Have Nots, The

Have Nots are not usually seen, but smelled. Follow a

path of reeking patchouli and one finds—huddled

on a streetside curb, smoking a grape-flavored bidi

cigarette, right hand open and pleading for change or

“buds,” left hand strumming back a wayward dreadlock—

the Have Not. Have Nots can also be recognized by their

particular call which sounds eerily and exactly the same

as Hey bro, can I get a ride? Not all Have Nots are true

Have Nots, but are actually Haves in disguise. Sometimes

Haves wish that they were actually Have Nots. For

example, some Haves find their way to college campuses

where they pick up the guitar (see Guitarist, The, pg.

64) and subsequently attempt to foil esteemless females

with their wooing cadences about water, or waterfalls, or

rivers, or lakes, and the dreamy shores thereupon. These

impostors are not actually Have Nots, but Haves that

have been seduced by the romantic legend surrounding

Have Nots. While these Haves say to you, sorry, brother,

I haven’t any change, they are, at the same time, found

cellphoning their Have parents while said Have parents

meander a Mercedes or Cadillac around a metropolis

peopled primarily by those in between the Haves and

Have Nots (see Human, A, pg. 70). True Have Nots are

in fact quite a rarity in North America and Europe, but

can be found in vast numbers on all the other of Earth’s

continents. The true Have Nots of a subcontinent such

as India can also be found puffing a bidi, but as opposed

to dreadlocks, what little hair they may have is turbaned

under a turban. The Have Nots of Sub-Saharan Africa

are in pursuit of potable water, as opposed to the North

American variety of the faux Have Not, who is in constant

search for the next jam band. All artificial Have Nots are

fans of jam bands.

High Life

The man with the High Life was born in August, the

second cruelest month. Soon after, photos of him

swaddled in dazzling white imitation sheepskin speckled

the halls. His childhood was idyllic: artichoke fields and

strawberry wars, an endless oak forest. His father spanked

him only once: he shat upon the hall carpet. Prior to

this movement he wondered—yes, he remembers this—

why must this necessary thing occur in the tiny plastic

basin in the bathroom? He gnawed through pouches of

Big League Chew. The Mexicans giggled at his stunted

español, his squiggled hair, à la Squiggy. The high school

football team’s mascot was the Condors, colors silver and

black. Every Mexican gangbanger on the team imagined

himself an Oakland Raider. The man with High Life

coated his British Knights with cheap white leather repair.

Freshman year of college Kurt Cobain’s brains met the

bird shot in his twelve gauge. The fraternity told this man

to quit sucking down bong loads. His Greek PhD. pal

said that Nietzsche’s free spirits might free—or master—

him. This Panamanian chick sent the man with High Life

masturbating for years. He drank only Bushmills—later

Jameson. Fuck snowboarding. His tattoos are tattoos of

his own skin. Camel Wides gave way to Lights, to air,

and a girlfriend. That stint with Atlanta’s cocaine made

the man with High Life’s stories turn gray. He found a

diamond, and in the grocery store’s breadcrumbs aisle,

his bent knee suggested, marriage? Since, his cat is nearly

dead from cancer, his mailbox piles with rejections and

RSVPs, tonight there’s chili to microwave. He is drinking

High Life.

Human, a

Humans are born normal—like most mammal

infants, head first. This human grew to a normal

eighteen years: knit collared shirt, chinos, deck shoes

toggled to his toes. Inside, past the ruddy hair strands,

and briny scalp, under the thinning layers of epidermis

and fat, under the skull sewn and fused in its casements,

under the pitted and wrinkled gray matter, the pituitary

gland’s tumor, the pituitary gland itself, the epiphyseal

plate sealed, squeezed out growth hormone molecule

after growth hormone. His headaches were trains in

the tiniest under-road New York Subways, his shoes,

stretched beyond decks capable of holding them. He grew

like hands stretching out toward some god. He grew and

no one wanted to see him, a Goliath to everyone’s David.

He endured and today he drives a truck.

