I have to return some video tapes

Elizabeth, naked, running from the bedroom, blood already on her, is moving with difficulty and she screams out something garbled. My organ had been prolonged and its release was intense and my knees are weak. I'm naked too, shouting "You bitch, you piece of bitch trash" at her and since most of the blood is coming from her feet, she slips, manages to get up, and I strike out at her with the already wet butcher knife that I'm gripping in my right hand, clumsily, slashing her neck from behind, severing something, some veins. When I strike out a second time while she's trying to escape, heading for the door, blood shoots even into the living room, across the apartment, splattering against the tempered glass and the laminated oak panels in the kitchen. She tries to run forward but I've cut her jugular and it's spraying everywhere, blinding both of us momentarily, and I'm leaping at her in a final attempt to finish her off. She turns to face me, her features twisted in anguish, and her legs give out after I punch her in the stomach and she hits the floor and I slide in next to her. After I've stabbed her five or six times – the blood's spurting out in jets; I'm leaning over to inhale its perfume – her muscles stiffen, become rigid, and she goes into her death throes; her throat becomes flooded with dark red blood and she thrashes around as if tied up, but she isn't and I have to hold her down. Her mouth fills with blood that cascades over the sides of her cheeks, over her chin. Her body, shaking spasmodically, resembles what I imagine an epileptic goes through in a fit and I hold down her head, rubbing my dick, stiff, covered with blood, across her choking face, until she's motionless.

Back in my bedroom, Christie lies on the futon, tied to the legs of the bed, bound up with rope, her arms above her head, ripped pages from last month's Vanity Fair stuffed into her mouth. Jumper cables hooked up to a battery are clipped to both breasts, turning them brown. I had been dropping lit matches from Le Relais onto her belly and Elizabeth, delirious and probably overdosing on the Ecstasy, had been helping before I turned on her and chewed at one of her nipples until I couldn't control myself and bit it off, swallowing. For the first time I notice just how small and delicately structured Christie is, was. I start kneading her breasts with a pair of pliers, then I'm mashing them up, things are moving fast, I'm making hissing noises, she spits out the pages from the magazine, tries to bite my hand, I laugh when she dies, before she does she starts crying, then her eyes roll back in some kind of horrible dream state.

In the morning, for some reason, Christie's battered hands are swollen to the size of footballs, the fingers are indistinguishable from the rest of her hand and the smell coming from her burnt corpse is jolting and I have to open the venetian blinds, which are spattered with burnt fat from when Christie's breasts burst apart, electrocuting her, and then the windows, to air out the room. Her eyes are wide open and glazed over and her mouth is lipless and black and there's also a black pit where her vagina should be (though I don't remember doing anything to it) and her lungs are visible beneath the charred ribs. What is left of Elizabeth's body lies crumpled in the corner of the living room. She's missing her right arm and chunks of her right leg. Her left hand, chopped off at the wrist, lies clenched on top of the stand in the kitchen, in its own small pool of blood. Her head sits on the kitchen table and its blood soaked face – even with both eyes scooped out and a pair of Alain Mikli sunglasses over the holes – looks like it's frowning. I get very tired looking at it and though I didn't get any sleep last night and I'm utterly spent, I still have a lunch appointment at Odeon with Jem Davies and Alana Burton at one. That's very important to me and I have to debate whether I should cancel it or not.

You know what's cuttier

As far as cutty goes...

This is pretty cutty.

But in all seriousness

I'd rather sit on my couch and masturbate to photographs of Rob and YouTube videos of turtle sex.

The Finest

How do we define who is superior in society? Musical talents? Acting talents? Artistic talents? Whatever it is, there is a percentage of the human population that is considered above the rest, even thought their genetic makeup is the same as everyone else.

Maybe Kanye West can make a hit song that gets everyone's spine tingling, but why? Couldn't Joe Schmo have made it? We put these musical figures on pedestals that allow them to produce cookie cutter "originals," that we eat up like food. We have gotten ourselves stuck in this muck of music that is all the same. Hip Hop has become an electronic genre that I feel has lost its dignity.

Now my qualm with actors and actresses is this whole "From the guys who brought you Knocked Up," when it probably the only people related are the producers of the movie. Hollywood just wants movie-goers to eat up these so called replications of box office hits. We should not base the quality of movies on the work of directors, actors, and producers in the past.

Artists have kept their own. The development of new wave approaches to photography, sculptures, and painting has blown my mind. I saw an exhibit at the San Francisco MOMA, that offered free portraits to the visitors. The idea was to hang over 100 close up, black and white portraits of the visitors on a huge wall, a right step in the direction of art.

-ROB

Airports are fucking Shamele$$

On a journey that at its conclusion will have taken approximately 16 hours, I am hungry.

I hate eating in fucking airports. Especially after I've been in another country or something that has caused me to miss the food I covet at home.

When my first meal is a BBQ chicken pizza from a CPK express I am usually dissapointed. It is not the kind of transition I like to make back to the land where my meal options are so satisfying.

On this particular trip I have been cut no slack by the restaurants at Atlanta's airport. Upon reviewing my options I came to my last resort. Pizza Hut Express.

At first it didn't seem all that bad. It was not until I sat down to eat my long overdue meal that I was hit with the outrageous realization that I had been ripped off beyond my expectations.



I was met with this fucking piece of pizza which if you can't tell measures about 4" in diameter.

To the right of this pizza is my receipt that tells the story (in numbers) of how I got fucked over.

$6.08 was what this pie cost me along with a medium (which is the smallest size they offer) coke.

Fuck airports. They get you when you're hungry and convinced that you need.

-Monty

Further Eructations

It is pretty frequent that someone points out how much it smells in the rooms or areas I occupy. I've had bad gas for a long time now, maybe 8 or 10 months. This is not to say I need surgery or anything.

I don't fart constantly, I simply eat something that might contribute to my stomach not feeling so hot and then I get gas.

I don't make new years resolutions because I usually forget them within a week or two. Not to mention why should I make a resolution about changing something only at one time of the year. If I want to fart even more I can always decide that on February 16th or even 17th.

I have yet to realize that it is 2009.

I'm on vacation and when I get home I'm going to be on vacation until 2010.

- Monty