The Journal of Ephemeral Inspiration

The Journal of Ephemeral Inspiration promises a neverending spew of pointless minutae, brilliant yet useless ideas, troublingly cruel commentary and emphatic musings on whatever shiny object happens to catch our collective eye. Always remember, hate the game, not the playa.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Storytime Corner: A Wee Nancy Story

You don't know Nancy. Trust us, you don't want to. But if you refuse to heed our warning and just gotta get to know Nancy, grab a shovel and start digging. That's right, we're about to speak ill of the dead. Those of you with weak constitutions for necromockery may feel free to skip to the next entry. Maybe that one is a puff piece about farts or something.

Nancy, being a strong and independent will, had no need for men nor their filthy genitalia. Always a go-getter, she had learned during the Great Depression to fashion pleasurable dildos from sealing wax and pickled goat bladders.

One day, as she was strapping her life-machines to her narrow waist, her hand happened to brush her crotch, one croutoned finger barely nicking the limp bullet that once gave her her greatest happiness. “There you are,” she said, and smiled her stained smile in her foul-smelling apartment.

Lacking the arm strength due to an early and undetected bout of meningitis, Nancy could no longer pull herself up into the upper tier of the bunk bed she shared with her sister. But she had cleverly developed a system of pulleys and ramps that when mounted, would elevate her limp frame to a height where she could roll gently over onto the thin, grey, tick-ridden mattress.

As she rose to her sleep-place, her dream-place, her love-place, and ultimately her death-place, she saw it again for the first time, recalling every stain, every smear. And then, again, she was placed there, a dry, odorless fart escaping her as her brittle fingers found purchase and completed her transport.

She imagined hearing the springs creak from the lower bunk and instinctively slowed her brittle rubbing to a semi-circular pulse. But of course, there was no movement below her; there hadn't been in near a decade. Nancy giggled dryly as a beetle scurried quickly out of her sister's sunken eye-socket.

As she intensified her “lovemaking,” as she had come to refer to it, she began the ritual striking of her thigh which, as it became more vigorous, took on a splintery and ominous tone. Her rapture made her unaware, unconcerned. “I'm coming,” she cried down to her sister, who responded, as always, with a silent rictus. Then Nancy came in an unhappy spasm, the word “bummer” echoing in her hearing aid.

It was of course, Chuck's Herculean manhood she dreamt of. She would often think of his coal-black timber bursting forth with its creamy goodness as she prepared her evening tea. Had her rotting sister ears, she would've surely heard Nancy's midnight sleep ramblings of “Take me, Mandingo...”

OK, fine. Nancy was a foul-tempered crone-like mummy of a co-worker who used to spit venom and visible hate-rays at your J.E.I. staff when we were just pups. Five items that most identified her shriveled visage were: A page-boy bowl cut, a greasy lipstick-stained coffee mug clutched in her crouton-tipped talons, Magoo-like spectacles, a battery pack (strapped to her hip to fend off whatever powerful force of good it was that finally felled her) and the snicker-inducing fact that she used to smoke cigarettes in her sealed car for lunch. Cruel (you can't possibly be surprised this point)? As Frank Burns once said, "hard cheese." You didn't have to work with the bat. We win!

Also in this series...

Editorial: Food Horrible Food

We've rarely complained about the fine dining facilities here at the J.E.I. compound (how could you when our Chocolate Pocky supplies are as neverending as a Ron Bushy drum solo?). But dammit, there are some things we just won't eat, no matter how many cartoon characters you slap on the box. Manga if you dare on the following low-selling unsavory delectables...

