This is my first experimentation with the bizarro genre. I had to bust my bizarro cherry. After writing it, I stared at it for an hour wondering.

The icy flock of frigid writers congregated in that digital sardine can named Twitter with its poisonous lead sealant and its cereal box logo, all bright and shiny making stomachs growl in orifice frothing pangs. It has coconut flanges and rainbow brims, people, deceivers, cats, ducks and mad-lib falsifiers of spam-meat mystique and perverted desires.

And thirteen had horror blogs, and they were frightening. They were scary. Their blogs were black, embroiled in wreathed lattices of terrifying skulls, beasts, mucous varnished intestinal cobras and a wicked writer’s portrait complete with satanic goatee and vicious scowl. They want to stab you death and have necromantic sex with your twitching blood scabbed body as you cry for a mother whom they’ve already put to work on a street corner selling herself for crack and five dollar bills.

Father Tom stood there with his heavenly twilled white collar, wearing fecal streaked diapers and slapped the connective fascia off my bones, spalling my jowls of much needed humidity. He held tightly his crucifix and said, “I have serious doubts about your ability to discern good from bad.”

The albino man-tree erupted from vitamin B infused urine-yellow linoleum, smiled and said, “I’m doing the best I can for you son, and for your mother.”

I vomited my laser-vision stare on the priest, chocolate-cone-dipping his skull like the Dairy Queen does and said, “Wait, I thought you were the father.”

“I am the father, but this is your father.”

“I don’t have a father. I’m a test tube baby raised by lesbians named Oprah and Britney.”

The priest’s dung-plastered diapers twirled from his butt and wrapped my cranium: an Indonesian turban with shimmering sapphire nailed in my forehead. I felt uneasy and vomited falling-off-the-bone tender camel-toe meat—putrid and stringy. The priest squatted and shat Oprah from his blood-red rectal lips. She danced naked violently shaking her deflated football-breasts as butter-milk drizzled in thickened streams from nipples into two awaiting glasses held by Father Tom.

My father said, “Give this nourishment to my son Father, he needs it more than I. I’ll eat cold pork & beans right out of the can with an unwashed spoon as I do every night. But son, this is it, you candy-ass punk, get a fucking job and be a man. Writing all this meaningless drivel will get you nowhere.”

Father Tom horded the milk, refusing to give it to me.

A nineteen year old Britney still in her heyday of hotness came screaming down a slab of solar beams which lapped over the shifting sands of my window sill. She stripped bare and swallowed my beef-stick, her purple tongue lapping in dexterous manipulations.

I shattered a glower of condescension at my fathers, “Oh yeah? Well I object to your assertion—this is what it’ll get you: oh Britney-Mother, do your thang sugar-muffin.”

Just before my eruption of man-jelly, she sheared my rod off with razored incisors, swallowed, digested and defecated a three inch noodle of leftovers, but I didn’t die, but I was neutered. Oprah jiggled her cellulite crusted fat rolls with a g-string burrowed up her canyon-wide crack, continuing her hypnotic voodoo dance. Tears squirted from my father’s lachrymal ducts as the father held rosary beads in his knotted yellow fingers.

Twitter stood there with 5000 plasma screen TV monitors on its vastly naked chest, the giggling faces tuning into my private embarrassments and affairs, laughing at sexless me—the human paramecium—but I still had testicles.

Busting Bizarro Cherry

Busting Bizarro Cherry

Oprah, Britney and the father torqued my father’s ears: Twinkies, cupcakes, cheese puffs, Funjuns and soda-pop straws fingered outward from his dandruff chaffed scalp. And they greedily engorged all the poor hard-working man could provide. And he only wanted me to get a job.

Oprah bent over and spread her cheeks. “Well Bobby, you don’t know what this is do you?”

“No I don’t, but it is repugnant and sickening. Please cover that thing up.”

“Haven’t you heard? Ugly is the new pretty. But I’m talking about this.”

I covered my eyes. Twitter stared, masturbating and feverishly writing tweets. “Please, it’s horrifying, I can’t take it.”

“I’m talking about all of us, it’s a gathering. You don’t know about the gathering. We’re here for you my son.” Oprah kissed my father’s cheek while stabbing a samurai into his spinal cord. “Thanks for blindly serving us, you poor stupid man. I slept with your best friend today and pawned your soul to get a mountain-sized bowl of chocolate ice-cream.”

“You’re killing me Oprah-Wife. I already work 24-7-365.”

“It’s not enough. Britney and I need more, that’s why we brought father Tom.”

“We’re here for you Bobby, this is an intervention,” said Father Tom.

I convulsed in twisted conniption and bawled uncontrollably. “No, fuck all of you. I’m going to kill myself.”

“You said those other horror blogs were dressed black and evil, yet yours is spiffy and dressed like a preppy 1980s reject with a pink Polo golf shirt. You’re wearing a mask, cloaking the sinister you beneath cheap fabrics bought with green paper your father gave you. You are a sham. A quack. The perverted man next door hiding behind himself, and now you’re sexless.”

“What the fuck is going on? Who are you freaks?”

Oprah and Britney sucked my father dry, leaving him nothing more than a tiny lymph-injected flesh fritter. A human ravioli with no sauce. I ate him and truth pounded my soul into hyper-actualization.

Father Tom said, “After serving billions, a different drummer has died. Now you’ll have to find the beat of someone else to march to.”

“What’s the drummer’s name?”

“You imperceptive idiot. Haven’t you been listening? The drummer has no name yet all the people claiming to march to his beat are all marching to the beat of the same-different drummer—and now he is dead. Do you know truth? The difference between good and bad?”

“What is good and bad?”

“Killing unborn babies is bad. Splattering the bodies of innocent women and children with machine guns in other countries while they’re sleeping in tents is good. Do you understand the pristine logic? Think about it, it makes perfect sense if your wings are right.”

And all I wanted was a glass of Oprah-Mommy milk to wash down my ravioli, but Father Tom guzzled both down with a Britney-Burrito. My wings aren’t right and besides, I thought they were part of a feminine menstrual product. And now I don’t understand anything.

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