Dave's Career as an RA is OVER.
The new issue of McSweeney's is now out. This is the description:
Issue 17 is not an ordinary issue of McSweeney's. It is, however, an ordinary-looking bundle of mail, stacked and rubber-banded, containing the usual items: a recent issue of Yeti Researcher; a large envelope, called Envelope, containing fine oversized reproductions of new art; a sausage-basket catalog; a flyer for slashed prices on garments that are worn by more than one person at a time; a new magazine of experimental fiction called Unfamiliar; a couple letters the usual. This might be the strangest and most pleasure-giving issue yet...
Envy my mailbox!
. . .
Dave Wells is going to be an RA?! When I heard this news I walked into my bedroom. I pulled the mattress aside, tore up the carpet, brushed aside a covering of artificial dust, and removed a stack of Victoria's Secret catalogues. When I finished masturbating furiously, I pulled the carpet back a little further and picked up another collection of items. These were Polaroids I'd snapped at various points of history, in case Dave's political career ever gathered too much steam.
PHOTO 1: Dave stands in a dark alleyway; you can only tell that it's him because of that half-shaved/half-long haircut. A small beggar child kneels before him, hands pressed together in supplication. The boy's gaunt eyes and thin neck tell a story of hunger. His arms are like uncooked spaghetti. Dave grins in the shadows, gestures toward his crotch, and holds a box of fried chicken just out of reach.
PHOTO 2: Same era. Interior of a car trunk—the trunk of Dave's brother's car, on loan to Dave. In the trunk is a female, bound with duct tape. She has red hair. No more needs to be said.
PHOTO 3: Two summers ago. Dave is barely recognizable in this photo, his features blurred by surprise, but the interior is the attic apartment. I came up to play some Time Splitters but on the stairway noticed a godawful smell. As I climbed higher, the smell of rotten, spoiling fish was accompanied by a new sound: slippery, slimy movement. I rushed into the apartment. The scene I encountered . . . first there was the corpse of a baby seal on the kitchen floor. That was almost too much, but I thought: maybe Garrett has been over, has been cooking some exotic dish . . . but then I saw another baby seal corpse, and another, a sickening gingerbread trail to the living room. Dave should have heard me but he was distratced by the pulsing rhythm of a Gwar album. In the photo, you see him as he first realizes I'm there: he tries to pivot in his pile of corpses, but he's nipples deep in dead baby seals, and can't really get away even if he is naked and slippery with their slime.
. . .
Well, tonight is the Maltese Falcon party. Or, as those of us in the know call it, the Partese Falcon. Of the Cocktease Falcon, for the vulgar among us.
Oooh, and a screening of John's video? Is that true?
Issue 17 is not an ordinary issue of McSweeney's. It is, however, an ordinary-looking bundle of mail, stacked and rubber-banded, containing the usual items: a recent issue of Yeti Researcher; a large envelope, called Envelope, containing fine oversized reproductions of new art; a sausage-basket catalog; a flyer for slashed prices on garments that are worn by more than one person at a time; a new magazine of experimental fiction called Unfamiliar; a couple letters the usual. This might be the strangest and most pleasure-giving issue yet...
Envy my mailbox!
. . .
Dave Wells is going to be an RA?! When I heard this news I walked into my bedroom. I pulled the mattress aside, tore up the carpet, brushed aside a covering of artificial dust, and removed a stack of Victoria's Secret catalogues. When I finished masturbating furiously, I pulled the carpet back a little further and picked up another collection of items. These were Polaroids I'd snapped at various points of history, in case Dave's political career ever gathered too much steam.
PHOTO 1: Dave stands in a dark alleyway; you can only tell that it's him because of that half-shaved/half-long haircut. A small beggar child kneels before him, hands pressed together in supplication. The boy's gaunt eyes and thin neck tell a story of hunger. His arms are like uncooked spaghetti. Dave grins in the shadows, gestures toward his crotch, and holds a box of fried chicken just out of reach.
PHOTO 2: Same era. Interior of a car trunk—the trunk of Dave's brother's car, on loan to Dave. In the trunk is a female, bound with duct tape. She has red hair. No more needs to be said.
PHOTO 3: Two summers ago. Dave is barely recognizable in this photo, his features blurred by surprise, but the interior is the attic apartment. I came up to play some Time Splitters but on the stairway noticed a godawful smell. As I climbed higher, the smell of rotten, spoiling fish was accompanied by a new sound: slippery, slimy movement. I rushed into the apartment. The scene I encountered . . . first there was the corpse of a baby seal on the kitchen floor. That was almost too much, but I thought: maybe Garrett has been over, has been cooking some exotic dish . . . but then I saw another baby seal corpse, and another, a sickening gingerbread trail to the living room. Dave should have heard me but he was distratced by the pulsing rhythm of a Gwar album. In the photo, you see him as he first realizes I'm there: he tries to pivot in his pile of corpses, but he's nipples deep in dead baby seals, and can't really get away even if he is naked and slippery with their slime.
. . .
Well, tonight is the Maltese Falcon party. Or, as those of us in the know call it, the Partese Falcon. Of the Cocktease Falcon, for the vulgar among us.
Oooh, and a screening of John's video? Is that true?
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