Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Vol. 13 > Status Update

“Now I guess you’ll have to tell ‘em / that you’ve got no cerebellum,” he said erroneously. (He quoted the song correctly, but it was medically inaccurate. While Douglas Glenn Colvin may have been an excellent lyricist, he was not a medical doctor. In a leukotomy, the metal prod actually slices through a prefrontal lobe of the cerebrum, not the area around the brainstem. Still a great tune, though.)

The amateur radiologist squirted a pint of cold ultrasound transmission gel on my stomach. It felt like icy jism, a slippery, frothy load of aqueous conductor. “Doppler transmission of the gods, the wrath of sound and fury. Won’t hurt one bit...”

"What’s your problem with the Beats? Did you find out Alfred Ginsburg was a card-carrying NAMBLA member?"
"Not the beats — beets. Two e’s. I mean, fuck Ginsburg, but more importantly, fuck beets!"

He hung out at the Eagles lodge, ran through some losing pull-tab tickets and drank Manhattans made with Gem Clear and Heinz cocktail sauce, complaining about how the Mexicans blew up Tower 7 and women’s lib was responsible for the Brylcreem shortage.

"We’re all fucked, and none of this matters. It’s the Titanic, and there’s no redheaded bitches to fuck in steerage. Get over it."

I didn’t know what “neck” meant, but I looked it up on Urban Dictionary, and it either means when you kiss someone without any further sexual relations, or when you cut off their head and fuck their throat tubes.

“Seriously, that chick in the Weight Watchers ad is so hot, I would kill every one of my childhood pets five times just to hear her fart through a Speak and Spell. If she was the head of a human centipede and I was the tail segment, I’d still pay extra.”

I want to go to Target and buy every Pizza Hut Personal Pan they have baking under the lights there. I don’t care when the best-by date is — those are bullshit anyway, those pizzas will last ten years under ideal temperatures. I would blow five guys nine times for some breadsticks. And yes, math-impaired readers, that means I would suck a total of 45 dicks for those breadsticks.

Johnny Monoxide knew no fear. He ate three Lunchables and was Ready to Fuck.

They weren’t sure if they were serial collisions, or if a guy was trying to fuck a deer and got hit by a car. They don’t have rape kits for deer, and if they did, the state would make the deer pay for it. The deer was asking for it. Maybe it shouldn’t have dressed like a deer slut.