Friday, November 26, 2010

Burgeoning Pop Star Changes Name in Response to Publicity

Just today, the upcoming pop starlet, formerly known as A.J. Richardson, has taken steps to squelch his rising popularity by making it very, very difficult to talk about him. In the past, 'A.J. ' had made his disdain of the media, and his fans, abundantly clear and has raised many questions about the fan-artist relationship. C**tf**k*er B.J. McT**tlover, as he is now legally known, was kind enough to sit down with us for an interview regarding his recent name change and opinions on the news coverage of popular media. We printed as much of it as our lawyers would allow.

Useless Magazine: A.J., welcome to the Useless Magazine Offices and thank you for sitting down with us. We've been running a capaingn lately to gather questions from our reader base and--

The Artist Formerly Known as A.J. Richardson: Yo yo yo. First of all, f**k you and f**k you too (he gestures to a passing intern). Don't for f**king one f**king second think that I'm here on your f**king terms. I just f**king want to get the f**king word out. f**ker.

UM: Sure. Well we don't want to waste any time, so lets get to the first question. How would you define your relationship with your fans?

AJ: f**k! I don't have a f**king relationship with my f**king fans. My f**king fans have the f**king c**ts I like to f**king f**k. Thats it. f**k 'em, thats what I do.

UM: Ah, I see. Have you given any thought to how this might affect album sales?

AJ: What the f**k do you think? f**k it. I don't know why the f**k y'all listen to my f**king s**t, but as long as the s**t keeps making f**king bills, I'll keep f**king making that f**king s**t. s**t!

UM: Indeed. Now, some people have suggested that your new vulgar attitude was adopted in order to move away from big media coverage and towards word of mouth, which many publicists argue, can be more effective. Was this a calculated move?

AJ: Nah, bro, I just f**king changed my f**king name to C**tf**k*er B.J. McT**tlover because its f**king true. Am I f**king being ironic? f**k irony, hows that for f**king ironic s**tf**k?

UM: Of course. Now, we have one last question, chosen from the thousands that were submitted by our fans. “What is your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

AJ: V*** I d*****ing so h**x ***s it **** z***t ****er *** and b**** if p***l so how about q****, n****z!

UM: Thank you so much...sir. Best of luck.

AJ: ****

Thursday, November 25, 2010

its not about what you think it is.

unless I'm not as subtle as I thought, in which case, it totally is about what you think its about.

Sasha was moaning again. She was always moaning this time of the month and it was positively infuriating. At the beginning James was always a little bit excited because sex was sex and well...yeah, sex was sex. After a while though, it just got to be a chore. Maybe he'd just go in there and fuck her so she'd shut the hell up, but he knew better than to think that would help for more than an hour or two. She was a queen on her throne, and when she was in heat, she was a bloody loud one. He really wished he'd had a choice in house mates, he'd never have cleared her if he'd had a say in the matter. He sauntered into the bedroom to get his, or more accurately, give her hers when he heard the front door crack open. Odd, it seemed a little early for the lady to get home, but he had never had a particularly good grasp on schedules. He turned his back on Sasha and headed towards the front door, and she moaned again. Actually, it was more protracted, and a little higher than usual; more of a wail. It was disgusting. He sped up to a trot and made for the living room. Sure enough, the lady was home, maybe she got out early because her face looked happier than usual and he got an extra big squeal out of here when he trotted in, head held high. He settled down on the couch, and she started babbling like always, rubbing his back and murmuring in his face in the most condescending manner. If she wasn't so good with her hands, he'd have been a little more offended. As it stood, however, he just let his eyes back and enjoyed it. Then she did it again. She was always doing it, but he never got used to it. Each time was a fresh slap in the face. “blah blah blah blah Milo, blah blah blah,” she said. He knew exactly what she meant though. She meant “blah blah James, blah blah,” she never got his name right. If Sasha hadn't been being such a bitch, maybe he would have dealt with it, but as it stood, he was in no mood so he hopped off the couch and galloped away. She never got his name right, but at least she kept him fed.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Sometimes stories have morals.

