as a professional writer who am…oh oh, left the bold on…that’s better. as a professional writer who am (back up) who are…sorry…so good at it, I have made this book to show how amazing my literature and poetry am to the whole world. in this tome, or as I like to call it, tomato, the reader will be taken on a journey of magnitude that is just absolutely huge. I think a good book should have some characters in it. this do. and I think a good character results from development. so, I have done so. lastly, I believe that good writing must always, always contain words. it am. and with that, I give to you my greatest tomato, “barf meets turd”. – Tom Miller, Schlock Writer
once upon a time, a small baby deer wandered out into the road and stood in the middle looking at the approaching truck. “get out of the way,” the truck driver shouted. he beeped the horn. the small baby deer began to run as the truck struck the buck in the cunt of its nuts.
poem for dogs
here’s a poem
I wrote for dogs
as man’s best friends
they poop a lot
and we pick up
their dirty droppings
and kiss their mouths
after their own asses, they were a-lapping
poem for cats
while I was sleeping
cozy and sound
the cat got on me
and turned around
he sat his ass
into my mouth
and took a dump
which did not clump
the way it does
inside the box
diarrhea really sucks
once upon a time in the small village of fuck-o, there lived a little girl named snatch. she was named snatch by her parents, the king and queen, because as a child, wendy would snatch trinkets and jewelry and put them in her mouth. one day, the king and queen brought snatch to a banquet they were throwing for the prince. one of the noblemen approached the family and said, “what an adorable little girl. what is her name?”
“snatch,” replied the king and queen.
“horrid anus of the boars! do you not know that the word snatch means vagina?”
snatch reached up and ripped the nobleman’s dick off and put it in her mouth.
“she knows,” said the king.
and from that day forward, the nobleman peed out of a slit.
bill and lester were on their way to the moon in a rocket ship, but it did not matter since the pressure had long escaped the vessel and they were frozen.
a former comedian who became a police officer arrested an ornery cumquat. after cuffing the fruit, he said, “cumquatly!”
larry the bird had a worm in his mouth and was happily chomping on it when suddenly and without warning, he totally ate it.
John paul wilkenson was a firefighter before his tragic death in a swimming pool.
phillipo galenzualo was the best matador in all of Germany. he proudly waved his red cape around, regarding his audience with aplomb and other fancy words. then, he turned to face the gate and what lay behind it: the most ferocious bull in the history of Germany. the gate opened and out came bertold brecht. phillipo stabbed the shit out of him with a sword, and the audience found the action self-revealing and avant-garde. “bull!” shouted phillipo. and then he shouted, “shit!”. and then, he was carried away to the Gods by a deus ex machina because I couldn’t think of a better ending.
guy walks up to a bum and says, “can I have some change?” bum says, “hey, that’s my line!” guy says, “that’s okay, I already have some.” bum says, “can I have some?” guy says, “no.”
three sheep were grazing in the field when a wolf came. “feel better?” asked one of the sheep.
coffee fred meets Voltaire
coffee fred took a seat in maude’s coffee shop and began to drink. a few minutes later, he got another cup of coffee and drank that. then he got up and got yet another cup of coffee and drank that. this went on all day. “Voltaire drank like forty cups of coffee a day,” coffee fred said. “I want to know what he knows.” a couple hours later when the ambulance came to pick up the body, he knew.
angie and carlos sat down at maude’s café for their first date.
“so,” said carlos, “what are you having?”
“you buying?” asked angie.
“we didn’t really say, did we. I guess I’ll buy, since I’m the man.”
“I can’t buy because I’m a woman?” angie asked, indignantly.
“do you want to buy?”
“no, I don’t have any money.”
“well, I’ll buy.”
angie turned to leave, tripped over a dead body and fell mouth first on a dildo.
the friendly wasp
one day, a friendly wasp landed on my arm and offered me a cupcake. it was delicious, but filled with venom and I died.
farmer stan and the chicken incident
one day, farmer stan was out tending to the chickens when one bolted out of the roost and ran around the yard.
“come back here right now, you motherfucker. you goddamned cocksucking chicken. get your goddamn motherfucking cocksucking ass back in the fucking coop, you goddamn bastard chicken!”
the chicken said, “gobblefucking gobble gobble free run gobble gobble fuckafarmer gobble gobble…” and weaved this way and that to avoid capture.
“you cunt!” shouted the farmer. “you dumb cunt! you fucking cunt! I’m gonna’ get you, faggot!”
“gobblegobble run flee gobble suckadick baaaaahk! baaaaahk! gobble gobble…”
“chickens don’t gobble, assjabber! that’s a turkey you’re doing. cluck like a chicken motherfucker. get your ass back in the coop or I’m gonna’ goddamn curse the living shit outta’ you.
“gobblegobble dickfarmer eeep! eeep! eeep!”
