Observations Regarding Birds by Robert Durst (to be read using your best Robert Durst imitation)

Sometimes a happy bird lands on your shoulder
and it stays there singing happily away –
ALL DAY –
and maybe it’s a day you’re not necessarily
in the mood for that chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp
ALL DAY LONG –
and it starts to drive you a little crazy.

You try to shoo it away
but it stays there.
No matter how many times
you say “Shoo!”
or you tell it,
“You NEED to
STOP SING-ING.
You need to be
ELSE-WHERE.”
“This has got to stop NOW –
PERIOD.”
The bird is still there.

So when nothing happens,
if the bird will not listen to reason,
well then you are at the point where
you have to take the matter
into YOUR OWN hands.
And you squeeze that bird
until it stops singing.

If it’s a small bird,
like a sparrow or a robin,
you dispose of the cadaver –
because who walks around
with a dead bird in their hands?

If it’s a bigger bird,
like a partridge or a cornish hen,
or a REALLY bigger bird
like a chicken or a turkey,
well, that’s great,
then you have your dinner
for the evening right there
and you didn’t even need to go
to Wegmans.
Maybe it’s your lucky day after all.

Who would have thought.

The Fourth Oldest Story in the Book

He’s a fidget. She’s a slight. They raise a band of blurs that solidify into a line, Over the years, the lines merge with the horizon and are equally distant. He becomes a slower fidget. She becomes a smaller slight. Lights are turned on and off. Broken lamps are kept in place. And right at the end, everything seems like a lost painting come to life until the sudden all-encompassing stroke of black.

Why Should I Join a Cannibalistic Death Cult?

So you’re thinking of joining a cannibalistic death cult or maybe your mom or friend is forcing you, either way you’ve come to Cannibalistic Death Cult Ever After, so joining a cannibalistic death cult is on your mind!

Why should you join a cannibalistic death cult?

Going back a few years to the moment we decided to join, we asked ourselves a million questions:

Do I really need to “pay” to hang out with people who believe in eating the flesh of other humans? Will I even like the taste of human flesh, the thrill of participating ritual murders and my fellow cannibalistic death cult members? What’s in it for me other than a steady supply of high-grade, lean protein? Will it get in the way of school and work?

But going through cannibalistic death cult recruitment, becoming a collegiate member and finally moving into alumna status; it is easy for us to reflect on the importance of our decision to murder innocents in a ritualistic fashion and consume their flesh.

Of course you are going to college to create a great life for yourself and your future – good for you! It is a fantastic decision, but it’s not only your major or GPA that gets you that interview or job, it is all the extra things you do – from scouting out abandoned churches to sharing a new recipe for flavorful human flesh jerky.

A cannibalistic death cult gives you the assertiveness, the “anything’s possible” attitude, and the total lack of respect for the value of human life you need to be successful in the “real world.”

A cannibalistic death cult is a great place to network with alumnae that work in a field that may be your interest area and allows you that extra step/ push that others might not have – and if they do, you can simply consume them. Cannibalistic death cult alumnae can open doors for you with internship opportunities, job interviews, or even just the often overlooked advice to guide you in the right direction for a steady supply of victims to ritually kill and feast upon.

Cannibalistic death cults give you opportunities to be very active in the community and have a higher meaning in this life by dispatching others into the next life. From raising money to giving your time, you’ll see how much of an impact you, your cannibalistic death cult chapter, and cannibalistic death cults as a whole have on the world around us.

Leadership is hands down the most vital reason to join. Many people can get straight A’s but can you lead a group of 60+ cannibalistic death cult members, all the while balancing school, family, friends, etc? Cannibalistic death cults give you the opportunity to exhibit and grow your skill set. Even if you don’t see yourself becoming the president of a cannibalistic death cult chapter one day, you’ll still have opportunities to take part in numerous committees or hold officer positions. Most presidents and officers never pictured themselves as holding that position when they joined their cannibalistic death cult chapter. Imagine this; YOU could be the next social or recruitment chair!

And of course, cannibalistic death cults are FUN! Why do anything if you’re not going to have fun – right? There are dances, sleepovers, events, parties, mixers and a million other fun things to do aside from ritual slaughter and consumption. You’re bound to meet – and eat – tons of new people. Whether it’s elderly nuns, pizza boys, or members from another cannibalistic death cult, you’ll make new friends almost every time you whip out your ritual kill knife.

We could go on and on about why you should take the leap to find your cannibalistic death cult ever after, but you have to make the final decision. At least try out recruitment and go from there.

Happy killing and bon appetit!

Kali, Nephthys and Hectate


For this piece, I appropriated the base text from http://sororityeverafter.com/reasons-to-join-a-sorority/ , changed every instance of “sorority” to “cannibalistic death cult” and tweaked the resulting text.

