18 thoughts on “Winning at flu season

  1. The island was a paradise.
    This was the first thought that came to her as she stepped from the mainland ferry onto the creaking wood pier that could have been thousands of years old from the decrepit yet somehow stately look of it. It was a pier to mark the end or beginning of legendary voyages that are always too fantastic to believe. It was a pier where old men and children fish with strings on bright afternoons.
    She hailed a leather-skinned old man in a battered taxi. She heard the ferry bell ring twice, then a third time. A gray gull came gliding with perfectly still wings directly toward her, but at an angle that permitted her to see only one of its eyes and that one eye looked like a stone that had been set into its head; the gull, its head cocked slightly, pulled up with a swift grace only a few feet from her and blew on indifferently past her, past the ferry, out to sea.
    She had to call the old man four times before he heard her . Then he smiled, nodded, started the loud engine of his taxi and drove the less than ten yards between where she had been standing and where he had been parked.
    “I want to go to the Hotel – – -” she said.
    The old man grinned now as if he were vastly amused, but he did not move. He merely looked out to the open window at her with pleased yellow eyes that were wrapped in wrinkles.
    “I have some luggage”, she said.
    He shrugged and nodded and after a few moments during which he seemed to be almost asleep with the grin on his lips, he stepped from the taxi, loaded her four bags onto the rack on top, tied them with rope and a moment later, they were on their rattling way over the dirt road that led around the harbor and headed off towards the distant hill.
    From the taxi, Erica could see much of the town, built as if was in a crowded jumble of houses that seemed to have been piled one on top of the other .
    Houses along the curving harbor front were built up into slim, elegant tiers. There was a fountain whose three round basins held rain water and the droppings of gulls and pigeons who rested all day on its rims. Gray pushcarts and women in black and boys screaming in short pants and girls fondling the distant sight of patched sails with their dark eyes – all these were a feast of pink, black, yellow, red, green and umber along the narrow alleys and colonnades running between the houses. Bony cypresses behind the façade of the harbor. held in their shadows broken towers and part of a wall grown heavy with weeds and a thousand skins of decay.
    The old man drove as if he thought the taxi were competing at Rome’s ancient games. It bounced along high bumps and at each one he laughed proudly and slapped the wheel with one hand or the other. The machine was a live animal to him. Erica heard him muttering from time to time and what little she could make out, he was saying to the taxi, not to her. But the windows on both sides caught views of such open splendor, they took her breath away. Swallows and martins dipped and swerved over the empty fields. Yellow sickle- shaped eucalyptus leaves held the sun as if it had been caught in the palms of a hundred golden hands.
    She moved to the center of the seat to escape the sun just as the old man struck a gigantic bump that nearly made him cry from laughing so hard at his success of getting over it.
    Small fish flickered through the green shadows.
    I sat naked and gleaming on a great rock . My body wore the sunlight as a suit of armor. The sun burned brightly on my face, as if it had been caught in an urn of brass . I sat there with a hand full of cherries and watched my loving Erica come up the drive, caressed by the backdrop of the sea.
    Escaping the shroud of the taxi, Erica sucked in a deep breath, clasped her lips shut and somersaulted herself over the taxi’s hood. her bare ass catching an instant of the sun as she slid toward my awaiting manhood.
    She came to me…
    “It’s safe here”, I whispered, my eyes racing toward the rigid outline of her turgid milk-domes.
    “What is?” she asked, her heart beginning to pound as she reached and grasped my throbbing manhood firmly. Erica caught her breath and stared down at it. It was round and stiff and long and a lovely shade of rare pastel coral. “My goodness! What’s its name…?”
    “Rod.”. Grinning impudence. Lip-licking assurance of my voluptuous boy powers to stun and disarm. “Do you like it?…Describe it…Love it out loud…I wanna hear you say it!”
    “Yes…” Her eyes reflective and caught, her girl-nostrils flared and gaping…entranced by this flaring prong of flesh I had for her caress. “Yes, it should be talked about,” she said, “for there’s never enough publicity about them when they look like that. If only more men had the courage to unveil the really special adornments, such as yours, our failure to communicate and choose a proper mate would be greatly minimized…”.
    “…Yeah…Yeah…tell me more!”.
    “It’s so enormous…and nicely turned out..with such a valiant, lusty sweep to it…and…it’s so young-looking, as if it had just been born right this very minute!”
    “Man…that’s the best character sketch anyone ever did of it…and they all flip over it right away, which is why I like to show it to ‘em real fast in case maybe they might faint. My big fat baby here has tamed the most difficult to satiate. On that I guarantee!”, I boasted, watching her moisten like an under-cooked Duncan Hines devils food cake…
    I laid her down in the gravel slowly, like a fat Teamster trying to set a heavy ladder down by himself…

