7/22/11

Krammer Abrahams

CEOs II
i asked my dad if i could be his dad because i know that sometimes dads wish their father weren’t their dads
i am tired of only being capable of becoming a rich white male. my life goal is to become the only planet where human beings of a rich white male status live and then when i accomplish this i will give every person of a lower socioeconomic class the ability to pee on me and all the rich white male status living on my body planet. eventually someone will build pee machines to orbit this globe of rich white male status and every day will become a pee holiday full of poor people pissing on rich male people.
dad was invented by a box of cereal called  reverend cocoa crunch pop crumble milk tit
even though the rape age is said to have dawned on october 4th, 1957, at the release of a russian sputnik into the free orbits around earth, rich white males and their metaphorical ponies have long spouted a creepy giddiness whose only goal is to probe whatever fresh spatial depths is considered the new meat of the solar system.
when dads turn twenty-five they stand in the dark and do grownup things like say the words mortgage equity over and over until they get an erection
our deep fucking of the fertile wounds in search of unearthed treasures in the name of exploration have numbed the gravitational chains set in place to bind us to this finite and plentiful world. these initial feeble attempts to search beyond the moon for the infinity solution have in part fucked our eat systems into believing in the idea that we are not fat until we eat our siblings.
my father caught me watching the movie sex in the city 2 and asked me what i was doing, but i was embarrassed to admit the truth so i told him i had shit myself and then i went in the bathroom and threw up in my underwear making what i had said only a partial lie.
somewhere i can feel someone taping their iphone to their dick and sticking it into every indigenous wombs’ heart pulse. it is not surprising that people praise new planetary discoveries even though the earth rich white males responsible for these discoveries are incapable of doing anything except releasing their astronomies into what they see as blank, uneducated, foreign spaces. to put this in as simple terms as possible, let me summarize the entire history of the american heterosexual white male:
[there is a white male object who is me. i am a heart shape carved into a school desk. someone named ‘dad’ carved this heart shape into the desk. inside the heart shape my father carved the words ‘me’. this is how i was born. i am a heart shape carved around the word ‘me’. this carving and the word ‘me’ represent a father’s love for his child, but more importantly, it is also a symbol of a father’s love for himself. the heart shape remained carved into this wooden desk for thousands of years, but this carving did not remain the only chimney on the prairie. soon, other carvings joined the heart shape of me. one of the carvings simply said,
$everyone is a fava bean!$
another carving said,
$i love fava beans!$
the prairies grew into towns. the towns grew into cities. the cities grew into suburbs. soon, everyone in the entire history of american white males was able to get a mortgage as long as they could show proof that they had once carved something mildly offensive into a wooden desk. there was a blossoming of interest in higher education. the mildly offensive carvings lead to discussion on whether freedom of speech was worth the bubbling of the american real estate market, but these discussions were ignored as more and more american families blindly carved their way to a variety of high-interest, long-term loans that netted them multiple properties that they would be incapable of ever repaying.]
it was in these years of excess that the CEO got fat, stupid, careless, and bankrupt. i was ready to carve the obituaries for the CEO and the rape age into the dead heart shape of the iphone taped to my assistant manager’s dick, but then a magical thing happened. a beanstalk the shape of the federal government bailed out every CEO in such excess that CEOs were allowed to continue stuffing their ponies full of piles of junk loans and life in the normal path of the upper class grew distant from the other class levels as the rape age continued to expand thanks to the american financial collapse.
the last time i thought i was chinese was the winter after the city stopped mailing my father lanterns, but a few weeks before the internet was invented. we ate bread seeds and moth crumbs. my father told me i had been conceived after a circus egg hatched and the elephant inside shit on my brother until he got pneumonia and died. 
