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

Military Manpower:
10,354,978 (2003 est.)
[Army, Navy(!), & Air Force]

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My bad.

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Friday, October 1, 2004   |    Fiction

Checkmate, Checkpoint!

by Amy Shearn

—a deleted scene—
page 41

jay: Excuse me for a second, I’ve got to take a dump.

ben: Sure.

jay: No, I’m kidding.

ben: I see.

jay: No, kidding again. I really got to go, man.

ben: O.K.

jay: I mean, like what I was saying, man. We’ve got to blow the top right off of this. Like Stormin’ Norman Schwartzkopf! Taking it to the limit. Actually defecating on other men!

ben: Jesus, Jay. Oh, man.

jay: You’ve been a real pal, pal. I need to do this.

ben: I don’t know.

jay: Bush and Cheney and all those dicklickers have been shitting on you for four years. Can’t you see it? Exerting their malefic crap over all of us. Enron, Iraq—It’s all shit.

ben: Right.

jay: So how long are you going to put up with their crapulent lies?

ben: I don’t think you mean crapulent.

jay: Why?

ben: It means being hungover.

jay: Really? It sounds, like, “extra crappy.”

ben: You’re right. It does.

jay: Why don’t you lie down right over there?

ben: By the television?

jay: Right.

ben: Can I at least turn it off? Man. These decorating shows make me crazy. Julie likes them, she’ll want to watch one, you know, and it’s “Xtreme Faux Finishing” one night and “Crazy Neighbor Wields a Belt Sander” the next. I mean, I know what you’re saying. This country is wonked, absolutely zippy. All of our shit, man, the shit of society.

jay: Please don’t turn it off. At least wait until they show the “after.”

ben: You fff—I’m not happy, Jay. I don’t like this one bit.

jay: Absolutely! I feel you, my man. Only they can sometimes do magic with lighting, or some shag rugs. Really warm up the space. You wouldn’t think—and then, zammo. ZIIIP

ben: Fella, leave your pants on. Please. Let’s think this through.

jay: Yeah, yeah, okay, well I’m sick of thinking things through! I mean it! Lie down, man!

ben: Here’s a suggestion.

jay: What.

ben: Goldfish. You get yourself some goldfish. Nice hobby, very soothing.

jay: Hang on. Hi, laundry? Yeah, we’re going to need a pretty serious laundry pick-up in about five, okay? Great. Great. Sounds great. Yep. Great. Thanks. You’ve been a good friend. I need this. We’re gonna blow the top right off.

ben: Right off what?

jay: Right off of … er … the upper regions. Of up by where a top would go. You know, like, the bottom? Well, not that, but the other side.

ben: You’re shitting me, right?

jay: Not yet, my man. Try to hold still.

ben: Can we at least turn the recorder off? FFFF …rattle rattle.

jay: No.

both: Ooooh.

ben: That house looks so much fucking better now.

jay: It really does.

Amy Shearn's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Salt Hill, Passages North, 3rdBed, Lyric Review, Surgery of Modern Warfare,, GutCult, and elsewhere. Also, she can touch her nose with her tongue.