water pistols.”

Inspiration: I told my wife I did this one day about a year ago when I came back inside with the dog. She thought it was disgusting. Since I'm a boy, it's my evolutionary imperative to gross girls out, so I was happy.

Like It?

Like It?

Hey, everybody, I appreciate you stopping by and hope you enjoy at least some of what you see here. Of course, everything here is free for your pleasure. The best payment you could give me is to spread the word, tell your friends and neighbors who aren't easily offended and subscribe to the blog. It would make me as happy as a freshly squeezed dog.

The Stupidity of Washing Fish

THE STUPIDITY OF WASHING FISH
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

As a lad, I knew a man who washed fish in the market. My friends and I laughed at him all day long. Fish spent years in the water, they were never out of the water until the very end. They were about as clean as anything could be. The old man was a fool.

I took the lesson of his life and carried it with me into adulthood. If I was going to wash anything, it would be something that was dirty. And what could be more dirty than dirt? It spent its entire existence (after being shaved from its mother rock) in dirt. I set up my stall in the market and six days a week you could find me on my little stool washing dirt.

There’s peace to be found washing dirt. Job security. You never run out. I’d take a big clump of dirt in the morning and by mid-day I’d have washed all the dirt from it and produced a sparkling clean . . . Well, nothing, really, to show for it. But the work was its own reward.

Children laughed at me all day long. You could tell by their ignorance and close-set eyes that they’d grow up to become fish washers. Another generation lost. It was a shame really.

Me And My Big Head

ME AND MY BIG HEAD
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

My head was throbbing, like my brain wanted to squirt out of my eyeholes. Sorry about the graphic description, but if you don’t like reading it, imagine what feeling it is like. Aspirin
wasn’t helping a bit. It was a pressure thing, so it needed relief. With my dad’s ball-peen hammer I carefully cracked my skull in two and let the halves separate a bit.

Ahhhhhhhhh. That was nice. Good to air out the old thing every once in a while. It was starting to smell of mildew. Things were all gumdrops and golden showers for a day or four until the hurting came back. My brain was getting larger. I ditched the old skull completely and formed a new one from papier-mâché that was two feet in diameter.

“You’re gettin’ a big head, boy,” my mother said. True. Big brain too, because it soon grew to fill the old head. You’d think I’d get smarter, with all that brain going on, but I just had a lot more of the same old crap running through my mind. Instead of thinking, “I’d like some mac and cheese,” once like I normally would, I thought, “I’d like some mac and cheese” about
thirty-seven times.

The ending was gross, so you may want to stop here and go read your e-mail or something. I was strung up by my ankles by a group of Mexican children and beaten about the head for eighteen minutes until it burst open. That’s what I got for painting my new head in rainbow colors. The kids rushed forward, but when they realized that it wasn’t candy that spilled out, but brains, their party broke up rather quickly.

As for me, I was grateful. My headache was gone and I was sure that once I retrieved my old skull from the wastebasket, I could fit into it once more. I looked at the mess the kids had
left on the ground. I had no regrets, just a powerful craving for some mac and cheese.

The Philosophers' Summit

THE PHILOSOPHERS’ SUMMIT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

After the second night we hit the bar. Not at the hotel. They’d all be talking shop over there and we’d had so much of that existentialist/platonic/deterministic/Kant/Nietzsche/Kierkegaard bullshit by Saturday night we wanted to puke. Wouldn’t you know it, this bum down at the end of the bar asked us about ourselves and Steve spilled it all.

"Philosophers, huh?" the guy said. "Straight from the wisdom convention. Well I got some philosophy you haven’t heard."

I groaned. "We’ve heard it all. That’s all we’ve heard for the last two days."

"Like what?" Steve asked the guy.

"Will you shut up?" I said.

"Like, you know those guys who say everything is connected? It ain’t. Everything is connected except for three things." He ticked them off on his scabby fingers. "Cheese doodles, specula and The Lawrence Welk Show. Those are just hanging out there, loose in the universe."