Index

A

Acknowledgments / 1

Action Film, The / 2

After Detox / 4

Americans / 7

Armless Wonder / 8

Asshole / 9

Autofellate / 10

_____________

B

Bearded Lady / 12

Big Legs / 13

Blind / 14

Blurbs / 15

Boobs / 20

Boys / 21

Bricks, The / 23

_____________

C

Chicken Fried Steak / 24

Celebrities / 26

Color Blind / 27

Colophon / 28

Comic Dork / 29

Contrarians / 30

Copyright / 31

Courtship / 32

_____________

D

Deaf / 33

Dedication / 34

Dicephalic Parapagus /36

Drunk Driver / 38

_____________

E

Eagle Scout / 40

Ectrodactylic / 44

Environmentalists / 46

_____________

F

Fantasy Novel, The / 48

Flea and Snake, The / 49

Football Announcers

(American) / 50

Football Announcers

(Everywhere Else) / 52

Freaks / 54

Front Matter / 55

Fuckers / 59

_____________

G

Gigantomastia / 60

Gifts / 61

Girls / 62

Graphic Novel, The / 63

Guitarist, The / 64

_____________

H

Hangnail, A / 65

Haves, The / 66

Have Nots, The / 67

High Life / 69

Human, A / 70

_____________

I

Index / 71

_____________

J

Japanese, The / 74

Jerks / 75

_____________

L

Legless Man / 76

Literary Novel, The / 77

Lost, The / 78

_____________

M

Maldivians / 79

Man on a Train / 80

Mexicans / 81

Mothers / 83

Mountain Lion / 84

Mystery Story, The / 85

_____________

N

Ne’er Do Well / 86

New York Citians / 87

Note on the Compilers / 88

_____________

O

O: The World: of O / 89

old back, This / 90

_____________

P

People Named Spencer

and Their Wives / 91

People Who Walk on

Their Hands, The / 93

Pet Sitting / 94

Playing Hands / 99

Psychogenic Polydipsic / 100

_____________

R

Romance Novel, The / 101

Russians / 103

_____________

 S

San Franciscans / 105

Second Title Page / 107

Shoe for a Head / 108

Sisters / 109

_____________

T

Thick Hair / 110

Tiny Head / 112

Title Page / 113

Town Kids / 114

Tumor, The / 115

_____________

U

United Arab Emiratians

/ 116

_____________

V

Vampire, A / 118

Very Fat / 119

Vitamin D Deficiency /

120

_____________

W

We / 121

What We Call Life / 122

White People / 123

Wives / 124

Writing on the Wall, The

/ 125

_____________

Y

Yerba Buenians / 126

_____________

Z

Zimbabweans / 128

Ze-end / 129

JAPANESE , THE

What the Japanese love more than anything: squid ice

cream. It started after the Great Kantō Earthquake

of 1923 leveled Tokyo, collapsing the loading bay doors

to Emiko’s ice cream, just across Shin-Ohashi Dori from

Nihonbashi fish market. Fresh market squid poured out,

flowing through the Tokyo streets in a river of squid and

vanilla, churning up the ramen and curried beef vendors,

along with the then-few automobiles. Due to the ensuing

earthquake-driven famine, Emperor Taishō declared

Tokyo a disaster zone, and forced rationing when into

effect. The residents scoured the street, licking, slurping

every last ounce of squid and ice cream, leaving the thenfew

chrome bumpers shining, and later streetlights were

erected, electricity flowed again through the overhead

wires, the Emperor declared war against the Chinese.

Everyone grew prosperous and bought gallons of squid

ice cream. Emiko and his ice cream shop resurrected

and now there’s a photo of him on the wall, an old man,

standing next to Elvis Presley, the second most beloved

thing in Japan.

Jerks

This is the pseudo-scientific classification for members

of law enforcement in the city of Denver, Colorado.

The correct appellation for these individuals is Pigs,

however, the volume’s compilers have exhausted the entries

under “P”, and have therefore striven to endure in other

areas of the English alphabet. Thus, Jerks are known for

their totalitarian demeanor and their flat-top haircuts. Most

jerks can be seen sporting Kevlar in the middle of malls,

downtown streets, and in the lobbies of many of Denver’s

upscale hotels. Should you find yourself sauntering down

a Denverian quay and you are accosted by a Jerk, it is likely

because you are an African, African American, Mexican,

Mexican American—basically anything other than

Caucasian American—or, you might appear to be white,

but god forbid your lips lisp anything other than the most

Midwestern of accents. In such instances, Jerks are likely to

ask you, where are you going, where have you been, despite

their lack of knowledge concerning the short fictions of

Joyce Carol Oates, American fiction writer born June 16th

1938. In fact, you would be in trouble, too, if you looked

like Joyce Carol Oates, since she carries a distinctively

intellectual demeanor, and Jerks are well-known for their

dislike of smarty-smarties. Jerks prefer people like them,

whom they’ll have you know, are Americans (pg. 7). As we

have already demonstrated, this is among the unfortunate

side effects of Americans.

Legless Man

Today you crossed your legs while eating your

sandwich, while the legless man—clearly a veteran:

tattooed, grizzled gray beard—chewed along jabbering at

you. Your irises had wandered over where his legs had been,

outside the downtown train station for nearly a year now,

his stumps swaddled, pant legs tucked up like enormous

skeins of yarn. He always gripped the Styrofoam cup and

said nothing, his fingers fluttering a hello, palm raised,

a salute to every commuter heeling their clackety ways

to and from some paycheck dungeon. Today you bought

him ham and salami on wheat, mayo, lettuce, onion, and

bell pepper. Salt and vinegar. You now regret that you were

also kind enough to chew next to him, your right knee

atop your left, adjacent the air swimming with molecules

where the cells of this man’s legs once took up space.

Your own sandwich—turkey—sweats in your fingers,

while the man’s babble over choppers and an airlift leave

you thinking of him. Not this man, the veteran. But you

know who we’re talking about, your man at home, the

man just returned, only just now slipping sweatpants past

his hips in your apartment, and the photos of himself,

those he sent, where he clutches a machine gun, posing

in his urban camo with children’s brown smiles, and their

little hands that grip the candy he’d gifted. You reach for

your pant leg and brush away a few crumbs that fell there,

clinging to the fabric.