ME: And by subverting double axial capital inflows we can mobilize revenue twice as fast.
SMITH: I&rsquo;ve heard this before, Johnson&hellip;
CHESTER: (Smashes through plate glass door) I&rsquo;ve got the drinks!
SMITH: Johnson, what kind of a stunt is this?
ME: I&ndash;&ndash;I&rsquo;m so sorry Mr. Smith. That&rsquo;s Chester. (Sighs) He&rsquo;s&hellip; he&rsquo;s my cousin.
CHESTER: Black coffee with two milks and big sugars coming right up!
ME: Anyway, my plan is to redirect consumer&ndash;&ndash;
CHESTER: Hey, Mr. Business! I live in a shoe in the Pacific Ocean.
ME: He lingers if you pay attention to him, so don&rsquo;t. (Massages temples) He&rsquo;s like the Tooth Fairy, sir, except he always insists on teaching kids about sex.
CHESTER: Sex is easy: just dingle your dangle.
SMITH: Johnson, I must say, this is highly unusual.
CHESTER: Touch my string.
ME: Don&rsquo;t touch that, Mr. Smith. That&rsquo;s his foreskin.
SMITH: It&rsquo;s&hellip; prehensile.
ME: Stop tugging on Mr. Smith&rsquo;s earlobe, Chester.
SMITH: Oh I don&rsquo;t mind. It&rsquo;s rather soothing. Anyway, Johnson, back to your spiel.
ME: Essentially, we optimize market capture mechanisms before our competitors do.
CHESTER: I nomi&ndash;&ndash;
ME: Chester, no.
CHESTER: I nominate my cousin!
ME: (Unenthusiastically does ALS Ice Bucket Challenge)

ME: And by subverting double axial capital inflows we can mobilize revenue twice as fast.
SMITH: I’...

Business Presentation

Larry inhaled for a second, let the shivers pass, and proceeded to wipe the spunk off the glossy mag with his shirt. It didn&rsquo;t not not work, and would have, under circumstances slightly altered, perhaps even been deemed a success, but in this actual world (ours), Larry&rsquo;s low-PH ejaculate had cleft ink from paper, unsticking chemical bonds not meant unstuck, and Larry had succeeded in little more than screen-print- ing a pair of gorgeous Kalahari saggers from his dentist&rsquo;s waiting room&rsquo;s copy of last years&rsquo; National Geographic onto his very best polyester button-down.
 The receptionist cleared her throat. &ldquo;Are you done, sir?&rdquo;
 &ldquo;Oh yeah, absolutely, thanks, miss.&rdquo;
 Soon as Larry walked out of the office, he realized he&rsquo;d left his visor in there, but Larry was willing to bet that that receptionist wasn&rsquo;t going to let him back in before she was done scraping trace ejaculate + CMYK ink residue from a now blank, denuded page of Nat Geo (to make Cyan, Magenta, Yellow, and blacK little in-vitro Larries, no doubt), so really he might as well just get the visor back whenever the tooth falls out again and he has to get it re-grafted. Larry checked his voicemail. Oof. Headache. Another hour-long missive from the dame in charge of setting up his new fanpage, a former friend of his, who was up to her ears in work (low bar, her ears, since she weighed them lobes down with lead clamps because something about ele- phants being a symbol of longevity in certain cultures, apparently). A hundred thousand Uyghurs, all houseguests of hers, making an absolute mess of her living room.
&ldquo;&hellip; anyway, I&rsquo;m trying to keep them happy by just playing this new song I wrote called Loops on a loop in my living room, full blast, but honestly, I don&rsquo;t think it&rsquo;s working, and they&rsquo;re just all very very unhappy&hellip;&rdquo;
This friend, of course, neglected to mention that they were being kept there under circumstances deemed &ldquo;murky at best&rdquo; by the International Court of Justice and &ldquo;pretty much standard&rdquo; by the head of the Chinese Communist Party, acclaimed wuxia star Jackie Chan.
Larry sighed. There was a traffic jam along the conveyor belt sidewalk, and it would take him at least an hour to get to his pad uptown. It was really late in China, and he&rsquo;d promised Jackie that he&rsquo;d log into Chunky Trollcraft, an MMORPG they both played, before Chan&rsquo;s bedtime, but it didn&rsquo;t look like he was going to make it.
 &ldquo;Sorry to let the guild down, Jackie,&rdquo; Larry texted his friend. &ldquo;My dentist stole my visor, and I don&rsquo;t think I can make it. I&rsquo;ll make it up to you, promise.&rdquo;
 &ldquo;okay&rdquo; came Jackie&rsquo;s reply, soon afterward.