yesterday, i sent out a memo to all my ringtones. in the memo i did not use quotation marks. i replaced all the quotation marks with money symbols because if you don’t tell people you are constantly thinking about money then they will never freely feed all their dollar bills to your pony. in the memo to all my dingtones i said,
[$the mountain hole i observed last night had trouble falling asleep because its lamp would not stop beeping and the sweat of its forehead was increasingly becoming a sign of plastic which had been chemically altering my dehydrated happiness.$]
i accidentally emailed this memo to all my coworkers as well as my ringtones. one of my coworkers did not like my attitude toward my ‘tones. he said,
[$in 1964 i met a christmas party inside of the house of a passionate galaxy. the christmas party was probably the saddest person i had ever met in the entire universe. the christmas party spent most of the evening drinking and standing awkwardly next to a house plant. the christmas party’s soft belly was a disappointment. i stared at this soft belly for most of the evening. near midnight people were throwing their empty wine glasses at the chandelier. i felt myself begin to blackout. i found a large bowl of salad. i began to scoop large handfuls of the salad into my face. a smell of an omelet began to grow in my ears. my legs got weak. i could feel myself stumbling towards the soft belly. i climbed inside. everything grew dark. in the morning i woke up to the sound of a frying pan sizzling my tomato. i opened my eyes and felt the soft belly of the christmas party rubbing itself into my face.$]
my father said he was going to buy me a pink giraffe but instead he only gave me clean shirts every morning and bowls of healthy food every night for dinner
the more i listen to my coworkers the more i become my own coworker. two days after yesterday, i went to the company brunch because we got an email last month that said,
[$come to the company brunch and meet the CEO$]
but the CEO cancelled at the last minute and sent his surrogate instead which was a wine cooler that had a week’s worth of facial hair sprouting off its armpits. the next day our boss invented a few thousand new terms that all meant
[$fiscal responsibility$]
and told us to memorize them. we were told we would be
 [$monetarily punished$]
if we failed to act in a manner that the company deemed profitable. that night when i went home i accidentally turned into a pony and sent an email to all my coworkers telling them to call me:
[$the functionality of a monotone$]
when i got to work the next day my parking space had been upgraded and someone left a new golf club in my cubicle.
when i was two my father tried to teach me to read by giving me a book called where the red fern grows but when i tried to eat it i accidentally pooped all over the television screen
this other CEO i knew pretended he did not know me so i walked up to him and pressed him in the iphone. he began to squeal so i gave him a pony ring. one of the other CEO’s friends began reading my blog and said, “your ponies are my guilty pleasure.” this other CEO drank an entire river and shit out a brick building that was the shape of the arm of an armless plague. the other CEO’s friend began to poke the other CEO in his phantom limb. the inspection of the missing plague arms was not something i wanted to get involved with. the only thing that gave me trouble was that the paint on my attorney had begun to peel onto my real estate agent. the other CEO was having a conversation with the other CEO’s friend and blah blah blah and then a negotiation said,
[$the condo finances make me weary of the fat mortgages. we are approaching a city that is a little bit larger than an oval parking space. in this city i will eat chinese food from a south korean sleep bucket. i'm the type of person that people call chief when they forget my name. the shingles on my condo are tired of the lack of finances. when you hate your job you eventually get over hating your job. if you are in your mid-fifties it is possible that your condo will be less of a condo spot and more of an oval parking spot.$]
and then i was invited to a cookout even though the man cooking the meat was using a shovel to move the trail flesh into his embarrassed hole. many of the CEOs said,
[$oh my gee that’s crazy oh my gee$]
the man with the shovel went to whole foods and bought a tree to cover his embarrassment. he dug a hole in the aisle where the crackers are sold and put his dad’s knee in the hole. our father’s were not pleased. lawsuits were filed against us by our own future decisions to father other people. one attorney handed me a lawsuit that read,