Once upon a time, there was a man. Just a man, really, there wasn't too much remarkable about him for a while. Then, one day, he met Satan on the bus when he was on his way to work at the butchers shop. Satan was all like “Yo dude, I need a few more souls if I'm gonna make rent this month so if you wanna help me out I'll be willing to do you a favor. I have magical powers to do pretty much anything aside from making souls, I know, ironic right? But I ramble, you down?' The man wasn't really down, but he was a pretty easy guy to persuade so he said that yeah, he was down, he was. “Alright” Satan said “but there's this one catch, in addition to your soul, you're gonna have to wear this sign on your chest for a day.” It said : 'I am an extremely mediocre individual, I find myself to be almost as boring as my acquaintances find me, and I say 'my acquaintances' as I have no actual friends that would voluntarily identify themselves as such'. The man was a little turned off by this at first. He knew it was true, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and all his acquaintances knew as well. He just didn't like the prospect of having to wear the thing. That was a lot of words and the sign was freaking huge, it was just going to be an annoying experience. The man decided thought that maybe this was his chance to be a not mediocre individual and that he might as well take it. Also he was real bad at saying no. Yeah, and so he said yes and put on that big old sign. What surprised him the most was how few people noticed it. Namely, none of them. Yeah, every now and then someone would bump into the sign, but no one ever said anything. Then again, no one ever said anything anyways.

The next day, he ran into Satan again and this time Satan said, “Hey man, I just need you to wear this one more sign.” This one said : Some people are just stupid and deserve to die. I, however, have neither the time nor the motivation to see to it that that happens, so please continue killing yourselves slowly through lifestyle decisions including, but not limited to : high cholesterol, alcoholism, poor fitness, smoking and reality television. This sign got a few people riled up. One guy asked the man “Are you threatening me? Huh? Are ya tough guy?” The man just explained that he wasn't he threatening the guy, he was just negotiating a deal with Satan. That shut that guy right up. A girl, a big bimbo with tits twice the size of the ones God gave her, took issue with the sign too. She said “Reality TV doesn't kill you! It just...” but then she just started drooling. The man didn't pay her much mind.

The next day, the man met Satan on the bus again and he asked Satan if he had a third, final sign for him to wear, because this kind of stuff always happened in threes. Satan looked confused for a few seconds, and then he said “Nah bro, I actually managed to get a loan from Vishnu, so I'm good on souls and I don't like using my powers if I don't have to because it makes my skin dry out real bad. But you did wear those signs and everything, so here's 7 dollars, a bus token and a gift card for JC Penny, I'm not sure how much is left on the gift card though.” The man looked down at his prizes and felt....well, nothing really, just like he always did.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Back on the horse

November 22, 2010
Mr. Benjamin Holloway
3495 Rockway Place
20394 Mondale New York

Dear Mr. Holloway,
We interviewed a number of applicants for the position of Aerospace Technician and this letter is to inform you that we have decided that a different applicant was most qualified for the position. Our interview team was impressed with your credentials and experience, however. Despite your excessive use of the f-word and a staggering variety of ethnic slurs, your vast knowledge of chewing tobacco and Nascar was abundantly clear. As such, we would like to present you with another opportunity for employment here at Aiostech. The position of Maintenance Mop has been vacated recently due an operator error and we feel that you could really excel in the position. Enclosed is a position description for your review. In summation, we feel that your large quantity of unruly hair would make you a great addition to our maintenance closet.
Thank you again for coming out to Aiostech to interview and whatever your decision regarding the position of Maintenance Mop, please feel free to apply for posted positions, for which you are qualified, at our company.

But seriously, Fuck off dude. For real. Just fuck off.

Eric Limer.

Position Description.

Fuck. Off.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Remember that time?