The Third Oldest Story in the Book

It’s the third oldest story in the book. The Boy has a giant head (4’3” circumference). His 3rd grade classmates with normal-sized heads mercilessly taunt him. There’s an incurable plague spreading across the land. One day, at recess, The Boy trips over some branches, bangs his head open, and a substance resembling orange pulp comes oozing out of the back of his giant head.  A victim of the plague, identifiable by the green and black spotting, comes out of the woods. Jen, a spoiled rich girl who’s always offering classmates $5 to eat disgusting things, points to the orange goop pooling around the The Boy’s head and says to the plague victim, “I’ll give you $5 if you eat that.” The plague victim eats the orange substance and in less than a minute is immediately cured. The Boy becomes a hero after the orange goop inside of his giant head is synthesized into an vaccine. The Boy becomes fabulously wealthy thanks to an uncle who is a patent attorney rockstar.  At age 17 he crashes his car while driving home drunk from a party, killing himself and 3 schoolmates, one of whom is Jen, who is now his girlfriend, though still a total bitch.

A 5-Paragraph Essay on Why the Killer in Me Is Not the Killer in You (for Billy Corgan)

          The killer in me is not the killer in you. There are numerous reasons why this is so, foremost of which are vast differences in appearance, modus operandi, and choice of companion animal. These differences leave no doubt that the killer in me is not the killer in you.
          First off, the killer in me and the killer in you look nothing alike. The killer in me looks like Lenny Kravitz if Lenny Kravitz had been cast in the original Mod Squad – which is to say, the killer in me looks a lot like Lenny Kravitz. The killer in you resembles Mrs. Havisham from Great Expectations right down to the goiter. Since they bear so little resemblance to each other, it is impossible that the killer in me can be the killer in you.
          Next, we turn to their radically different methods of killing. The killer in me approaches his victims on public streets, asks for directions to the nearest dry cleaners, and then nonchalantly blows a poison blow dart directly into their left eye. It is always the left eye and it it always a direct hit in the center of the eye – he never misses. The killer in you lures plumbers and handymen into her basement/dungeon/kill room and, after rendering them senseless with a tranquilizing spray, hoists them up onto a flogging station with the aid of a winch (as the killer in you is weak and enfeebled) whereupon she proceeds to flog them to death with a cat o’nine tails. Clearly, these are not the modus operandi of the same killer.
          Finally, we come to the choice of companion animals. For his companion animal, the killer in me has a Shiba-inu/wolf-dog named Kenji. Kenji is never allowed to feast on the flesh of the killer in me’s victims. The companion animal of the killer in you is a Siamese cat named Dash-Dash (pronounced “dash, dash, dash”). The killer in you takes great delight in watching Dash-Dash devour the flesh of her victims until only bloodied bone is left. Simply put, different companion animals – different killers.
          In conclusion, the killer in me is not the killer in you. Since they have widely divergent appearances, share no common modus operandi, and have diametrically opposed companion animals, there is no doubt whatsoever that the killer in me is not the killer in you. To insist otherwise is folly.

The Oldest Story in the Book

It’s the oldest story in the book. She’s a firefighter. He’s a vet tech. She has a friend who works in an erotic bakery. He has a friend who consumes an entire rotisserie chicken each day – and nothing else. They begin their ride down the rapids in a boat. Years later, when the boat finally reaches shore, it’s empty except for a fossilized gingerbread penis and some chicken bones.

Wrestling in Nebraska

Coach Pazzo made all of us wrestlers run hurdles on our high school track in the winter months.

“Legs win matches,” he’d say.

Now, we were Nebraska farm boys. We knew what it was to work out of doors in subzero wind chills with no alternative but to keep working no matter how numb your feet were or how bad your fingers stung. You could say we were we more than conditioned to handle the elements already.

So when I tell you that Coach Pazzo made us run hurdles in the winter for wrestling practice, this is not a lament for the fact that it was cold as hell running sprints on that flat, wind-swept expanse of high school track. No.

It is, without question, a lament for the fact that this was the full extent of our wrestling training and instruction.

We just ran hurdles.

Outdoors.

In all sorts of weather.

In our wrestling singlets.

This is what we did for all of our wrestling practices. Every last one of them. No work on the mat. No learning moves or techniques. Just running and jumping a raised barrier and running some more until the next raised barrier.

When we’d ask him when we’d actually get to doing some practice in the gym on the mats, he’d look at us like we were the one’s who were crazy.

“Gentlemen, it all starts with building the will to win,” he explained “And that’s what we’re doing. Until we have it, we don’t belong on the mats.”

They said he’d been the coach of some wrestling powerhouse back East that competed for state titles year after year. This was the first year our high school had a wrestling team, so I guess they were looking to bring in a proven winner, albeit one whose methods were extremely unorthodox.