[$you have three minutes to figure out where ninety percentage of your thoughts will be in five to ten years.$]
when the man with the shovel got back from whole foods he was holding a box of old files. he said he was going to grill them. i asked what kind of sauce he was going put on them. he said,
[$i marinade all my barbecue meats with inappropriate bathroom humor$]
i did not know what this meant so i asked him if inappropriate bathroom humor was a code for him admitting he liked to shit on meat before he ate it. the man with the grill shovel said,
[$i am a partial chief. the hot pink pony near my neighbor’s above ground swimming pool is eating the leftover meat off my neighbor’s pile of dress shirts waiting to go to the dry cleaners. i am waiting for someone’s conversation to pause so i can say what i usually say to people who like to make elaborate itineraries for their meetings. after i speak into this pause no one will want to continue the conversation because my pause voice usually only talks about the year i spent eating kraft macaroni and cheese out of dead ponies.$]
the last time my father was jealous was when i made a spreadsheet of all my nipples and i skewed the data to make it look like i had fourteen billion nipples
people sometimes buy flowers for their holes. people sometimes people buy dogs so that they won’t feel so lonely when they take pictures of themselves. people sometimes have children so they can pretend to be a young potato chip again. if my child does not get into the right flower pot then it’s possible that i will regret the soil i traded to birth my children. people sometime buy soil and paint the walls of the soil the color of a sad eggshell because people who own soil are tired of using their beef to make flowers when no one really cares about flowers. sometimes the only thing people care about are their ponies. sometimes my mother will buy herself flowers and on the note she writes to herself it will say,
[$my pony bought a balloon today. i decided to bring the balloon to the doctor. in the waiting room i looked at pictures of boys. none of the boys had ponies. when it was my turn to talk to the doctor i showed him the balloon. he asked what was wrong. i told him my pony’s balloon doesn’t want to be a balloon. the doctor gave me a pill the size of an inflated latex condom and told me to swallow it.$]
i asked my father for some money and he gave me a handful of baloney meat
my first doctor said he was disappointed i wasn’t a better looking CEO. he said he did not feel like watching me make a child with someone not in my marriage coordinates. i asked him if he liked to play outside his marriage coordinates. my first doctor nodded. he took out his iphone and showed me a video of two ponies. he said,
[$a couple of weeks ago my marriage counselor gave me permission to expand my marriage coordinates.$]
if my father is in the other room typing i sometimes like to pretend the sound of him tapping the keyboard is really the sound of him becoming un-housebroken. i like to refer to these thoughts as my ‘urine time’
when i walk down the street i like to look at people and imagine them looking at me. i am not too into the idea of people not looking at me. i want people to look at me and blame themselves for all the bad things i have ever done.
once, a marriage couple had a son. for his birthday the son asked for a pony. the married couple could not afford to buy their son a pony. instead, the married couple bought their son a puppet. it was the shape of the purple blob from mcdonalds. the son put the puppet on his hand. the purple blob from mcdonalds said,
[$my name is minka and i wish i was a grossly overweight male with small whiskers tucked into my big lips, but instead i am a very attractive pony who sometimes has sex with famous people.$]
a week ago my father left the caps lock on and i didn’t notice until after i looked at a few websites
a soft little thing prayed and said,
[$please make sure my metaphysical insight includes a paragraph about the circle that sprouts my chi.$]
the soft little thing liked to pray before it went to the bathroom and made pee in the toilet. after the soft little thing peed it went to bed. i watched the CEO of a corporation touch the soft little thing while it was sleeping. when the soft little thing was fourteen it gained forty pounds and said,
[$ass fucking$]
into a microphone during a talent show. someone’s father laughed because he was the personal assistant to the CEO who was responsible for the marketing of the soft little thing. the personal assistant had to check the pee levels in all the soft little things every night.
