A$$ = Cash

"A$$ = Cash (Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Let My Booty Do All The Talking)
by Kristen Henning

BACK COVER:
You ever heard of music called Grindcore? Well, you can reinvent that whole genre with this book. You can grind your butt so wild and good that the local boys will think it's music.

"Oh, was a symphony? Or...was that just some girl's fine booty?"

And then BAM! You're there. Mayor of Grindtown, USA. Governor of the dance floor. Ambassador to men's crotches everywhere. When the neon lights come on and the sweat starts pouring, you're the goddamn United Nations! Pulverizing the joint chiefs of chief joints. Ride'em, ride'em, ride'em, PEACE.

But what, are you doing this gig for free? Well, sometimes. Sometimes, you just have to believe in the faith of charity work and let them boys get a little preview before the show. But those drinks will come like you're the only cowgirl with a short enough gun holster to really hold those guns that the boys think are theirs.

But baby, those guns belong to you! Those six shooters will be all-night shooters if you play your cards right down at the saloon. Without a bar tab, with the piano player trying to catch a good view.

Sorry, boys, these drinks are on you. But maybe we can switch drinks for a fast-talker, maybe some slow dancing after some faster drinks. You don't even know what's happening right now, do you? Well, guess what? You're already down to your underwear! Just now, I did that.

Works like a charm, this train with a caboose doing more work than the engine. Let that engine rest at night and let the caboose run 'til it's red. The rails won't end, hell no. Unless you want them to. Then you're the conductor, conducting a symphony and a train all at the same time.

Bam. 8 drinks and you're the new queen of Bootytown. Who's the king? Don't know, changes every night. Wooooooooooooooooooooo!

Whisper techno songs, shake that ass down every flight of stairs, never ever pay for a drink and read this goddamn book.

Ladies, I'll see you on the dance floor.

Gentlemen, you'll see me on the dance floor.

The Last Girl In Las Vegas

"The Last Girl In Las Vegas"
by Violet Kawecki

AN EXCERPT:
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Kevin asked.

"No, and I don't think I ever will. I don't think any of us ever really find what we're looking for," Kiley said.

"You know that's not what I meant, Kiley."

The fountains were now playing a new song, with greens and pinks, a few yellows. Kevin leaned farther over the rail, his fingers still not touching the water.

"This town just seems so small, without anything to offer a girl that doesn't feel like pushing glam. Jesus, you have to wear heels to bed just to sleep in this town," Kiley mumbled with a anxious shrug.

"Kinda more of a city than a town," Kevin said with a cough.

"No way. This place is absolutely a town. Come on, a city is a functioning landscape of modern civilization," Kiley turned around to point at the glowing sky of bulbs and sprockets. "This place is one character shy of being a goddamn amusement park. It's a town, a dying town, rotting within its own sparkling walls. Men wear suits without underwear and the women wear bow-ties without shirts in Las Vegas. It makes no sense. This town makes no sense. God, I figure the whole place will just be a ghost town with in the next century."

Kevin chuckled, turning himself around to lean against the bar too, "Every city will be a ghost town in the next century. Everyone's got a bomb ready to go off. I think even Egypt does."

"You know what I mean though, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just ironic that this place was built up because of the bomb industry."

"Yeah, I feel like there's still a burying haze from the nuclear testing, even today. That's what people come for, the high. The buzz of bombs. Win or lose, the bomb. Handcuffed in fur. Paid in full. God, I hate this city."

"I thought you said it was a town."

"Well, I say a lot of things," Kiley said, looking at her glimmering watch. "Come on, let's go."

The Lovely March

"The Lovely March"
a book of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"The Shakes"
with shakes, with the shakes, with the shakes of jake kilroy.

The shakes came from the stereo,
dusty in the wall,
myself in place like a dirty rug.
Tie the room together, tie the loverbirds together.
Watch me, get a picture, let the nerves lessen,
shake, rattle and roll.
Isn't that how we played it the last time I saw you in a blue dress?

Goddamn these old pictures, the dusty bins of lovers,
the rattling of flat skeletons trying to claw their way out;
oh, how the hair stands up when I think of you,
how I ultimately want to take a hammer to the walls,
get the perfume off, get the scent out, it'd give me a new art.

And just for the record,
I never wrote you back because I thought the paper was cursed.

Instead, I...well...you'll never know, I guess...

The shakes...oh, you can see the black lines in the thinner air,
a plague of demons marching towards your kitchen,
just looking to drink all the milk you left out.
Just let 'em come, just let 'em drum,
just let 'em drink.
What else does it take to be a great writer?

Show 'em what you got, and they'll clap their bony fingers together,
leaving the air to be a faint stale taste of modern ruins.
The shelves aren't long enough to keep your boxes,
so I left them out in the rain and watched them collapse,
while I smoked what I thought was a pack by the stove.
I thought the rain would surely flood the garage.