“Yeah, and then we ran like our lives depended on it. I mean, I guess they did, in a bizarre sort of way.”
I leaned back in my chair and Alan laughed; Alan was always laughing, which was part of the reason I was still getting drinks with him after all these years. The other part was that he was a little bit crazy, and so much of my young life had been wrapped up in antics of his devising. I lifted my glass to my mouth and I might as well have had double d's and a checkered flag, because Alan was off.
“Yeah, that was one hell of a time. Remember the time I invented supply-side economics?”
I tried not to choke, but its hard to breathe liquid. Alan was clearly more concerned with my affirmation than my respiratory health, but my recovery must have taken longer than he expected because he kept charging on.
“I remember it so clearly, we were all drinking in Teddy's basement and he was all like 'I wish entrepreneurial start-up costs weren't so prohibitive,' and I was like 'yeah, they shouldn't be! What if we subsidized production costs to increase incentives to produce? That way, consumers would benefit from a greater supply of goods and services that they could purchase to stimulate further economic growth!' Man, Ted was so excited. I remember the way his face just lit up.”
Alan looked off for a moment, trying to relive the moment as best he could. And it was then that I realized he'd finally lost the last of his marbles and graduated to full on delusional insane. That wasn't what had happened at all. He didn't say that, I did.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Don't Drag Me Down

We all have embarrassing little things we enjoy doing in private. Embarrassing little things that would mortify us if we were caught doing them in public. I know it and you know it, and if you think otherwise you are either a blatant liar, or have the self-awareness of a clam. My main quirk is a fairly common one I think, perhaps not even a quirk at all but more of a secret hobby: I play violent air-guitar and lip-sync, preferably in front of mirrors, but really any reflective surface will do, storefront windows, the polished side of a van, anything that allows me to see my exaggerated game of make-believe, so long as no one else is around to see it. Since I’ve come to the conclusion that we all do these sorts of things, I have often tried to convince myself that, if caught, it is a far better thing to just keep trucking. Yes, I’m playing air-guitar in the bathroom because this solo is bad-ass and I was pretty sure the bathroom was empty. Just pretend like you haven’t done it before. And so I stood in front of the bathroom mirrors, throwing my hand down to strike the strings of my non-existent Stratocaster. “Gonna go to the white house, and paint it blaaaaaack,” I mouth, with the sort of exaggeration one might use when talking to a deaf person. My hands fly up and down the neck of my invisible guitar, with a ferocity possessed almost solely by people who aren’t actually playing an instrument. My fingers twitch in a mock seizure as I poorly imitate the feverish guitar solo, pinch-harmonics and all. And despite my fervent belief that this isn’t weird, per se, that this is something worthy of only mild embarrassment, I jump when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. For a split second, I consider moving on, finishing up the measure at least, but no matter how confident I am that I am right, I just can’t. And so, defeated, I quickly stick my hands in my pockets, turn to leave and try my hardest to avoid making eye contact with the amused janitor who stands in the doorway.

Monday, November 15, 2010


I told her that I didn’t have any 20s. No 10s, 5s, or 1s, either. I mean, I have a credit card and I live in a bad part of town, but before I could even explain, she was darting around the house like a mad-woman. First, I had no coke, then, no bills, I better at least have a straw or it was freak-out time, apparently. She spent a few minutes digging through my kitchen drawers, throwing plastic bags and twist ties on the floor like so much dirt covering up a juicy soup bone. She maintained, with startling ferocity, that she didn’t need the coke exactly. She was just drunk as all hell and needed a good nose hit. I jokingly suggested some salt and she absent-mindedly agreed, still digging. I didn’t take her seriously until she came back with a pack of ramen noodle flavoring, the elusive straw and the goofiest grin. Seconds later, her head snapped back up from the coffee table, her eyes read and watering, her mouth still forcing that goofy fucking slack jawed grin. I don't hang out with her as much nowadays.

To leave a callback number, press 5.