my father told me to stop pretending i am a black woman
it makes me really sick to write this sequel, but the movie studio who produced this film told me i was contractually obligated to write the sequel. i  am sorry that i put so little time into this sequel and that all i care about is your money. someone should give me more money so that i will care less about money. i spent only twelve minutes writing this story. there is no plot. nothing i wrote is funny. half the words i used aren’t even my words. i am not even a real person. the sequel isn’t even about CEOs. after i wrote the first CEOs all my friends became CEOs so now i hang out on their boats every weekend. i feel really dirty. i don’t even like my friends, but i also don’t mind CEOs. last weekend i dry-humped a BMW. it felt okay. maybe next week i will snort so much cocaine that my face turns into a pair of large sunglasses. when i wrote the first CEOs i was a child. i was living proof of the recklessness of an individual freedom. i thought i was a media jesus. i was a piece of the boat i was trying to sink. i was on this boat for two months. it was in the middle of my red lawn. my father spray paints our lawn red every summer. the boat sunk a few days after the fourth of july. almost two-hundred people died. before the boat sunk we were listening to a rap song called,
[$i have abandoned the idea that my self-worth is dictated by a banking industry numbered definition.$]
the chorus of the song goes,
[$ding ding boom. ding dong boom. i’m a ding dong boom.$]

despite all his failings as a parent, my father and i have a healthy relationship. every thursday we go to the movies and pee all over the theater seats
a little shoestring made of leather came untied so i asked a bird if it could fix it, but the bird was made of milk and called its friend the stump and the two of them speculated on whether or not i would be able to tie my own shoe. the stump and the milk feather sold shares of their speculation. most of the financial analysts were convinced i had lost a lot of my basic human functionalities since i begun dating some foreign tennis player named minky. she likes to sweat on grass, but not in my bedroom. we’ve never had sex because she likes to save all her sex juice for the tennis court. i have begun to go cross-eyed. i am beginning to worry that if i don’t have a sexual encounter soon i will grow a second dick. this second dick will not treat my first dick very nicely. a third dick might develop. it will be very hard to feed all my dicks. i am worried that my original dick won’t eat enough and fall off.
for his birthday my father asked for an iphone. i gave him a piece of soap with the word ‘iphone’ written on it. he bought a special iphone case for it and complains daily about his lack of reception.
there was a yawn the shape of a diet pepsi in the refrigerator of the break room where i have been doing a lot of ignorant shit lately. one of my coworkers bought a new iphone and he asked me if i liked the environment. i told him i thought the environment was okay. he said,
[$my iphone has an application that uses my geographical position to tell me where the nearest trashcan is.$]
later, i heard someone in the break room yell,
[$help, i am three billion millimeters from my geographical position.$]
i am curious how many fathers have pictures of their dicks on their smart phones
the man next to me is made of two different men. his father was both a turtle and a masochistic slushy. in the office today i punched someone in the iphone. four or five CEOs ate lunch together. i watched them ask their assistant to sew a piece of toast to an old federal lending regulation. the piece of toast said,
[$my mother bought me my first pair of glasses at k-mart.$]
after work, i noticed the sky turned into a twenty-six ordinary black men. when i looked at my dick i saw it had turned into a pony. the male prostitute who liked to eat my stale cheese crackers turned into a soft robin and the fabric of his hemline was nothing but pony saliva.
when i get emails from my father it feels like i am being forced to swallow six thousand exclamation points
earlier, when i was in a bed, the sheets said,
[$i am so angry that my former superiors were worried i would grow up to be a tent.$]
later, i am on my knees, on the floor of the bedroom. there is a hole in my pony. i move through this hole. my pony has birthed me. i am an entire continent. my continent is filled with machine guns. i use this ammunition to talk to the medical supplies of south korea. the place i  thought was south korea was really the inside of a dead mitsubishi television. it told me to walk my pony back to the hole i crawled out of. when i return to where i was i realize that my pony has died and turned into a frozen lake. i go in the bathroom because i own a lot of band-aids and i keep them all in the bathroom. when my chin starts to bleed i look at myself in the famous spot. i can feel myself begin to act very diplomatic about the bad smells feasting on the misinformation i will deliver tomorrow at the business meeting tomorrow. if the business meeting goes well i will drink entire bottle of room-temperature olive oil tomorrow night. if the meeting goes poorly i will turn into a moth and fall in love with a blue pill.