Larry inhaled for a second, let the shivers pass, and proceeded to wipe the spunk off the glossy mag...

Larry’s Donation

&ndash; What started out as a frankly disgusting case of unbelievable obesity had snowballed into a horrible carnival of flesh and fat&ndash;&ndash;declared a historical landmark some thirty years ago&ndash;&ndash;named Jake Gilbert.
Ever since the reanimated corpse of Ronald Reagan had recovered from having his Alzheimer&rsquo;s cured and decided to run for what he thought was a second presidential term, electricity had been strictly forbidden. The Gipper&ndash;&ndash;terrified of electricity because it reminded him that he was scared of electricity&ndash;&ndash;had decreed that the clean-burning cholesterol produced by Jake&rsquo;s engorged glands was to become the nation&rsquo;s only source of nighttime illumination.
In the intervening years, Reagan&rsquo;s Alzheimer&rsquo;s had progressed and his intelligence briefings had mostly become reminders of the slight fluctuations in the attractiveness of the Joint Chiefs, his major achievements (being a Hollywood actor, being a former Hollywood actor, personally starting the AIDS crisis by participating in a blood drive, etc.), and how the city was powered (the soft cream cheese lining the guts of minor topographical feature Jake Gilbert). And, in his infinite dementia, President Reagan decreed that Jake Gilbert was to be awarded the first edible Medal of Honor for bravely weighing what no man&rsquo;s weighed before.
The only space large enough to fit enough of one of Jake&rsquo;s limbs to pin a medal on him was the Lincoln Memorial Memorial Theater, built where the Lincoln Memorial had stood before it was tragically destroyed to make room for a theater. Designed to house the wild crowds that came to see the beloved improv troupe T.L. Acronym get shot at by Navy Seals every time they failed to &ldquo;yes, and&rdquo; while doing a realistic Irish jig, it was the city&rsquo;s largest arts and recreation space&ndash;&ndash;if you don&rsquo;t count Congress (ha ha). Or was it?
It was.
On the morning of the&ndash;&ndash;
&ndash; Hey, sorry to interrupt. I&rsquo;m just wondering if this is all supposed to be one long line or something or if you want me to come in, maybe?
&ndash; I&rsquo;m sorry, I don&rsquo;t know who you are,&nbsp;but I need you to leave.
&ndash; Ok, gotcha, sorry.&nbsp;
I&rsquo;m just the other character in the&nbsp;
dialogue, and I was just waiting for my turn.
&ndash; Not a dialogue. You&rsquo;re in the wrong folder, friend. This is prose, and you&rsquo;re making me lose my train of thought. Where was I?
&ndash; Jake&rsquo;s going to get the medal for being fat.
&ndash; Right. Yes. Of course. On the morning of the Celebration of Blubber, Jake&rsquo;s bloated bulk&nbsp;was rolled&ndash;&ndash;
&ndash; Right, OK. Sorry to interrupt again, I just think I&rsquo;ve been assigned to this piece because&nbsp;it&rsquo;s formatted like a dialogue. Because it opens with a dash.
&ndash; I don&rsquo;t know what you&rsquo;re talking about.
&ndash; The piece starts with a dash. So it seems like you&rsquo;re just a&nbsp;
character in a dialogue talking.
&ndash; Oh. Yeah. I guess it does. You&rsquo;re right.
&ndash; I would just really appreciate it if you could get rid of the dash so that I can be cleared to leave. Instead of waiting around on this piece and then&hellip; you know&hellip;
&ndash; Dying once it&rsquo;s finished?
&ndash; Yeah, dying once it&rsquo;s finished.
&ndash; I don&rsquo;t know what to tell you, buddy. I&rsquo;m just the narrator. I&rsquo;m not in charge of editing.
&ndash; Right, I know, but&hellip; come on. You and I both know that one word from the narrator and the issue editor&rsquo;s going to&ndash;&ndash;
&ndash; Look, man. Listen. I know you characters have a hard time understanding this stuff because your life spans are so damn short. But I don&rsquo;t make editing decisions. Like, if I could controlled ediitng, do you think I would have misspelled the word &ldquo;editing&rdquo; right there?
&ndash; I mean it did seem like you manipulated the editing to make a point just then so, yes?
&ndash; Hmm, yeah. I can see how you&rsquo;d think that.
&ndash; Great so you&rsquo;ll he&ndash;
&ndash; Wait for you to die. Yes. I&rsquo;m going to wait for you to die.