And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.

I scratched my arms for so long that it look like I had burned 'em,
a prarie wind couldn't have carried me home.
So I let 'em burn for everything that didn't.

Why not?

Burn it, baby, you better burn it, so you can sleep;
so I can sleep; so we can sleep;
burn it on the beach by your parents' house when you come home,
let it go to waste when you spend a winter's week here,
left without refuge, no call, as you'd rather sit in the dark,
than let me see you and bring up the charred remains of us.

"Like a gunshot," I'd say.

"Like hell," you'd say.

And then we'd kiss.

And then it'd fade to ivy, crawling up our skin,
like we were the statues on an east coast campus,
cracking and letting the sunlight do good damage.

The shakes get in me, when those dusty songs play;
god, leave me brutal, buried in a stash of postcards,
rattling the walls, kicking off the dusty scent of charred remains;
the sour taste of my own fingers won't do, rattling inside my mouth,
scared of the medicine it takes to rightfully rid myself of the shakes,
wrongfully, doubtfully, a new miracle sparking the sky darker,
you know I won't stop until I'm riding every cliche on wheels,
straight to your door, straight to everything that I want to knock,
let it go, let it go, let it go, settle, settle, settle,
let that dust burn in the next fire I set to already charred remains.
This former flame is growing.
Oh God, pretty soon, the post office will be on fire.

I have to stop, I have to stop, I have to go.

[five paragraphs missing]

I deleted half of this poem because I lost my nerve,
because I can't ever finish what I start.

I had a cigarette.

I smoked it so quick I thought I ate it.

I coughed up what felt like my small intenstine.

I rid myself of health.

I forever pray to false idols.

I won't ever sit in a church without shaking.

I tossed the cigarette in the gutter.

I heard the buzz I had been searching for,
as the cigarette sunk to the bottom of the dirty water.

I tried to count the stars but got dizzy. I came back inside.

I sat through another lightning storm that wasn't here yet.

I came back to finish what I had started,
wishing I had never gotten rid of anything.

I wish I was a better packrat.

I wish I meant more to my paper.
I wish this paper could achieve more.
I wish I could leave blank pages out in the rain,
and just wait for nature to be a real poet.

And instead of any new year's resolutions,
I just start every new year with a cocktail.

Chase tail, drive fast and don't listen to anyone.

Not a single philosopher.

Not a single wise man.

Not a single nomad.

Why?

Because they don't drink, they don't smoke, they don't lie, they don't steal,
they don't travel by their pockets, they don't don't chase tail,
they don't drive fast and they want to hear what the world has to say.

Well, that's not a religion I'm going to buy. I can promise you that.
I'll build a well and pour down all the milk the demons drank
before I let you convince me that I could use the well for wishing.

All coins have ever done is buy me more reasons to chase tail,
drive fast and not listen to anyone.
And drink. And smoke. And lie. And steal. And travel by my pockets.

Not wishing. God help me, not wishing.

Wishing is for boys, regret is for men.

Am I right?

It's not the guns, it's not the gambling, it's not the gin.

It's regret. That's a man's best game, isn't it?

Christ Almighty, why not die for our regrets?

The more, the merrier. The lore, the lighter.

But not for me anymore.

I've got a poem to finish.

I can't fly through your town anymore, I have to pull over,
I have to dig my feet into the grass of that hill,
overlooking the beach, overlooking the sunken ocean,
a well for wishing if I ever saw one;
last time I was there, a drunk driver almost hit me,
but I was listening more to ocean's waves, maybe my own traffic,
louder than the shakes of the road, I suppose.

God help me.

God help the shakes.

Give me more than prayer.
Give me more than bread.
Give me more than wine.

God never gets the shakes, I hear.
At least that's what the girls told me in school.
He doesn't even pray to a higher power.
And if he's not praying, why the hell should I?

What does Heaven have that Earth doesn't?

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry;
it always comes back to this plague;
a plague of whims, a plague of words, a plague of well-wishers.

You were on my side when this poem started,
but like any good verse, I've charrerd enough of the battlegrounds
to forget the war.

Let me just say this:
I will forever be sorry,
I will forever be a mess,
I will forever wish you were here,
I will forever wish that years haven't passed
I will forever fear old age,
I will forever fear the quiet moments,
I will forever create destruction,
I will forever create,
I will forever tell you what you already know.

And the real reason I never listened to the philosophers,
the wise men or the nomads was because none of 'em ever got the shakes.

And that's the truth.

Quitting

"Quitting: the only thing more rewarding than succeeding is quitting"
a wealth of knowledge shared
by Jake Kilroy

BACK COVER:
Did you actually buy this book or did somebody hand it to you 20 seconds ago and now you're considering maybe using it as some kind of sexual object?

