Wendigisms 2: The Penmonkey Strikes Back
Tuesday December 11, 2012 | By Hieronymus Hawkes | Uncategorized
I needed a good title for the sequel. I thought about naming this one Revenge of the Pen Monkey but Chuck already used that title for one of his writing books. Next was Dead Man’s Prostate, but that’s just a little too gross to publish across the interwebs. The Quickening doesn’t sound bad, but I’m happy with what I picked.
And without further ado:
- Feculent turd-heads
- Eff that in the ay, emmer-effer
- I will beat you to death with a sock full of your own teeth
- Mornings tend to be when your brain is at its lemon-scented freshest
- Think of this as a narrative laxative
- Covers that look like someone just ingested a rod of uranium and threw up in a clown’s shoe
- Suddenly your voice is scratchy and dry like you’ve been gargling watch parts and cigarette butts for the last ten years
- Loosen your mind sphincter
- Shock-prod your brain-squirrels into powering the endeavor at hand
- Sad trombone
- Harvest all the delicious Idea Chilli *nom nom nom*
- Plot is like Soylent Green: it’s made of people.
- Sweaty genitals, which is the worst ice cream flavor ever
- Massaging the prostate of your soul
- Your artistic faucet won’t offer anything but a quivering, syphilitic drip
- You are not a sad friendless little tugboat
- It’s about throwing caution into a woodchipper
- coffee so black it might as well have been ink poured out of a squid’s behind.
- scream like a Tasered girl scout
- you were just rolling around in a dish of someone’s fingernail clippings and hoagie sweat
- Extract those wretched little nuggets of hard black hate-coal and use them to fuel the writing
- trees only read magazines about trees. Printed on the flesh of humans
- your jaw hangs loose like a broken porch swing
- Secrete enzymes to build your own authorial exoskeleton
- we’re all gonna end up under the Grim Reaper’s riding mower
- it’ll slip through one of the many mouse-holes in your mind-floor
- chipping off the tiniest sliver of our intellectual granite
- Shake lose the barnacles you’ve gathered while floating inert in the murky harbor of your undoing.
- I’m allowed to make up new words because I have my Pennsylvania Writer’s License
- jet-lagged and dung-brained
- an autumnal orgy of sweet arctic fruit-sex
- SEIZE THE CARP. No matter how hard that fucking fish wriggles.
- Embrace the Viking immortality of having your ideas live forever.
- a rollicking case of the spiritual pee-shivers
- Cement your genital stamina