“now you’re doing a monkey! if you don’t cut that shit out, I’m gonna EAT YOU, BITCH! I’M GONNA’ EAT YOUR CHICKEN PUSSY! I’m gonna get you, cocknugget…” and the farmer ran and ran and ran, and never did catch that sonofabitching motherfucking cocksucking dicklicking cuntfaggot tittyslapping goddamn bastard shitspittin’ chicken.
zen parable #1
the student asked the master, “what is the meaning of life?” the master struck him with the back of his hand.
zen parable #2
the student asked the master, “if I meditate harder, will I be enlightened sooner?” the master turned to the student and struck him with the back of his hand.
zen parable #3
the student asked the master, “of the ten-thousand ways, which is the right one?” the master reached out with the back of his hand and struck the student sharply.
zen parable #4
the student did not speak to the master ever again. instead, he remained silent and went about his business, and was thus enlightened.
zen parable #5
the master asked the student, "what is the sound of one hand clapping?" the student struck the master with the back of his hand.
review of Geoffrey Fauntain’s, “Cheap Religioshock Crappy-Crap” in ARTomatic Magazine
In approaching Fauntain’s work, one is reminded of the bawdiness of Duchamp and the audacity of Serrano. Here, Fauntain goes further by not only perpetrating an art crime of such obvious bullshit, but by calling his art what it is in his artist’s statement which reads in part: “I suck. I have no artistic abilities, but I can make a piece of junk, give it a religious context, and rub it down with roach feces. that way, everyone will talk about it, I will gain instant notoriety, and the art snoots will come to feed on the controversy. then, I’ll get on the talk shows and sell a ghost-written book of some kind!”
Fauntain’s, “Cheap Religioshock Crapy-Crap” is not so much an idiosyncratic pantheon oeuvre fancy word art speak shitty shitty dumb dumb, as it is a blather, blather on, blather some more, use fancy words and make contrivances and try to sound ‘artsy’ so my review is ‘academic’ and ‘erudite’ and doo doo poo poo caca pee pee.
in confronting “Cheap Religioshock Crappy-Crap”, one is flabbergasted by how amateur and marginal his green-Jesus-sucking-on-the-Madonna’s-bleeding-penis is when viewed as simply a painting. But the addition of roach feces elevates “Cheap Religioshock Crappy-Crap” over and above, say, Olifi’s “Holy Virgin Mary” which was composed of elephant excrement and was at the time an example of the best art could ever hope to be, until now. If Fauntain’s amalgamation of self, religion, roach droppings, and social commentary is to be taken at face value, we can, with no great leap of faith mixed with a drizzle of hoity-toity ostentation say, bring on the nukes and let’s get this over with.
RinkyDinkism and Darkalism
Back in 2016, auteur and theatre professor Tom Miller developed a new form of theatre commonly known as RinkyDinkism. Differing from Dadaist philosophy in a number of ways, RinkyDinkism was a challenging form of theatre for both performers and audience alike. Miller’s approach was to embrace that which is the opposite of the desired effect and then magnify the results. So if a piece of blocking was exceptional, the convention would be to “un-exceptionalize” it or strike it altogether. Often times, the actors play to the wings or upstage to the flats with their back to the house. If the audience could hear the dialogue clearly, then the dialogue should be obscured in some fashion. If a particular venue had sound issues (i.e. Automobiles could be heard easily through the thin walls of the theatre), the entrance door would be opened to allow the offending noise’s additional volume to intrude in corruptible fashion into the performance. Costumes would be handed out to the cast, randomly. The only makeup allowed was Max Factor, Tan #2, the one titular precise and unalterable convention. If the universe made an edit, (i.e. an actor is run over by a car after a drunken night at the pub), the part is simply cut and no compensation in the script is necessary because the resulting holes in the plot and structure would be welcomed as a benefit.
Scripts were written in the shortest amount of time possible. If there was an idea universally disagreed upon by the writer and producer, it would be welcomed. If the script was written in half the time it should have been, so much the better. Moreover, if the audience was left confounded and resistant to the work, the play was considered successful. The ultimate goal of RinkyDink Theatre was to cause everyone to leave the performance except for those who would not only embrace the conventions of RinkyDinkism, but who would champion it. For those who then championed it, they would be prohibited from grasping or promoting RinkyDinkyism ever again for the simple fact that such people actually got the gist of it and hence, made themselves unworthy to represent it by the very nature of their acceptance of the genre. RinkyDinkyism is essentially the art of embracing that which should not be embraced and rejecting that which is embraceable. Ultimately, nothing is embraceable and everything is rejected.