Oh, hey, Jessica? Uh, I'm sorry, um, I don't think I'm gonna be able to make our date tonight. I know, I know, this probably sounds bad, but I'm not just blowing you off, I swear. It's just that Jason Vorhees showed up at my house and managed to lop off half of my sisters left hand before we could kick him out one of the bay windows. So, I mean, now I have to drive her to the hospital and ---NO NO, not on the couch! Point it towards the sink, for Christ's sake Megan--- And, and yeah, she's bleeding pretty bad and I can't find my keys but the really troubling thing is that movies are coming to life now I guess, and I don't really know how I'm going to deal with that, but, um, I guess we'll jump off that bridge when we come to it. But next Friday works for me, and I know you have that dance show sometime this weekend, but, um, just call me back and we can work that out. Please, give me a chance to make this up to you and, oh...oh god. I've gotta go. I'll talk to you later.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

I hereby cast you out, unclean spirit! Also, shut up!

Father Daniel sat at his desk with his mouth hanging slightly open. This was the third letter this week and he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Last he checked, and he checked five minutes ago, time was still moving forward, but these letters suggested otherwise. He massaged his temples.
“Jodie, we got another one.”
His secretary called back from the other room.
“Seriously father? I really thought it was just a joke.”
“Have you read any of them; they’re far too outlandish to be a joke.”
“Too outlandish?”
“Even pranksters would take themselves a little more seriously.”
Daniel threw the letter aside and looked through the pile for one that might be a little more palatable, something a little less 17th century. The diocesan newsletter would do it. A little bureaucracy was just the thing he needed to bring him back to the present. But there wasn’t quite as much vanilla bureaucracy as he had hoped, and he never hoped for much vanilla bureaucracy.
“Jodie, I have to admit that I’m getting a bit frightened.”
“Why’s that?”
“There’s, oh Jesus, there’s a diocesan workshop being held.”
“Oh no, oh no, I know you hate those, is it going to ruin your golf-date with Father Jim? I know-“
“No, that’s not it at all. It’s about all these letters.”
“Finally someone’s come to their senses, this was getting a little ridiculous and-”
“No, no they haven’t. It’s more of a training seminar…”
“Training? For what?….no. You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was, apparently they want to train more exorcists.”
“What is this? Pre-Vatican two?”
“I guess, also I think we’ve been teleported to Salem.”
Daniel checked the date on his calendar for the third time in fifteen minutes. Still 2010.
“They’re even instating some sort of ‘registration policy’. You have to get a license. A Catholic spin on evangelical lunacy. Soon we’ll be having seminars on properly speaking in tongues.” He put his head on the desk.
“So who’s going to cast out the demon of stupidity?” Jodie called back.
“Certainly not me, I don’t have a license.”

Friday, November 12, 2010

I own a van for a reason

I own a van for a reason. The same reason that I own a pair of aviators, an unmarked red baseball cap and a coat that has a collar that turns up to hide most of my face. I own these things because certain small children need to learn certain big lessons. I know that nowadays children are explicitly told not to go into the van owned by the man with the pair of aviators, an unmarked red baseball cap and his collar turned up to hide most of his face, even if he says he has a lot of candy in his van; not just necco wafers and dubble bubble, but full sized twix and snickers, you know, the real stuff. But I also know that children never listen. When I was a child, my mother told me never to play with matches, especially in the basement next to the piles of ancient tabloids that she kept in case the apocalypse came and the world lost all knowledge of important things like Bat-boy and President Clinton’s alien mistress. But I played with matches anyways, mostly because it was awesome, and partially because I hadn’t considered how great of a place that would be to do it. Now, I feel obligated to keep children from making the same mistakes I did, so when I come up to them with my aviators and my unmarked red baseball cap and my collar turned up to hide most of my face and tell them I have full sized twix and snickers in my van, and they come inside and I close the doors, I give them dubble bubble and necco wafers anyways. That should teach them not to trust strangers.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Baby's First Poem

[whine whine whine
blah blah blah
overly emotional whine
misspelled wine
blah blah
whine whine, for-ced rhyme
surprisingly poetic whine
over-confident and unfair generalization of the human condition
verbatim mention of 'the human condition'
whine whine
dramatic, definitive whine]