my father killed a mouse last night and left it outside my bedroom door
out of everyone who has ever lived in my sex neighborhood i still enjoy the young spit of my laos plaything. in third grade i met a girl named craig who said her least favorite phrase was,
[$ripe cantaloupe.$]
she wore skin in the shape of a gray pair of afghan tights. her boyfriend was named glen. he was forty-eight. before glen began dating craig he dated an orange grove tree.
every time my father listens to rap music a thousand black children turn white
i am tired of people fucking armies of people that look like themselves. if i was a famous comedian people would be upset at me because i wouldn’t tell the joke that i had been paid to tell. if i was a famous comedian people would want me to get fat. when famous comedians get fat they are afraid to move because they don’t want people to laugh at them for being fat. lunch is the only time of day that makes me feel like a chief. i carry piles of potential shit in a brown paper bag. when the important people are done with the conference room i eat the leftover lettuce from the underside of their unused iphone applications. i was going to hang out with this girl named jill in her room, but then she had to go to the icu because her head had turned into jesus and her father wanted it removed. when i saw her again her face was nothing but a brown stripe. she no longer had a nose. i was afraid she was going to invite me over to her room, but she didn’t have a mouth. when she gave me a note it was nothing but a brown stain because she didn’t have eyes so she couldn’t see what she had drawn. i looked at the brown stain for a long time until it started to look like a pony.
people who drink coffee are sometimes afraid to tell my father to turn down the volume of his earphones when he is listening to recordings of himself yell
somewhere in america a CEO had a dream about his own dick. in the dream the CEO salted a portion of his body and that portion of his body turned into a ship. when the CEO got on the ship it turned into his mother’s boob. the CEO realized his mother was sucking on the parts of his body that he had salted. when CEOs in america have dreams they wake up sweaty.
when the sun is really hot i like to slap my dad on the inside of his ear with a q-tip
and then this one pile of old iced meat looked like a nylon spandex micro-mesh bra bodysuit that i once saw the wife of a CEO wear when i six and every time i think about the words $nylon$ $spandex$ $micro-mesh$ $bra$ $bodysuit$ i turn into a female pony.
i found some of my dad’s facial hair next to a bag of tuna flavored barbecue chips that an old woman was eating from
when a CEO’s motor turns to jelly they feed their jelly to the cream boys you sometimes see out of the corner of your eye when you read cosmopolitan magazine. the last time i read cosmopolitan the cream boys made sure i understood that they were masturbating in the corner of my vision. the CEO’s new motor is made out of salmon skin and baloney teeth.
the last time i got a zit my father touched my head and told me i was his handsome meat
the purple blob from mcdonalds said,
[$i am the black president. when i was an igloo my beverages were always cold. earth is a lava kite. lazy people eat from me. my first daddy was a mommy named minkie. on my third birthday grandpa sue told me not to buy hot dogs from the guy who masturbated behind dumpsters. i am an icy babe.$]
yesterday, when i went to mcdonalds and asked for the purple blob sandwich they told me that it didn’t exist and gave me an option of eating from two kinds of pies. there was the old wooden one covered in applesauce and there is the first class express business luxury model. the mcdonalds employee who served me said,
[$it’s too bad you weren’t wearing a turtleneck and on your way to the beach because then i would have poked you in your third pony hole.$]
last night i watched a man wearing a clever t-shirt remove his t-shirt. he was wearing a turquoise scarf under the clever t-shirt. the shape of the moon deflated a little after the man removed his clever t-shirt. he will most likely turn into an uneven cheese wheel at a holiday party where someone’s coffee breath shows up drunk and eats the santa claus trout from the chest of an idling piece of wood covered in applesauce.
