Congratulations on the birth of your child earlier today. I have come to warn you: Do not name your son Denis.

Such an appellation will destine the fruit of your womb to ceaseless taunts from his schoolmates in puberty. His boyhood friends will inevitably discover that, by simply switching the first letter in his name with another popular letter of the alphabet, they can spell out the proper name of a certain portion of the male anatomy, leading to humiliation and disaster to your son’s reputation.

No, no, my identity is of no importance to you. Believe me when I say that you must, under all circumstances, at any cost, remain steadfast in your refusal to name your child Denis.

Ah, I hear you say. Ah! We can simply add another “N” to the name, and avoid this problem. Again, I say: do not name your son Denis. Even with two “N’s.” The letter that would otherwise be replaced by a “P,” would now be substituted with a “T,” resulting in the unfortunate nickname of “Tennis Ball.” In junior high school, this will be shortened to “Balls” and “Ballsy,” systematically destroying an idealistic youth’s self-esteem and nullifying his chances for a normal relationship in later life.

By doubling the number of times the fourteenth letter of the alphabet appears in your son’s name, you may also consign him to the fate of being forever known as “Dennis the Menace.” This will prove to be an equally unfortunate appellation. Everywhere he goes, from childhood on into early adulthood, your son will be referred to as Hank Ketcham’s popular cartoon character, and endure endless teasing about Mr. Wilson and Margaret. Peers can be so… cruel.

In college, if he makes it that far, your son will feel obligated to prove himself a menace, drinking himself into oblivion at frat parties and smashing table lamps into his forehead. He will require a multitude of stitches (thirty-seven, if experience is any guide) in his scalp, leaving an ugly and disfiguring scar for years to come. Following this, he will flunk out of school and find work in a nearby chocolate factory. You… you don’t want to hear the rest.

As I said, my name is of no consequence. Let me simply be known as the man who saved your son from a fate worse than death.

Please. I beg of you.

Don’t name your son Denis.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

There was nothing that Oscar loved so much as pasta, and no pasta did he savor more than spaghetti. He ate spaghetti at every opportunity, consuming spaghetti with eggs for breakfast, spaghetti at lunch, and a small side dish of spaghetti as the perfect accompaniment to his evening meal. In fact, he loved spaghetti so much that, on the day that his beloved Lucretia agreed to marry him, he suggested to her that her bridal gown should include spaghetti straps at the shoulders. The day of the wedding came, and Oscar waited before the altar for his beauteous bride. The Wedding March sounded from the back of the church, and Oscar clasped his hands to his chest as he awaited his first sight of Lucretia in her dazzling wedding gown. When at last his affianced drew up beside him, Oscar could wait no longer—seizing his wife-to-be around her waist, he nibbled at the shoulder of her dress, only to find his mouth filled with tendrils of satin and gauze, not pasta. After everyone had calmed down sufficiently, the wedding commenced and the couple said their vows. Oscar and Lucretia’s marriage lasted forty-seven years and bore them eight children and twenty grandchildren, but although in every other respect their union was one of complete bliss, Oscar never quite forgave Lucretia for wearing the wrong spaghetti.
 

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

After careful thought, I’ve decided to go ahead and post classic SPASMS, kind of as place markers while I’m working on the projects I mentioned yesterday. I hope you’ll enjoy reading them. Many have been changed or rewritten since their original postings. Here’s one from way back when I started the project in spring of 2004…

Other puppeteers liked the feeling of being in control, or of portraying multiple characters, or the complicated feats of dexterity required to operate them. Not Kamala. Kamala created marionettes with no end story or character in mind. Once completed, a puppet might stay in a drawer or on a shelf for years before Kamala really felt she knew it and could bring it to life with her hands. For she felt that each one had its own personality, its own spirit and story. The puppets were not pawns used by Kamala to tell her stories. Instead, she was the medium through which each puppet told its own.

Nearly every puppet Kamala made eventually made it to performance. There was one, however, that Kamala left in a drawer. She knew its purpose and story, but she could not permit its voice to be heard. For this puppet had an evil anima. Given the chance to speak through her hands and mouth, this puppet would enchant and seduce and destroy. Kamala did not fear the puppet: she knew it could do no wickedness without her active participation, so she simply elected not to participate.

The years went by, and Kamala died, leaving her puppet workshop and theatre to her son, Srini. Eventually, Srini went to the drawer and put the puppet on his hand. Fortunately for the world, Srini didn’t agree with his mother’s method of being the medium for puppets to speak. He gave the puppet a new character of his own design and used it quite often, with no resultant malevolence. He often wondered why his mother had regarded the puppet as evil. After all, she had given the puppet her own face.

Copyright 2004, 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

I don’t know how this is going to turn out or if maybe it should remain a stand-alone piece. What do you think? xo, Amy

“But…”

“Why don’t you understand?”