– What started out as a frankly disgusting case of unbelievable obesity had snowballed into a horrib...

My Piece About What It Would Be Like If I Wrote A Piece for the FYC #

&ndash; You understand that after you sign&nbsp;this document you cannot discuss the Manhattan Project with anyone under penalty of death, correct?
&ndash; Yes, I understand. (signs)
&ndash; So, Mr. Oppenheimer,&nbsp;nuclear fission.&nbsp; Is it possible? How do we do it?
&ndash; (silence)
&ndash; Mr. Oppenheimer?
&ndash; (does zip-lipping motion,&nbsp;throws away key)
&ndash; Oh&hellip; Oh. Shit.

– You understand that after you sign this document you cannot discuss the Manhattan Project with any...

J. Robert Oppenheimer signs an NDA

I milk myself nightly into my tub. My nightly emissions pool in my bath, glistening with a spectral opalescent shimmer. A month or so into the process, I dip my toe in the tub: the semen is room temperature. I step in, and before I know it, I&rsquo;m ankle-deep in cumsludge. Perfect.
I take my favorite suit off its hanger and place it gently on the puddle of nut. I step on the suit and hear the wet squelch of jism underfoot. Picking up speed, I stamp down on the wool fabric, like I&rsquo;m making wine, until each fiber is permeated with my seed. Once I&rsquo;m satisfied, I step out, dry myself off, and turn the lights off in my bathroom. I wait.
After a few weeks in the fetid dark, fungi of all sorts begin to sprout on my navy merino double-breasted. I remove the suit from the bath and, careful not to sever any of the mushrooms I have fathered, drape it over my body. Giddy with excitement, I make my way to the offices of Morgan Stanley, where I am to compete with hundreds of aspiring analysts for one of twenty-three job openings in their LatAm banking team. The fabric gurgles wetly as I shake my interviewer&rsquo;s hand. He looks me up and down a couple of times and flashes a wry smile.
It&rsquo;s only a matter of time before I&rsquo;m CEO.

I milk myself nightly into my tub. My nightly emissions pool in my bath, glistening with a spectral ...