Examples of Miller’s RinkyDinkism Theatre can be found in several of his most famous productions including, “I’m Smoking Cigarettes, I Love It, and It’s Cool, so Fuck Off”, “Racism: the New Religion of the Pure and Clean”, and his most unacceptable work, “Title of a Play.” In “Title of a Play,” Miller’s script was cut out in random fashion from various books of the Bible. However, differing from conventions of Dadaism, the biblical, so-called “chance poetry,” was then discarded into a waste basket, set on fire, and entirely replaced with a new script (blank pages) for stage actors who were subsequently all replaced with mimes. The audience was ushered into a second space in another location from the play where nothing took place. Thus, the play without an audience and the audience without a play simultaneously failed on a number of levels. The audience was informed they were simply dupes in a larger picture of artistry. But in RinkyDinkism, the audience was often capriciously lied to, and they were not really dupes in as much as they were entirely disregarded. They sat in anticipation until they realized nothing was going to happen, and then they left. Meanwhile the mimes, with no dialogue, no movement, and no makeup, stood in place wearing their black tights until they realized there was no play. They left too.
RinkyDinkism was short- lived because, for practical reasons, this form of theatre was unprofitable. However, RinkyDinkism did foster a revolution for a number of future theatrical innovations including Elevated 3-D Televisionism--the theatre was constructed on a stage one floor above the audience, and the play is then transmitted back down via satellite video feed to be received as a 3-D TV program. Everyone gets the wrong kind of 3-D glasses (the blue and red ones) and no 3-D effect was discerned. Finally, Darkalism, in which every play was conducted in blackout with no curtain, no lighting, no perception, no dialogue, no movement, no audio, no music, and no script. In similar style to John Cage’s 4'33?, the lack of theatrics is the theatrics. The lack of drama is the drama. The lack of lighting is the lighting. As there was no funding for any theatre at this point in time, theatrical companies continued in Darkalism for many years to come. And what was left was only the drama of blindness and silence for which there were no actors, no audience, no story, no theatre, and no applause.
lobster vs anemone
a lobster approached a sea anemone and reached out with its claw to snip a piece of it off. the anemone slowly moved away from the attack, but the lobster pursued. it crawled along with determination as the anemone ejected neurotoxins into the water to discourage the crustacean. In response to this behavior, the lobster said, “come on, man. you’re a delicacy.”
“no, you are.” said the anemone.
“you are.” said the lobster.
“no, you are.” said the anemone.
“let me eat some of your tender innards.” said the lobster.
“you let me eat some.”
“you got no butter.”
“I got butter.” said the anemone.
“ok, how are you gonna’ boil me under water?”
“I’ll push you in a lava fissure in the east rift zone of Kilauea. you’ll cook quite nicely.”
[there is a long pause] “let me see the butter,” said the lobster.
barf meets turd
albert albertson had maybe three more drinks than he should have, and all the wrong kinds. old Milwaukee, peppermint schnapps, and bailey’s irish cream should not ever be combined together with a jeagermeister, because the two undercooked hotdogs albert ate before began to rumble around, and that is problematic. on the way home, albert had some oozing and clamped down his a-hole on what would otherwise be a big buttpuke of epic proportions. white jeans, my friends. you want to hold that for later because whites never quite get white again after something like that.
so he manages to get in the door and to the restroom, but his head is spinning. he throws down the pants and underwear and spontaneously flunches the whole deal into the bowl with a range of colors that would make Picasso shit his pants. and looking down in amazement at what the human being is capable of, his face is met with an invisible cloud of fume that was a cross between the smell of burning pork and artificial strawberry. albert wretched all over his poop. a good two minutes of non-stop purgatory and then it came…one last bit…a round egg of a turd…the only solid mass to appear dropped in and stood atop an atoll like a man on a desert island, and then it spoke.
“well don’t just sit there, get me out of here.”
“what?” said albert. “are you talking to me?”
“no shit, Sherlock. fish me out of here. it’s disgusting.”
“um…” said albert as he pondered what may be a booze-induced hallucination, “I don’t think I want to do that.”
the turd was beginning to sink in. “man, you started this shit, and now you have an obligation. are you gonna’ be a man and pick me outta’ here, or do I have to get nasty?”
albert suddenly freaked out. “no way,” he said, “no fucking way this shit is happening to me.” he reached over to the flush handle and pulled it down. the water began to turn.
“murder!” said the turd. “murder! I’ll get you for this. I’ll get you!” there was a gurgle and then the toilet began to fill with clean blue water. the turd was vanquished.
the next morning when albert awoke, it all seemed like a nightmare, and now it was over. the sun rose, the birds sang, and albert went into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee when he noticed there was something brown and round standing at the edge of the sink.
“you’re dead,” said albert. “this is a dream.”
“zombie turd, motherfucker.” said the turd. “zombie turd.” with that, the turd flew through the air using turd zombie power and into albert’s left ear and chewed through to the brain where it took over, like a parasitic Nematomorph hairworm, and began to control albert’s actions and thoughts.
albert became a walking caca man and after developing a plan to rule the earth, gave rise to America’s newest comic super hero by becoming his arch nemesis. And now, the adventures of Doodie Dude, and his trusty sidekick, Brownie, the self-sucking-butt-sniffing canine companion.