  • Stouffer's Chicken Back Platter®
  • Healthy Choice Pasta & Pig Feet®
  • Hungry Man Meatstuff De-Lite®
  • Swanson's Tofu & Cowteats for One®
  • Marie Callander's Lobes 'n' Cornbread®
  • Campbell's Chunky Turtle ‘n’ Leeks Soup®
  • Mrs. Paul's Deep Fried Anemone Platter with Hushpuppies®
  • Gorton's Toadfish & Black Olive Soufflé®
  • Chicken o' the Sea's Tainted Tuna Snak-Pak®
  • Kraft Macaroni & Head Cheese®
  • Dinty Moore's Beef Tripe Stew with Real Carrots®
  • General Foods "Soils of Many Nations" International Coffees®
  • Hormel's Maggoty Chili, Medium Hot®
  • Oscar Mayer "Throat Tissue" Franks & Beans®
  • Del Monte's Overripe Fruit Salad® (in heavy vegetable oil)
  • Klaussen Zesti-Snap "Brine & Urine" Pickle Chips®
  • SnackWells delicious low-fat "Clay-Ums"®
  • Kellogg's Grain & Beetle Farmer's Blend®
  • General Mills' Testicrunch® (with two scoops of vas deferens in every box!)
  • Post Rectoasties® (with spreadable choco-lax)
  • Betty Crocker's Sanitary Pad Bouillon®
  • Duncan Hines Genetic Building Blocks Consumé®

Friday, April 15, 2005

The J.E.I. Seal Of Approval I

Here at the Journal of Ephemeral Inspiration, we firmly support out fellow web polluters, and will do our best to point you toward sites that share the J.E.I. spirit, whether they know it or not. So click willy-nilly and without fear to the following Journal-approved destinations.

    Think your rug's not haunted? Think again. A disturbing preoccupation tempered with jovial commentary. You'll be hearing more about this site soon.
    Now this site we like. You will too, if you enjoy the J.E.I. You will probably enjoy even if you hate the J.E.I.
    Anything you find is a bonus. But if it has entertainment value as well, that's fried gold.
    Not a Mac user? We're sorry to hear that. But if you've got an interest in the areas Apple Computers touches (PCs, MP3 players, lawsuits), As The Apple Turns is a great daily read.
    Serious DVD reviews for fans of mainstream dreck. These folks know what they're talking about.

Well done, all. Insania Fragilis, Fectum Dubitabilis!

Poetry: The Wind And The Bird

The wind did cause the bird to land
And take a willow by the hand
And flap a lot and squawk and screech
And peck and scream and poop and hate

The wind did cause the bird to fly
To the ocean shore well nigh
To pick at trash and dead fish there
And chips and gum and tator tots and pieces of bologna

Also in this series...

Storytime Corner: Eddie Wears The Pants

Eddie sat down at the kitchen table and savored the good smells of the mushroom omelet and Val’s homemade raisin bread, still warm from the oven. She poured strong coffee into his “I Love Falafel” mug and smiled gently.

“Well?” she prodded, her eyebrows arched.

Eddie took another sip of orange juice and winked at her over the top of the glass.

“Yay!” she cheered, and kissed him on the cheek. She put the coffee back on the stove and sat across from Eddie, who was busy dipping raisin bread in his coffee.

“Well?” Val repeated urgently. “Is it great?”

He looked up from his ritual and grinned his perfectly symmetrical yet somehow crooked grin at Val, who beamed back at him from across the table.

The finishing touches on the new album had kept Eddie occupied around the clock for nearly a week, during which time he had seen his wife little and slept even less. Now the result of his labors lay conspicuously in the pocket of his blue terrycloth robe and so, sensing her frustration, he withdrew the cassette and slid it slowly across the table.

With both hands, Val grabbed it from under his finger and examined it, turning it over and over, as though it was a crystal that might at any moment display magical properties.

“What’s it called?” she asked, sparing him only a brief glance.

“For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge,” Eddie said quietly. He cut into his omelet with his fork.

It was only a few moments before Val had deduced the acronym and the smile was gone from her face as though it had never been there at all. She looked at Eddie and put the tape down on the kitchen table, as if her magic crystal had just turned out to be an ordinary piece of quartz. She folded her hands in her lap.