“I thought…when you said—”

“Bullshit! You knew what I meant!”

“I guess it went over my head.”

“Do you have to take everything so literally?”

“I didn’t know it was going to—hey, I never meant to hurt your feelings. I messed up. I’m sorry.”

“This happens all the time!”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Sorry’s not good enough. You’ve got to change. I can’t live with you if you’re gonna misunderstand everything I say! It’s bullshit!”

He bit his lip and tried not to cry.

It was later, much later that night, huddled under the warm, soft blankets with tears hot on his cheeks that he made the decision.

At dawn, he entered the cathedral of steel and glass.

The banner said FREE YOUR MIND. It was hung on the wall behind the guru where she held court in her leather executive chair.

The guru wore a black suit and a tie. “Cast off the duality of the material world,” she crooned. “Embrace the unity of the cosmos. Be one with the universe.”

“I want to be less literal. Can you help me?”

The guru lit a cigarette and breathed smoke. “There is no substance. Boundary is an illusion.”

He waited patiently.

The guru finished breathing smoke. “Consciousness allows us to construct symbols of things apart from the things themselves. But the symbol is not the thing.”

“But aren’t they all one? Didn’t you just say that a minute ago?”

“You are confusing an idea with an object.”

“You said ‘cast off the duality’. But this constructs a duality. You’re creating a boundary between the two concepts.”

The guru pressed a silver button on the glass desk before her. Two acolytes, dressed in black suits and ties, excommunicated him.

He stood on the concrete before the cathedral and wondered why she had forsaken him.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Snake’s head came up from the coffee table. “Fuckin’ commies,” he declared. “Motherfuckin’ commies.”

Freaky John belched. “You got some white shit around your nostrils.”

Snake wiped his nose and reached for his beer. “It’s the goddamn, motherfuckin’ commies, is what it is.”

“Unbelievable,” Freak mumbled, leaning down to put the rolled-up bill in his nose.

Snake’s fist came down on the tabletop, causing the neat rows of white dust to scatter. “They don’t want you to know, but shit, man, the truth is staring you right in the face.”

Freak sneezed and immediately regretted it. “Aw, fuck, man, gimme a piece of paper or something to clean this up with!”

“Face it, man. Superbowl is a national holiday,” Snake continued, grabbing a book from the end table and throwing it on the table. White powder flew up in a little cloud from the impact. “It’s the commies that don’t want you to know it.”

“Un-fuckin’-believable. You’re getting it all over the place.” Freak used the book’s edge to scrape the whiteness back into neat lines and leaned forward to examine his handiwork.

“Think about it. Banks are closed. No postal service.”

Freak extricated a hair from one of the lines. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

“That’s just what they want you to think, man.”

Freak glared up at Snake. “Who’s they?”

“The commies, dickhead!”

“What commies?”

“The ones who don’t want you to know it’s a fuckin’ holiday!”

“It’s not!”

Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “No banks. No mail. Lots of businesses close early. Families get together and eat in front of the TV. Now, what the fuck would you call it?”

Freaky John shook his head. “If it was a holiday, it’d be on a Monday. Like Labor Day.”

“Arbor Day.”

“What?”

Snake tossed his hair back. “Arbor Day. That’s its real name, genius. It’s what Labor Day used to be, before somebody made a typo.”

Freak considered this. “No shit?”

Snake leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “I shit you not.”

“Man, that’s fucked up.”

“Yep.” Snake’s boot hit the coffee table. White powder flew up into the air. “Dude. You got a dustbuster?”

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

See Audrey.

Audrey isn’t feeling well. Audrey has a headache. But not just any headache.

Audrey has to finish a report this afternoon. It is a tedious job that Audrey would prefer not to do, but today Audrey will pass the task off to a subordinate. Because today, Audrey has a headache. And not just any headache.

Audrey is suffering from a NEW AND IMPROVED HEADACHE developed by Dawson & Bader Labs. This headache is clinically proven to last UP TO TWELVE HOURS, longer than any other headache available without a prescription!* This new headache is both SAFE and EFFECTIVE.

That’s because this headache is specially formulated to create simple vascular spasms within the sinus cavity, causing no harm to the sinus or to the brain itself. Audrey’s headache is both POWERFUL and FAST-ACTING, providing crippling pain just when she needs it. Take one for a mild ache, two for moderate throbbing.

Thanks to her new headache from Dawson & Bader Labs, today Audrey can leave work early, have Chinese delivered instead of cooking, and get out of sex with her husband.

Dawson & Bader. Making life easier for us all.

*For headaches lasting longer than two weeks, please consult your physician. Please dose responsibly.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

…STILL feels fine!

Check out the latest issue of the free-spirited, free-wheeling, utterly insane online magazine www.mungbeing.com for my SPASM, Magma Irremovable.