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writer's blocks. |
11.12.2003 |
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it was a dark and stormy night. harold sat shivering next to the tub like a fish out of water. he was soaked from head to toe. the tub was half full.
harold couldn't remember that he had taken the rest of the pills. he couldn't remember the sound of the empty pill bottle clacking against the hardwood bathroom floor. the only things he could remember were locusts, various pornographic calendars from 1982, xanadu (despite never having seen citizen kane), his mother's left breast, and a personified figure of futility.
harold shook his head jerkily. the storm clamored outside his house like a baby, a crying baby, a crying baby in a fit, a crying baby in a fit because he wants to play with blocks, a crying baby in a fit because he wants to play with blocks who is blind, autistic, and the son of a reverend. the baby cannot play with blocks.
harold stood up. he was cold, naked, and blue. he stormed out of the bathroom. rummaging through the bottom drawer of his dresser, he located the burlap sack that his mother used to hide her vibrator in. the storm screamed. awkwardly, he trounced into his room as a child, and found some blocks in the closet. he grabbed some blocks and then threw them angrily out the window. the storm stopped.
harold collapsed on the floor. his eyes hurt. what was wrong with this the advil? harold stared dumbly at the burlap sack in his hand. his arm began to vibrate. why did he get this sack again? was this just a segue for the author of this story to talk about feminine pleasure devices? no. then harold remembered. rosebud. he was going to get the burlap sack so that he could collect all of the other random burlap sacks in his house. this way, he would be more organized the next time he needed a burlap sack. like now.
suddenly, former michigan runninngback tim biakabutuka came charging through the window. glass shattered everywhere. tim looked a little disoriented. harold was lying on the floor, naked, with a burlap sack in his left hand. all tim could mutter was, "dude, you look like you been trippin'!".
harold looked surprised, "me? that's all you've been doing at the line of scrimmage since you left michigan." tim, dumbfounded by harold's masterful use of vocabulary and cutesy cleverness, jumped back out the window. hurdling the window frame with the kind of athleticism the nfl hasn’t seen since 2001.
harold draped a drape from the broken window over himself just in case any other fallen-star prospects come to visit. his head was still spinning. harold gaily reached underneath his mattress for his diary and set of 7 pastel gel pens.
he scrawled in box lettering: "never take advil while on mescaline ever again. unless... no. well... unless..." harold had his tonsils taken out when he was 3. he experienced his first kiss at 12. harold passed out. the baby began to cry-- harold was out of blocks. |
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| 6:35 am |
sui generis said this. |
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| more frequent updates? |
yes, yes, children. we are back! be sure to sign up at the mailing list below to receive notices on phrensick updates.
we will be updating our list shortly to those of you IDIOTS that checked up on the site while we were on an eight-month hiatus! |
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| mailing list! |
sick of visiting phrensick and seein' the same old un-updated site? well, join the mailing list and be alerted to new posts.
go to the contact page... remember to put in your email address... and put "add list" in the body.
god, phrensick's always on the cusp of technology. |
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| POLL |
last night, phrensick polled the current 40-man roster of the MILWAUKEE BREWERS to find out their favorite and least favorite posts.
2003 Milwaukee Brewers favorite post:
XANDER'S "Owimoweh, Owimoweh."
2003 Milwaukee Brewers least favorite post:
SUI GENERIS'S "Popcorn Carts."
(poll was taken of the seven players that returned their questionnaires) |
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| response to POLL |
all i have to say to the milwaukee brewers: sarcasm and base hits... who would've guessed the brew crew couldn't get either?
~sui generis |
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