“You know,” she began, “I have never tried to influence your work in the past, although God knows I’ve been tempted, with those videos, and some of your lyrics. I mean, you know I love your music, but maybe it’s time to grow up a little and break free of some of this childish innuendo that pervades the industry. Certainly you’re not the only practitioner, but Jesus, do you have to advertise your own immaturity?” She waved a hand at the cassette and returned it to the other in her lap. “Is an implied profanity going to make this album any better? Is it really necessary to invoke images of the sexual act to sell records? Is penetration the be-all-end-all? Does it have to be the common denominator of every goddamn product on the market?” Her face had gone quite red.

“Look, sweetheart,” she said after pausing briefly, her smile not quite touching her eyes, “I don’t care so much for me, but what’s Mom going to think when we send her a copy? She’s not stupid. I want her to know how sensitive and wonderful and mature you really are. I want the whole world to know. So please, Eddie, for me, change the name of the album.”

“Screw,” said Eddie, and took another bite of her wonderful raisin bread.

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  • Please see the manager to inquire about charter memberships.
  • A $5,000 cover charge will be assed for non-members (please bring your own cat turd).
  • For your convenience, we validate parking.

Poetry: Remember, George, No Man Is A Failure Who Has Friends...

Launching a periodical that will likely be viewed by history as the catalyst for the Age of Ephemerata (post-internet pre-jetpack 21st century) is a daunting task, to be sure-- we've still got boxes to unpack, dartboards to hang and furniture to wrestle into perfect feng shui harmony. But our duty to our readers waits for no credenza, and despite disconcerting state of transition, publish we must. So let's pump up this jam with our strength: cruel mockery.

In 1981, Jimmy Stewart visited The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson to read his poems. Nary a dry eye was left in the studio after he warbled his way through "Beau," an ode to his dead pooch. Here at the J.E.I., we're so touched, in fact, that we've prepared our own special tribute to ol' George Bailey himself. Hee Haw!

My Dog Beau, by Jimmy Stewart

As I lie on the warm quilted bed
My feeble hand clutching my chest
My thoughts turn to Beau, my faithful old dog
Who wakes from a long-needed rest

His eyes dart around and with nary a sound
He leaps on the creaky old bed
He sniffs at my nose and with a pensive dog pose
Reminds me he has not been fed

His mouth is a-droolin' and spittle is poolin'
Betwixt my slight-parted eyes
With no aprehension and sufficient tooth-tension
He begins his banquet surprise

Now don't be alarmed at my doggie's death-feast
'Cause for Beau I feel no shame
If was he decomposin' and was me I'm supposin'
That I probably would do the same

Lemonade, by Jimmy Stewart

I sat upon a quilted rug
and ate salt water taffy
It tickled my tongue and slid down my throat
and made me all silly and laughy
But lo' the treat I tried to eat
Got caught on my partial upper
So I sat on my rug, my eyes watered shut
and threw up my sugary supper.

OK, we're off to take a karma-cleansing shower (apologies to Marie Prevost). Want to read Jimmy's real poetry? You can buy it here. Help a brother out.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

And We're Live! In 5... 4... 3...

The lead type is set, the rollers are inked, and the Gutenberg 5000 Cyberpress® is lubed and humming at the ready. As our tireless staff readies our premiere edition, excitement permeates every nook and cranny of the J.E.I. compound like the Angel of Death through Pharoh's Egypt.

The Journal of Ephemeral Inspiration promises a neverending (i.e., numbingly sporadic) spew of pointless minutae, brilliant yet useless ideas, troublingly cruel commentary and emphatic musings on whatever shiny object happens to catch our collective eye. Why? Because we stand by the axiom that even the most fleeting of diversions deserves to be entombed forever on the internet; and once an idea is transmogrified into binary ones and zeros, it can never truly be removed or forgotten, can it? Kind of like pee in a swimming pool... or Spock that time he died. Boy was that sad.

Who cares? We do. Boy do we ever.