4 Hour Hard On

Pull over to this Rest Stop
And have a straight shot of


Hip Hop



To check out
the rest of the band


go here...

Critiquo Primero swept a streaky pile of soggy autumn leaves from the Perpetually Filthy Foyer--as I worked the REDIAL mechanism on my land-line Cradle Phone from the Stone Age. Meanwhile, Dos Passive Critiquo sat hunched over a toaster oven, poking its crevices and moribund filaments with an ultra-thin salad tong. Primero, sweeping laconically, looked over at Dos, and scoffed at him.

“Ha!" he said. “That thing is toast, bro.”

"No," said Dos. "It is a Toast-Err, and I can make it better."


I kept getting a busy signal from the radio station.

“Goddamnit,” I said, “Know what I think? I think the lazy MF DJ has the phone off his hook!”

“Actually,” said Dos, “it's that Nickleback Ticket Giveaway, from like, twenty-five minutes ago. So many of these morons simply don’t realize a Winner got through--after exactly 11 point eight seconds had elapsed.”

I said:

“You mean people are still calling in, trying to win Nickleback tickets?”

Critiquo Primero leaned the battered broomstick against a hat rack in the corner.

“Yah,” he said, “’Fraid so, Amigo.”

“That is insane,” I said. "Absolutely insane!"

“So?”

“So the ubiquitous, formulaic band Nickleback completely fucking SUCKS, man!”

“Preachin’ to the choir, babe,” said Primero, buffing the chrome trim of my Kenmore microwave with an oily rag wrapped around his fat forefinger.

“Indubitably,” echoed Dos. “And doubly-dubious, to boot.”

“Man,” I said, “that lead singer’s voice sounds like an amped-up Bob Vila radial arm saw on This Old House!”

“That’s no shit, homey,” said Primero, “one of those high powered dangerous Craftsman models that only New England Norm knows how to handle.”

“Nam,” said Dos.

"Wha?" Primero said.

“It’s New England Nam, with his Radial Ahhm Sawyah.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s out of fucking control; somebody needs to put a stop to it.”

“Hey, why are you calling the radio station, anyway?” asked Primero.

“TO TELL THEM IF THEY DON’T STOP PLAYING NICKLEBACK SONGS, AND GIVING AWAY TICKETS, I’M GONNA ORGANIZE A BOYCOTT!”

Dos stopped prodding the toaster with his little silver prong, and gave out a giggle.

“Oh that’s pretty rich. Ha-ha hahaha!”

“Yeah,” said Primero, “listen hoss, people fucking dig Nickleback, man. Okay? They really, really dig em! You'd be seriously pissing up a rope--to issue a silly ultimatum such as that."

I shook my head, determined. I kept hitting the REDIAL—over and over.

Dos said:

"More people buy Nickleback albums than voted in the recent Mid Term Elections.”

Critiquo Primero issued a long low whistle, as he worked over the microwave chrome, blowing hot condensation all over the trim, so he could buff it to high gloss.

“Oh you know," he said, "that is so true. And scary… Very very, very scary.”

“I’ve got to get through,” I insisted, punching away savagely on the Stone Age phone buttons, "I've just got to!"

“It’s like the Bottom of the Ninth,” said Primero, “and you’re never gonna win.”

“Goddamnit, I will make my voice heard! I will turn the Tide!”

“You know, I really like that XM Satellite Radio,” offered Dos, “except for Howard Stern. Don’t care for that man, at all. Although they did play a Fugazi song on the station called ETHEL the other day.”

Primero nodded slowly, scrubbing his red goatee in appreciative reflection.

“Encouraging,” he whispered. “Highly, highly encouraging.”

“I think the fucking phone is definitely off the hook,” I muttered, “Dipthong Dee-Jay is all kicked back, sucking a tab of X, while he watches the pretty green and purple lights going off all over his switchboard!”

“The Joke’s on you,” said Dos, “the Joke’s always gonna be on you.”

Across the street, some asinine tree trimmer cranked up his chainsaw.

Reaching into my chamois shirt pocket for the Vicodin I’d sworn to save until suppertime, I plucked out the lint-covered horse pill, dry-swallowing it with a jaw-jittering shudder.

Then I hunched over the bland, ancient phone, settling in for a long afternoon.

3 SHARDS
(c) 2006 by John Bennett
All Rights Reserved



The Voices Are Talking

The voices are talking. The voices are saying, "You need to shake it on out, Daddy." They're saying, "Bear down and go for it. Rip it up. Light the goddamn fuse!"

The voices are growing impatient. Some of them have gone hoarse. Others have taken up knitting. Me, I'm holding my ground.

Soon there will be only one voice left, and when it speaks, I will answer.



Pipe Dreams Revelations

It's going to be a tough act to follow but he has no choice. He wonders what he'll come back as. A shoeshine boy? An elevator operator? A stand-up comedian? He'd like to come back as a daredevil. He wants to walk an elongated shoestring from one rim of the Grand Canyon to the other with a ten-pound block of ice balanced on his shaved head.

A few years back he dreamed every night for a week of parachuting out of a plane. He tried to get an old friend to do it with him, but his friend said he was crazy.

There is a thunderous revelation bearing down on him. He's fighting it with all his might, which is how it should be. Revelations that come easy are pipe dreams.



Gladiators At Play

The Cut Man left his fighter's corner after the 5th round, crossed the ring, and slashed the opponent's nose open with a razor.

The ref threw a red flag in the air as if he were in a soccer match, and some up-for-grabs blonde at ringside squealed and began laughing hysterically. The guy she was with, some rap star from South Central, got up and walked out.

The bell rang for round 6, and the two fighters came at each other with murder in their hearts.

The ghost of Howard Cosell hovered over the ring, making comparisons with Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield's ear, and the crowd turned ugly and began throwing pop bottles and turning on each other with fists flying.

Neither fighter was a contender, but when the fight ended in a draw, they were both offered a shot at the title.

Hammerhead Jackson, an obscure trainer from Trenton, stepped in front of the cameras and offered his services, and the next day his picture was on the cover of Ring Magazine and his phone began ringing off the hook.

It was the break they'd all been looking for.




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