One of them was his admonishment us against mentioning any of our training to anyone, complete with a signed pledge.

“I don’t want any of you boys squandering our competitive advantage.”

And like fools, we obeyed him.

So we ran.

Snow came early that year. Not the monster blizzards that would dump 2 feet in less than a day, but dribs and drabs of light dustings starting second week of November.

In a way, we’d have preferred running in 2 feet of snow to 2 inches. And if we had to conduct our version of wrestling practice while it was snowing, it definitely would have been a little less precarious if he had let us shovel off the track – something we had repeatedly asked of him and were repeatedly refused.

“Gentlemen. Let me introduce you to the three R’s of wrestling – react, recover, rebalance,” he said. “Develop your balance out here, your feet will feel like fly paper on the mat.”

We lost Tim Buckley, our 106-pounder, to a broken ankle 2 weeks before our opening dual meet. Our 113-pounder Bill Storms went down 3 days later – torn lateral meniscus.

By the time we were due to square off against Rockland, 4 others had succumbed to various lower body injuries and we were down to only 8 healthy wrestlers – which meant we would have to forfeit 6 of 14 weight classes.

This is didn’t phase Coach Pazzo in the least.

“This only means that there’s no margin for error. And guess what? I like that.” he said. “I like being in those type of situations. Why? Because they bring out the best in you.”

Down 0-18, after forfeiting the first three weight classes, our first wrestler up, also the first wrestler on our squad to stand on a wrestling mat all season, was our 126-pounder Virgil Wilder. The ref blew the whistle and if you happened to turn your head to wave to a friend in the stands, or put down your soda, or do just about anything else, you missed the entire match. A pin in 8.75 seconds. That marked a new Nebraska state record for fastest pin in a high school wrestling match.

That rather dubious record stood for all of 4 ½ minutes – until the very next match, where our 132-pounder Bob King got pinned in 8.1.

I was up next. I knew I would lose, but I wasn’t prepared to lose in record-breaking fashion. I didn’t want that type of baggage around my neck. Let the guys in the higher weight classes have that ignominious honor. I also knew the kid limbering up on the other side of the mat was Wimp Patterson, who was anything but, being a 3-time state champ. So without any training and with the sole intent of delaying the inevitable for as long as possible, when the ref blew his whistle, I simply ran around with around the outskirts of the circle until Wimp came within striking distance, at which point I’d simply skip safely outside of the circle.

Apparently this is frowned upon in the wrestling community. I took 2 stalling penalties until the ref told me one more and I’d be disqualified. I looked at the clock, and 14 seconds had passed. I had made it. The state record for fastest pin might be broken in the 182-pound or 220-pound classes – let Tim Anderson wear history around his neck – but not in mine.

I turned to face Patterson, who, despite weighing less than 138 pounds, in my memory was built like Lou Ferrigno. When he came toward me – instinct took over. Maybe it wasn’t so much instinct as much as muscle memory taking over, for instead of helplessly succumbing to his take-down, I attempted to hurdle him just as he came at my knees.

My legs hit his shoulder, I did a backflip and after it seemed like I spent an eternity in a blur of red mat, crowd, and gym lights, I landed with a loud thud on the mat.

Broke my coccyx, although back then, before I was a doctor, it was still a tailbone to me.

Patterson could have simply touched me with his finger to pin me. But he was a Rockland wrestler – and a 3-time state champ. Rather than taking the merciful route to victory, he wrapped my arms into a pretzel, did a move that lifted me off the mat and bent me backward and only then did the end come.

They rushed me to the hospital in an ambulance. I didn’t get to see the rest of the match, which is now legendary in Nebraska state wrestling lore.

What happened to Coach Pazzo remains a mystery to this day. No one could find him after the match. No one’s seen him since. Some say he just drove off in his car and left town. Other says they saw a dark Crown Vic with men in suits jump out an escort him away in a rather brusque fashion.

In any case, that night marked both the beginning and end of the wrestling season. We forfeited our remaining matches. Those of us who had yet to succumb to our training, our coach’s insanity, or our ruthless opponents – we looked upon ourselves as winners for simply having survived.

The following year our high school started a bowling team to replace wrestling in the winter sports schedule, and I’d take great delight in sneaking in a game of Asteroids or Pac-Man between games. After all. I’d earned it.

Male Pattern Baldness

Grigor the Headless Man goes to his psychiatrist and says, “Doctor, I’m horribly depressed. My hair’s falling out and everyone knows it.”

The doctor says, “But you’re headless. How do they know you’re hair’s falling out?”

Grigor replies, “I keep complaining about it to everyone.”

The Polite Gentlemen

Grigor and Dimitri approach each other on the street.

"Good friend, you have something on you face," says Grigor to Dimitri. "Let me help you," he says, pulling out a butcher’s knife.

