Sally Forth

Hey, remember The Fourth of July, 2003? We don't, but found this in our archives:

Fourth of July Fourthiness.

Independence is on the march, patriots.

& Recently . . .

Kurt Cobain's Ghost with an Invitation to a Fourth of July Picnic and Fireworks by Angela Genusa

"B.L.T.": A Review by Will Layman

Ten Tiny Poems by Brian Beatty

Angry Words from a Gnome Who to This Day Continues to Think the Human Genome Project Was Actually The Human Gnome Project by David Ng

Key Party, N.Y.C., Circa Always by William K. Burnette

A Day on the Phone with Mythological Norse Firewarrior, Bringer of Storms by Aaron Belz

Polish Fact

Geographic Coördinates:
52 00 N, 20 00 E

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My bad.

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Friday, July 2, 2004   |    Fiction


by Gene Morgan

Respite and Nepenthe from Thy Urinary Banter

I can pee and pee and pee. Pee-pee never stops, never never stops. The water hose connected to my base provides this constant flow of faux urea, and all day I feel relieved, all day I pee. The birds that land in my clamshell toilet relish my refreshing excretion. Some wash off feathers while discussing the northern wind chill with friends, others merely pause to check their rippled reflection and wet their dry beaks.

Heavens, here comes Ol’ Crow. What a night owl to be awake at such an hour. Ol’ Crow lands, and the fountain teeters a bit, tapping back and forth on the hard ground. “Evening, Ol’ Crow! Take a load off.”

“Oh, hey, just came to dampen the palette before I head over to perch near the chamber window.”

“Wonderful night time positioning choice, I must say. The warmth from the chamber will certainly curb the bite of those northerns. You know, my urine seems quite refreshingly warm in spite of this December chill, may I recommend a dip?”

Ol’ Crow gags on his water.

“Here we go again, Fountain. Can I not just stop in for a drink without you referring to the birdbath as your pool of relief? Every single damn time I sit here, it’s piss this and piss that, is that all you think about?”

“Piss is all that my concrete body is capable of, Ol’ Crow. My hand is cement, cemented to a cement penis, which just so happens to be in a perpetual state of urination. So yes, my being is essentially consumed by constant urethra contraction.” Ol’ Crow is quite insulting. Does he not see that I exist for the simple purpose of providing creature comforts through my excretory system? My subsistence lies in the marking of territory, and this clamshell is undeniably mine. That selfish old coot, he should display more respect towards my peaceful livelihood and charitable public service.

“Yeah, well, it’s gross. Can we just not talk about it anymore?”

“Nevermore, Ol’ Crow, nevermore. Hey, it does look a little yellow like urine today though, huh. Maybe it’s just the algae.”

Ol’ Crow flaps his wings and spits the contents of his beak, rocking the fountain much harder than before.

“In the same breath you tell me “nevermore,” and then you bring it up again. Could I just enjoy one drink, just one, without all the disgusting potty talk? Seems your bladder has driven you insane.”

“O.K., O.K. Ol’ Crow, sure, nevermore will I discuss urine, and no more talk about pee, pee-pee, wee-wee …” If he can’t handle my urinary banter in a civil manner, then he can go deride his reflection in the chamber window for all I care. His deformed crow mug, although quite ravenesque, is far more repugnant than my discussion of vocational talent. I detect a hint of jealousy in his adverse tone as well. Jealous that he can’t egest oodles and oodles of bodily fluids in such a grand manner, and I, personally, have no taste for such a shallow envy. I will rue the warm day he eats himself. “… whizz, the warm and shiver, golden streams …”

“Nevermore, you twit!”

(Ol’ Crow angrily shoves off from Fountain, the base is sent into a tottering frenzy.)

“… yellow snow, lemon ice …”

“Nevermore! Quit it you fool”

(The thin chamber window opens, and Ol’ Crow flies in to escape Fountain’s mad rant.)



*    *    *

Dog Smells Bad Bee Smells

(Dog licking his testicles, hungrily.)

Damn, I forgot how good it was to lick on the privates, MMMM, balls.

(Dog hears Bee up in tree, annoyingly buzzing. Dog tenses up his brow.)

Fuckin’ motherfucker. I smell his fear, S-M-E-L-L it. His stupid-ass sting shit, all “I’m this” and “I’m that,” who does he think he is? If he didn’t have that hive backing his ass, I’d do more than just bark, I might bite. What could he do? Sting me? ‘Ha! Pain is temporary, death is forever, Bee. So much as look at me the wrong way, and I will sweeten my lips with your wings faster than you can spell honey with a u and two n’s. Ohh, if I was just unchained from this tree we share, I’d lure you out, be all like “check it out, Mr. Bee, look at the Master’s flower garden, so much for you and the birds to do over here,” and then, when you settled in on a pollen filled blossom, SNAP! Booyah, I’d have a snout full of bee. You could try to sting my inner mouth all you wanted to, like the rage filled weakling all you stinging pussies are. The air betwixt my jaws, with not a tint of reservation or timid resonance, is so thick that it will crush you to death with sheer particle mass. In fact, I imagine the experience like a collapsing sulfur mine, tumbling down on your black and yellow bubble bitch body. A smelly death, that’s right, a dog’s breath. At least your corpse would be cleaner than if a human swallowed you, all that rancid toothpaste. Clean enough for your Queen Mother you leave the casket open. Then again I’d probably chew you up good, see how sweet your crushed body tastes, and swallow you in full. If only to vomit you out an hour later, along with the bone leftovers from Master’s table.

(Bee flies down from hive to Dog.)

“Hey, Dog, what’s up? Still tied up like some untrained hole-digging bitch, I see. What, your Master afraid you’re gonna to go into heat and run away man-crazy?”

Fuckin’ motherfucker. I’ll eat him like I ate that punk squirrel. Bee has got it coming to him. Bee better be ready. “Your hive days are numbered, Bee. And don’t think for a second I can’t sense that you know it.”

“You couldn’t sense a strip of bacon in front of your nose Dog. I, on the other hand, totally just got a whiff of that in-heat muffin. Did the howl of the Doberman next door turn you on, bitch? HA!”

(Bee flies off towards flowers.)

Goddamnit, fuckin’ Bee.

(Dog mopes sadly for a few minutes, then relaxes his brow.)

I wonder what my ass tastes like?

Gene Morgan is an industrial spring salesman, specializing in oil valve/power springs. Suhm Spring Works, Inc., Quality since 1885. Call for all of your day-to-day industrial valve spring needs!