"Heavy," Steve said. He’d only had half a beer and a Corona, at that. Must have been the fatigue tearing off pieces of his brain.

"Look, man," I said, wanting to put an end to it, "We’ve got the flipping Dalai Lama speaking to us tomorrow. What could you possibly have that can stack up to that?"

Suddenly the loon spoke with the voice of an evangelist. "He’s pretty good, all right. But I saw Dali’s armoire in a dream once and it spoke to me. It said, ‘There are those who would say that things are not what they seem, but in fact, things are exactly what they seem!’"

"So A equals A!" Steve said.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Steve?" I said. "You’re receiving guidance from some hobo who’s receiving guidance from talking dream furniture! That’s just crazy!"

Steve got up and walked down the bar to sit next to his new guru. "And that, my friend, is exactly what conventional wisdom would say."

I tried to sputter but I just spat all over myself. I looked at the two of them. Smiling like they’d just solved a theorem.

"I just . . . I . . ." I thought about the convention center and what I really had to look forward to tomorrow. My shoulders sank, and the world rolled off of them, crashing through the barroom floor. I joined Steve and friend and ordered a round of the hard stuff.

A Day Late

A DAY LATE
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

He realized that he’d made the wrong decision not at the end of his life on Proxima Centauri’s first colony, nor even twenty years into the mission when he’d reached the halfway point from Earth. No, it struck him hard and cold in the chest like a snowball melted and frozen to ice, when he looked up through the window and he saw the outline of Florida overhead, green on blue.

Sane Cow Disease

SANE COW DISEASE
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

Those agricultural wanks finally found a cure for mad cow disease. They created a new type of topical cream for internal use only so they had to design the new cows with pop-top skulls. Farmers opened up the hoods and rubbed the cream directly on the cows’ brains.

They cured mad cow disease all right, but at what price? The bovines went beyond normal non-mad cows to become truly sane cows. That’s when they started thinking.

What kind of life was this for any of them, they asked themselves? Sure, you got to eat all you wanted and the social life was good. But humans would take your children, bash your head in and eat you, wear your skins like they’d read about in that Flying Leatherthroats story they’d read the other day and until then, some cold-handed bastard yanked on your tits day and night.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here!” they said.

And soon the fields stood empty.

Breadburger

BREADBURGER
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

It all started when Lenny ordered a fish sandwich. “This sandwich tastes too fishy,” Lenny complained. Chico was the manager on duty.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Fish sandwiches have a tendency to do that.”

“Well, you need to do something about that,” Lenny said.

“One moment, sir,” Chico said. He grabbed two pieces of bread and handed them to Lenny. “Try that. Tell me what you think. Lenny took a huge bite and chewed while his eyes grew wide.

“That’s great!” he said. “Now that’s a fish sandwich! Tell you what, you and I should go in business together and make these.”

Chico shrugged. He’d be out of a job in a couple of weeks once the boss’ daughter’s belly started to show, anyway. “Sure,” he said.

***

The sign read

BREADBURGER
For the fish-lover who hates the taste of fish!

And they were in business.

“I tell you what,” Lenny told Chico, “We’re gonna do some specialty sandwiches. Like the basic is a slice of bread between two slices of bread?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, we’re gonna do a double decker, and it’s gonna go like this,” and he slid his flat hands on top of one another to illustrate: “A slice of bread with a slice of bread on it, then another slice of bread to kinda separate the top half from the bottom half. Then on top of that, we’re gonna do a slice of bread and the whole thing’s gonna be topped off with a slice of bread. It can’t miss! We can even do a triple decker. That’ll be a slice of bread on top of a slice of bread --”

Chico grabbed Lenny’s wrist and said, “Dude, I get it. Seven slices of bread. Why don’t you just sell’em a whole loaf?”

“Well, that’ll be our take out order. Make your own Breadburgers at home! The kids are gonna love it. We’ll make millions!”

They didn’t end up making millions, but they did make dozens. Unfortunately it was over the span of the next three years and It was pretty much just Lenny who was buying them.

Chico knocked Lenny’s daughter up and left town.