"There! It was only this!" he says a few minutes later holding up Dimitri’s nose.

"Why, thank you, good friend. I am in your debt and cannot wait to repay you the favor!" says Dimitri, pulling out his own butcher’s knife. "Oh, my! Good friend, there’s something on your hand!"

"It was only this!" he says a few minutes later, holding up Grigor’s thumb.

"Good friend, you are indeed a blessing," says Grigor. "But there seems to be something on the side of your head."

"Thank you, good friend," says Dimitri a few minutes later, looking at his left ear being held up in triumph by Grigor. "Why, good friend, there seems to be something on the side of your head as well!"

And on and on it went until several hours later a starving mother and her brood of children came upon what was left of them,

"Scoop all of that up and bring it home," she says to her children, not believing her good fortune. "For meat is meat however and wherever you find it!"

Tell Me About Your Personal Relationship With Jesus

So, it’s like, I got this amazing new super plush white sofa last weekend, and it’s so perfect, so fantastically super-plush smoothe that I’m afraid to even sit on it. Like, I can’t sit on it. All week, instead of sitting on the sofa, I’ve been sitting in my old brown recliner just staring at the damn thing every night, almost in awe of it, how super-plush and perfect it is. Like this is the one perfect thing I own, totally afraid I’m going to fuck it up.

And then it’s Friday night and I hear that goofy drumroll knock he always does on my door and I know it’s Jesus.

"Entre vous, bro" I yell and he floats through the door and when he sees the sofa he’s like, "Dude! That’s one sweet sofa bro. That looks so friggin super-plush! When’ja get it?"

And I’m like, "Last weekend. Yeah, the funny thing is I’m afraid to even sit – "

And to my horror he walks right over to it and plops himself down right in the middle cushion. He’s got his arms spread out across the backrest. He’s laying his head back and swiveling it from side to side. And for a minute, I’m standing there in stunned disbelief as he’s rubbing the backrest with his hands and going, "Man, is this nice or is this nice?" as he is smearing the blood from his Holy Wounds into my new super-plush sofa and poking holes in the backrest’s cushion with his Crown of Thorns and I’m like, "Jesus! Dude, what the fuck?"

And he’s like, "What?"

And I’m like, "Dude, you’re fucking bleeding all over the my new white sofa? That’s a $2,500 sofa you just smeared blood all over."

And he looks at me and says, "Chill, dude."

And then he swivels himself and gets horizontal on the thing, "Man, this is beaucoup comfortable. You’re going to get a lot of sack time…"

And he’s going on and on and, as he is, his Crown of Thorns is cutting the shit out of the armrest his heads on – not to mention all the blood – while the Holy Wounds on his feet are totally fucking up the other armrest.

"Jesus! What the fuck Jesus?"

"Huh?"

"Dude, you’ve been here like 2 minutes and you’ve totally fuckin’ destroyed my super-plush new white sofa is ‘what the fuck.’ Look at all that blood!"

And he sits up and looks at me without even looking at the carnage he’s wrought.

"Looks like I picked the wrong night to stop by amigo," and he gets up and starts heading for the door.

And I’m like, "Amigo? Amigo? Dude! Don’t amigo me, dude! Turn around! Look at that mess? It’s looks like a serial killer used my super-plush new white sofa as a kill table!"

And he smiles and says, "No worries. It’s all good. I got you covered bro."

And I look back and the sofa’s all white again, back to it’s super-plush, pristine state.

And he looks at me, waiting, like he’s expecting me to thank him.

"What?"

"You could at least say ‘thanks for the solid bro.’"

"’Thanks for the solid bro?’ Thanks for fucking up my perfect white super-plush sofa -"

"Dude, dude, dude. Don’t get hung up on things. What am I always telling you? Things are temporary. That thing’s going to be in pieces in a landfill someday. If not that, it’ll be in a storage locker someday and when they open up the thing, they’re going to look at it and say ‘What kind of fuckin’ asshole would buy this thing?"

And deep down I know he’s right, but I stare at him for a while, trying to guilt trip him.

"C’mon man. It’s Fish Taco Friday at Manny’s. Let’s choke down some fish tacos and then hit the scene."

And I think a plate of fish tacos would be pretty sweet.

"Fine, just let me throw on some different clothes," I say. "And whatever you do – DO NOT go near that sofa again."

And a couple of minutes later, as I’m heading out from the bedroom, I see he’s fast asleep on the sofa.

And instead of waking him up and yelling at him, I sit in the recliner and stare at him and wish I could be more like Jesus.

I end up ordering some pizzas and some sixes and after we chow down he lets me beat him at Madden a couple times before we head out.

And that ends up being the night I meet Debra, who hated that sofa the minute she saw it.

And twenty years later, I have no idea where that sofa even is.