Me & My Babies

She looked at him like a deer in headlights might look at someone if it had human eyes. Hamish had interviewed a million girls like her for a job, a billion probably, maybe fewer, but still every time he was surprised that they managed to get into his office. He wasn&rsquo;t hiring.
The girl wiped the security guard&rsquo;s blood on her skirt and hiked it up a bit to show Hamish a glimpse of her knees and penis. Sigh, Hamish said aloud instead of sighing.&nbsp; He knew the drill. Girl from Bumfucksville, Manhattan with a winning smile and a folder full of Naruto fanart wants to be a star. Greases a few palms, offers to clean up the grease for a price, and before you know it she&rsquo;s fucked her way so high up the Empire State you&rsquo;re bringing her the Alka Seltzer. Entitled. Thinks just &lsquo;cause she got her period before the other girls at school that every door&rsquo;s gonna open for her even though automatic doors haven&rsquo;t been invented yet and she&rsquo;s got a thumb that looks like a toe.
&ldquo;So, you want to be in pictures,&rdquo; Hamish muttered under his breath to practice what he was going to say. &ldquo;Excuse me?&rdquo; She&rsquo;d heard him, and now he was embarrassed. Hamish looked out the window and spat at his reflection. The window was open, and the window cleaner looked really offended. He spun his chair around so he was facing the girl and spun around a second time for fun. &ldquo;The pictures, toots. The silver screen.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Oh, duh. Movies, yeah. Just call them movies.&rdquo;
He took a bite of his cigarette. Truth is this girl wasn&rsquo;t half bad. Hair like shiny rope, nostrils you could fit a fist into, extra long tits, and an enormous, freakish mouth. Like her mouth was for real so big. He sat there looking at her for ten, fifteen minutes, and decided that he&rsquo;d give her the job after all. &ldquo;OK, this is a paper mill. We make paper. Not movies. Sorry.&rdquo; He tipped her a tootsie roll wrapper for her time, and just like that, she was gone.
&ldquo;Fuck.&rdquo; Another day, another dollar in the swear jar.
Hamish stared out the window, and thought about really sad things, like global warming and the fact that the girl had left. She was a rare dame: a desert flower, and flowers don&rsquo;t just grow on trees. And now she was dead, probably. &ldquo;Hi, excuse me,&rdquo; she said, alively. &ldquo;Can you unlock the door?&rdquo; Hamish got up from his chair, and pushed her out the window. She was dead for real this time, and he could be sad again. &ldquo;Hey, sorry.&rdquo; Her again, first floor office. &ldquo;Do you validate parking?&rdquo; He threw his paperweight at her. Sad.
Hamish drove back home for what felt like years. Everything was bad. He didn&rsquo;t love his wife half as much as he loved money, and, oh man, money got him real hard. Dumb broad didn&rsquo;t even know he was sleeping with her dad, and they&rsquo;d been doing it in the bunk above her for years since he&rsquo;d died. Everything stank. Hamish&rsquo;s breath smelled like piss even though he&rsquo;d barely had any, and his car reeked of the dead rat that was trapped in the hose he used to pipe exhaust into the cabin. He&rsquo;d been going in circles on the same roundabout for two hours.
Suddenly, a deer came on the road. It looked at Hamish like a callback to the girl from the beginning of the piece. Hamish stared, and the deer stared back, an infinity in its eyes, an all-loving expanse, and for a second, everything was in harmony. And then the deer smashed through the windshield and impaled Hamish through the chest with its antlers and basically shredded his innards and got blood all over his brand new car and it was really gross.

She looked at him like a deer in headlights might look at someone if it had human eyes. Hamish had i...

A Day in the Life of Hamish Olsen, New York, 19

Pitbull&rsquo;s plane touches down at Miami International Airport at 12:43 on a Tuesday. He&rsquo;s sitting on a model&rsquo;s lap, a 9 at least, and he&rsquo;s got another babe sitting on his. Victoria&rsquo;s Secret-style smokeshows both of them. Boobs, butt, blonde, blouse: the works. Woof.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Pit&rsquo;s on a crazy hurry so he lights up a Cuban he found in an ashtray to calm down. He complains to the flight attendant that his time is expensive, but they&rsquo;re letting out the first class passengers first, and there&rsquo;s nothing I can do about it, sir. Pitbull flashes a smile at an 8-year-old the next row over and rolls his eyes as if to say &ldquo;can you believe they&rsquo;re making me wait?&rdquo;, but the kid&rsquo;s glued to his iPad and doesn&rsquo;t even bat an eye.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; One, two, three, four, uno, dos, tres, cuatro, Pitbull counts a week&rsquo;s worth of Prozac and swallows it no water. The girl he&rsquo;s sitting on&ndash;&ndash;who doubles as his nurse and is named Rosario&ndash;&ndash;checks his mouth to see that he&rsquo;s swallowed the full dose. He has.
Pitbull notices two twenty-something mamasitas making eyes at him at the baggage claim. He turns on his heel to face them and brags about how he doesn&rsquo;t own a phone. It&rsquo;s summer in Florida, one of those humid jungle-heat kind of days, but Pitbull&rsquo;s wearing a three-piece suit. Dapper. He left his other set of clothes at home.&nbsp;
Rosario drives Pit back from the airport in silence. Pitbull offers to help pay for gas, but his jar of change is in his carry-on, and it&rsquo;s too much of a hassle to get it. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be a lot more liquid once the yard sale is done,&rdquo; he promises, but he doesn&rsquo;t believe it.
Mr. 305 lives next to the freeway because it&rsquo;s more convenient. He keeps his socks on at home because he doesn&rsquo;t have a carpet. He looks in the mirror at the shiny head of a star. Straightens his sunglasses. God. Coward.&nbsp;
It&rsquo;s been a long time since he called his mother. He reaches under his mattress, and the gun&rsquo;s still heavy as it&rsquo;s always been. &ldquo;I wonder what the LMFAO guys are up to,&rdquo; he thinks. Barrel in the mouth, J.Lo still hasn&rsquo;t e-mailed him back. He cocks it.
&iexcl;Dale!