Well, if you bought it, you're off to a bad start. Buying means beginning. Shopping means starting. No, sir (or madam), you need to be the laziest son of a bitch if you intend to quit as much as this book tells you to.

Even now, you're still reading this, but I suppose to need to learn how to quit in order to quit. Or quit now and you'll be ahead of this book. But what will happen years down the line when your kids are in school and your wife works hard? You'll want to quit then. Maybe have a nervous breakdown. Maybe eat some pills like cereal and finish it all off with a bourbon tank and a firearm aimlessly hitting the night sky. Or morning sky. It's all about to you, quitter.

Quitting's easy. It's trying that's the hard part.

If I Win At The Oscars, I Will Eat My Freakin' Award

"If I Win At The Oscars, I Will Eat My Freakin' Award"
by Mickey freakin' Rourke

AN EXCERPT:
Oh man, you hear what happened on Thursday? They're gonna give me a freakin' award. I swear to God, man, if I win, I swear I'll eat my award. Why? Because America wants me to.

Or maybe I want to.

I don't know. Sometimes, I think I'm America and sometimes, well, maybe I just got punched in the head a few too many times. I slow sometimes, you know?

'Cause remember when I left acting to become, like, a boxer? Oh man, good times then. I drank and fought. Or maybe I didn't drink. I don't know. I slow sometimes, you know?

I was offered a part in Pulp Fiction. Bruce Willis ended up taking it. You know why I turned it down?

No, seriously. That was a real question. Why would I have turned it down? Huh, maybe I'm just slow sometimes, you know?

Oh man, I am freakin' hungry. You got a live snake? Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm Mickey freakin' Rourke. I played Marv in Sin City. I'll eat your whole goddamn ostrich farm, if you got one. No? Ah well, that's ok. Why? Because I'm Mickey freakin' Rourke, and if I say that's ok, you're ok. Ok? Good man. Shit, what we got to drink in here anyway? Some cereal or something? I'm thirsty too.

Remember 9 1/2 Weeks? Oh man, that movie was so freakin' unreal. It was like...a documentary or something. I don't know, man. It was probably really hungry then. The movie, I mean. Or me. Sorry. I meant me. I was hungry like the movie am. Shit, this is getting harder, you know? Remember how I was a professional boxer for some years in the 90s? I think it hurt my head a little. Not a lot, but enough to, you know, make me all screwy. I slow sometimes, you know?

I swear to freakin' God, man, they give me an Oscar for The Wrestler, I'll freakin' eat it. No joke. I'm hungry, man. I'm hungry. Why? Because I'm Mickey freakin' Rourke, that's why.

5,000 People Laid Off

5,000 People Laid Off
by Microsoft

TAGLINE:
Yep, the company that made 4 billionaires and 12,000 millionaires out of its employees.

There Is No Freakin' Way That You Truly Believe The Premise Of This Show

"There Is No Freakin' Way That You Truly Believe The Premise Of This Show"
by The Cast of Gossip Girl

AN EXCERPT:

I mean, really? An entire show about fancy rich private school kids? You want to watch and stay updated with a television program where a bunch of sexy kids have cooler lives than you ever will? And then they complain about it?

Seriously, do you really care about private school with names like Serena van der Woodsen, Nate Archibald, Givgov P. Bexamis III and Humprey Von Tiddlie Toes? Ok, ok, so the last two names were made up. But some of us actors and actresses on the program have names like Leighton Meester, Penn Badgley and Chace Crawford. Ugh. Don't you hate our fanciness and all that is us?

And if you're going to watch it, then sure, we'll totally be in it. And we'll get paid a lot of money to do it. And then talk about how hard acting is as we grind up on each other in school girl outfits. Meanwhile, the boys have more Botox in their lips than a kiss between Melanie Griffith and Goldie Hawn.

But come on, one of us is 15 in real life. A hand job is still a cool thing at that age. But these characters we play are all like sexy lawyer vampire detectives. They strip and grind like they're all millionaire playboys and party girls. How do you not hate our show?

The freakin' webseries was called Tales From The Upper West Side. And these characters are in private school. An entire show about whiny rich kids sexying each other up and spending way too much money, and still it's not enough. That's the entire program.

Ok, fine. You know what? There's going to be a similar to show on The CW. It's called Sexy Fancy People That Are Better Than You And Still Not Stoked Enough. Here's a still from the pilot episode:

Actually, that was the pilot episode.

History Is Going To Burn Me Alive

"History Is Going To Burn Me Alive"
by George W. Bush

TAGLINE:
No. Seriously. Think about it.

Barack Obama, 1-20-09: Inauguration Day

Barack Obama, 1-20-09: Inauguration Day
by the people

AN EXCERPT:
Booyah.

Nope, I Don't Get It Either

"Nope, I Don't Get It Either"
by Ben Gibbard

TAGLINE:
No, seriously, I have no freakin' idea how I scored Zooey Deschanel.