The Caca Man:
Backstory-former middle-class working stiff Albert Albertson returns home from the bar to shit on his barf when he gives birth to an intelligent pellet-turd, the result of cellphone radiation. The turd enters and controls albert’s brain, morphing with Albert into The Caca Man.
The Caca Man’s Powers: Flight, Super Oder Clouds, Corn-Nugget Gun, Highly Intelligent with an IQ of 311, able to change forms from human to feces.
Doodie Dude and Brownie:
Backstory-once, a mild-mannered newspaper delivery boy, Dick Dickenson learns from the news of The Caca Man’s plot to take over the world and turn it into a giant shitter. After a random intervention by aliens, he is rewarded with anti-doo doo powers and a dog. The dog, Brownie, is an alien dog that can lick his own penis or sniff any butt in the immediate area. These powers serve to distract various super-villains who typically observe the behavior and say, “holy shit, I wish I could do that” or “gross, he’s sniffing my butt”, during which time, The Caca Man power-pukes a glittery cloud of anti-doo doo smoke which renders the enemy sterile and frozen.
Doodie Dude Powers: Anti-Doodoo Puke Cloud, and that is all he does.
Brownie Powers: Can self-suck his own wiener, Sniffs Butts to distract enemies.
[It is now evident that the author of this chapbook is mentally ill and psychologically around 8 years old. The only funny things so far are the toilet humor and the language, all cheap devices used only by children, as well as anyone in the field of professional comedy, Hollywood entertainment, and contemporary popular music, culture and art.]
this afternoon at maude’s coffee shop
the 80s music played, and I had a flashback
to my days of cocaine and pills and drinking, thinking,
lucky I didn’t go river phoenix or amy winehouse
or cory haim.
one day, people will say, who? river who? amy who?
cory who? and I’ll be able to answer them: great actor,
drunk singer, and I forget what cory did, but I think he
one day, I saw these little turds on the floor.
gotta’ be a rat, I thought. so I got a trap and looked
for a hole.
after searching in the cupboards, behind the refrigerator,
and under the sink, I checked the storage closed and noticed
a human sized hole where the wall had been seemingly
I put the trap down in front of it and then went to go get
a cup of coffee when suddenly, I heard a snap. There was
a brief pause, and then it spoke. “You goddamn sonofabitch!”
“Oh oh,” I thought. “This could be a rat problem.”
I heard footsteps coming my direction. No, they were
paw steps. Big loud paw steps. I took a deep breath and turned
to face maybe the biggest rat I had ever seen. He had the trap
stuck to the end of his giant tail, right at the tip.
“What the fuck is this shit on my tail?” he said. “I’m gonna’
do something to you. I’m gonna’ do something.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. But he didn’t seem to care. He marched over
to my coffee, hung his ass over the cup and ejected a tiny little
turd and then plopped his big rat balls in there.”
“No,” I complained, “I just made that coffee.” but it was too late.
The rat looked at me. I looked at the rat, his enormity thoroughly intimidating.
We stared at each other for some time, before the rat finally spoke again.
“Drink it.” he said.
“I’d rather not.”
“Drink it,” he repeated, “or I’ll chew your dick off and give you rabies.”
“It’s cold by now,” I protested. “I think I’ll make a new one.”
“No,” said the rat. “You’re gonna’ drink my shit. There’s no excuse
for this thing on the end of my tail. It hurts like a bitch. You’re gonna
drink my shit and taste my ball juice.”
“Really, couldn’t we just find another way to handle this situation?”
“I don’t think so,” said the rat. “See I’m not your ordinary rat. I’m a
big motherfucking rat. This isn’t about me, it’s about my species.
You people have been putting down these little spring-loaded
kill bombs for far too long, and now you see what’s happened. That’s
right, evolution. Evolution happened. Now you are face to face with
a big angry smart talking rat, and you’re gonna’ drink my shit and I want
the flavor of my rat balls in your mouth. I want you to get a taste of
what it’s like to be a rat.”
“Listen,” said the man. “This all started on account of you pooping in
my home. Now I live here and I like a clean house. None of this would have
happened if you hadn’t pooped in my house.”
“Dude, let me tell you a bit about rats. When we move in, it’s our house. Now you maybe had a difference in the past, but then that’s when you were the big boy on the block. Well guess what, dickhead. I’m the big boy. I got my big boy balls in your coffee and my big boy rat turd in your coffee, and you’re gonna’ drink that coffee.
Well, I can't argue with that kind of reason. He took a sip of the coffee.
"Hey," the man said. "This is so much better than the cat poop coffee they're selling in the gourmet stores!
The End of the Booklet