Pitbull’s plane touches down at Miami International Airport at 12:43 on a Tuesday. He’s sitting on a...

Mr. Worldwide

-Listen, kid. This is easy. Just read off the teleprompter, and we&rsquo;re golden. Start whenever.
-Alright&hellip; Choose to eschew the chew with&ndash;&ndash;uh.
-Keep going buddy, you&rsquo;re doing super.
&ndash;With, uh, with some stew at Shaky Stu&rsquo;s well-stocked so&hellip; sho&hellip; I&ndash;&ndash;I don&rsquo;t know how to say this.&nbsp;
-Happens to the best of us. It&rsquo;s easy: Soup Shop.
-The teleprompter says Soap Sack.
-That&rsquo;s what I just said. Slap Stop.
-Those sound like different things to me, but as long as I&rsquo;m getting paid, you&rsquo;re in charge.&nbsp;
-Yeah, I&rsquo;m pretty sure we&rsquo;re not paying you, but I love your motivation. Next line.
&ndash;(Smacks lips) And savor oozy sushi slices at Joy Shoal&rsquo;s soy shack.
-That was great, just make sure you hit the Ps next time. We&rsquo;re being sponsored. Sponsored by P.&nbsp;
&ndash;Swallow icy salsa sludge from silly Alice&rsquo;s shallow chalices this Sunday from 6:00 to Shh! A.M.
-Hmm. Needs more pizzazz. You gotta get me excited about buying this life insurance!
&ndash;You got it, bossman. Swishy Sasha&rsquo;s sissy sis sheared Cyril&rsquo;s she-eel Saoirse&ndash;&ndash;
-Faster!
&ndash;(Rushing) At Shake &lsquo;N Snake, the one-stop-shop for sassy asps&ndash;&ndash;
-Louder!
&ndash;(Screaming) Alas the lass spilt silt down Sal&rsquo;s sheer shirt slit. But who sloshed snow slush at the hush-hush social? Ush&hellip; sa&ndash;&ndash;Wow, this is really tough stuff. Who wrote this?
-Sloane Herschel and Saul Marshall.
-Authors of the short story Soldier&rsquo;s Shoulder?
-From the anthology Single Shingle, yes. How&rsquo;d you know?
-I just made that up.
-You&rsquo;re getting the hang of it, pal. Now repeat after me: A sin! My shin. The same shame, Sam&rsquo;s sham scam. That sly shill shall sell shucked seashells, pre-sucked. Smash the subtle shuttle! The ash banshee has shirked her silken sash: a septic spectacle.
-Uhh, yeah&hellip; Quick question: what are we advertising here?
-Choosy Susy&rsquo;s Slow Show Co. sells shale shoe soles.
-What?
-Yes.

-Listen, kid. This is easy. Just read off the teleprompter, and we’re golden. Start whenever.
-Alri...

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