  2. …there is an idea of a winningataeverything.com, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real winningateverything.com, only an entity, something illusory, and though winningateverything.com can hide its cold gaze and you can shake winningateverything.com’s hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: winningateverything.com simply is not there. It is hard for winningateverything.com to make sense on any given level. winningateverything.com is fabricated, an aberration. Its is a noncontingent website. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Website College) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All winningateverything.com has in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem winningateverything.com has caused and winningateverything.com’s utter indifference toward it, winningateverything.com has now surpassed. winningateverything.com still, though, does hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet winningateverything.com is blameless. Each model of website behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? winningateverything.com’s pain is constant and sharp and winningateverything.com does not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, winningateverything.com wants its pain to be inflicted on others. winningateverything.com wants no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and winningateverything.com has countless times, in just about every act its committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. winningateverything.com gains no deeper knowledge about itself, no new understanding can be extracted from winningateverything.com’s telling. There has been no reason for winningateverything.com to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing

  3. The smell of winningateverything is so strong it smells like decent bacon. Kevin’s getting footloose on the overspill, under the piss-station.

    Two pints, destroyer on the cobbled floors. No amount of webpage updates is guna chirp the chip up.

    ‘It’s the final countdown’ by fuckin Journey. I woke up with shit in my darksock outside the Polish off-licence.

    “They don’t mind” said the arsehole to the legs. You’ve got to be cruel to be kind.

    Tied up in Winningz, with a Z you (complete the sentence to win a prize)

  4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tScAyNaRdQ

    “They’re made out of meat.”


    “Meat. They’re made out of meat.”



    “That’s impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?”

    “They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don’t come from them. The signals come from machines.”

    “So who made the machines? That’s who we want to contact.”

    “They made the machines. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Meat made the machines.”

    “That’s ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You’re asking me to believe in sentient meat.”

    “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they’re made out of meat.”


    “Nope. They’re born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn’t take long. Do you have any idea what’s the life span of meat?”



    “No brain?”

    “Oh, there’s a brain all right. It’s just that the brain is made out of meat! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

    “So … what does the thinking?”

    “You’re not understanding, are you? You’re refusing to deal with what I’m telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat.”

    “Thinking meat! You’re asking me to believe in thinking meat!”


    “Omigod. You’re serious then. They’re made out of meat.”


    “Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?”


    “We’re supposed to talk to meat.”

    “That’s the idea. That’s the message they’re sending out by radio. ‘Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.’ That sort of thing.”

    “They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?”
    “Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat.”

    “I thought you just told me they used radio.”


    “Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?”

    “Officially or unofficially?”


    “Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multi-beings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing.”

    “I was hoping you would say that.”




    “So we just pretend there’s no one home in the Universe.”

    “That’s it.”



    “A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat’s dream.”

    “And we marked the entire sector unoccupied.”



    “They always come around.”

    “And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone …”

    • It’s the same over at the Amish porn site: just the same old photos of brazen hussies churning butter with their bare ankles all exposed. Maybe I’ll bop on over to Sock Puppet Theater and see what’s happening.

      • Hahaha I was guna make a quip about the deserted/haunted sock puppet theatre also but you beat me to it.

        I would pay good money to see an episode of Scooby Doo set in the broken down remains of sock puppet theatre…

        “Oh no, Scoob! It’s the ghoulish corpse of an incomplete joke!”


        etc. etc.

  5. — Shuckin’ the Jive —

    S. Martin, 1979

    The crazy bastards were going down to the pool hall to play a little pinball when their car exploded blowing everyone to smithereens. Some of Tubby’s flesh flew off to the side of the road, and in time nourished a sunflower growing there. Soon the sunflower was eaten by a horse and the horse was eaten by some hobos out for a wild time. Then one of the hobos met an eastward wandering Canadian guru. But before anything significant could happen the hobo died, being attacked by a dog heart in a scientist’s laboratory. The death was listed as a heart attack. Then slavery was abolished.


    Grandpa died and was resurrected after three days, but no one called him the Son of God; they just said, “Hey, that’s Gramps!”

  6. The Egg
    By: Andy Weir

    You were on your way home when you died.

    And that’s when you met me.

    “Yup,” I said.
    “I… I died?”
    “More or less,” I said.
    “Are you god?” You asked.
    “Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
    “My kids… my wife,” you said.
    “What about them?”
    “Will they be all right?”









    “How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

    “Oh lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

    “Where you come from?” You said.




    “So what’s the point of it all?”


    “Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.


    “You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”


    “Just me? What about everyone else?”



    “All you. Different incarnations of you.”

    “Wait. I’m everyone!?”


    “I’m every human being who ever lived?”
    “Or who will ever live, yes.”
    “I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
    “I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
    “And you’re the millions he killed.”
    “I’m Jesus?”
    “And you’re everyone who followed him.”

    You fell silent.


    You thought for a long time.





    And I sent you on your way.

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