my father used to make me brush my teeth in the swimming pool
you should buy the same light brown loafers as me and then we should go to karaoke and sing a song about the last time you tried to sing a song about the black president. a few days later i thought,
[$okay$]
and bought the same light brown loafers as you. afterwards we were going to try to find a few nylon spandex micro-mesh bra bodysuits, but i ended up sitting on a picnic table for the rest of the day, eating from a plate of cucumbers. a few blocks away i heard a dance party beat up three soft lecture series on the financial crisis. one of speakers in the three soft lecture series on the financial crisis could be heard crying. he kept saying,
[$i don’t know what’s wrong. i come from a very ambitious family.$]
for halloween one year i wanted to dress up like the mobil gas mascot of the flying pony, but my father told me i couldn’t be a unicorn even though i didn’t want to be a unicorn and he made me dress up like steven tyler and only one person gave me a piece of candy because my father got the holidays mixed up and it was really thanksgiving so the only piece of candy i ate that year was a shitty tootsie roll
i am sitting in an office waiting for the logs to finish analyzing my web stats. if three billion people visit the website i made for my pony then i will make my pony the CEO of my global enterprise and i will be promoted to the status of orphan trombone. when it was time to eat lunch the logs weren’t done yet so i got pissed and sat at my desk for the rest of the day drinking warm milk from a stale plastic bottle while i touched the hair i had cut off my friend’s head the night before which he had glued to my own head because i have been worried lately that exposure to the sun is nothing except a chemo therapy session and if i am sick then i will try not to be sick in a way that makes my head bald.
my dad is a leaf nipple
the recent status of my pony’s inability to use a shovel is that there are many economic incentives available to me that would make it seem highly beneficial that i teach my pony how to use a shovel. when i try to teach my pony how to hold a shovel the shovel gets very dirty and i have to wash it in the bathtub. i wash the shovel with hair shampoo. my shovel does not have a dry scalp. when i finish washing my shovel i draw on its face with a pink highlighter. my pony calls my shovel mr. pink lemonade.
sometimes my father will take out his piece of soap that he thinks is an iphone and he will say, i am nothing without my smart phone
as the rich man deposited money into my pony i looked at his feet and noticed he was not wearing light brown loafers. his feet were barefoot. i asked him where his shoes were. he grinned and said,
[$i am a bad man. you should not let me touch your pony.$]
i began to worry that when the logs finished analyzing my web stats, the figures would assume that i was a hazardous material that should not be stored in my household. a little while later the secretary said she was going to order some pizza. at the lunch conference one person told another person to talk, but the person who was supposed to talk had recently grown some new facial hair and was holding a small silver paperclip. he was using the small paperclip as a symbol for his ability to still ‘hold it together’ even though his face had a new kind of hairy growth that seemed to symbolized that his shit was spilling everywhere. halfway through the lunch conference the new facial growth dropped the paperclip.
i think my dad is still 47% of the underdeveloped baby toy he was when he was in high school
the cold place where i store my food broke. i climbed into the broken food room and cried until i couldn’t breathe. the cold place was broken so it got warm. i tried to eat all of the food in the broken place, but the asparagus went bad before i could put it in my mouth. when my pony was still a tadpole i asked my dad for more food. he gave me too much food. i put the extra food he gave me in the backyard. the food pile in the backyard grew. by the time i was in high school the food pile had almost grown all the way to china. a broken panda lived on the top of the food pile. the panda was broken because in place of its head was a small microwave. recently, i’ve been looking for a job because when i don’t have a job i get thirsty and when i get thirsty all i want to do is write rap songs about clerical bullshit based on the notion that there is a financial void within the lack of hair on a buzzard’s forehead. writing rap songs is okay for most people, but it is destructive to my ego because when i write rap songs i only care about becoming a global icon, but no one has ever become a global icon from writing rap songs about the accounting black hole that stems from our monotonous experience of waiting next to dead animals until the partially dead wing of a vulture feasts on the material of our rap songs. and yes, the deer that i ran over on the way home from burger king last night is a metaphor for my belief in my lyrical ability. for those of you who are still interested i made a whole album where i all i yell is,
[$what is the significance of having original friends if they all wear plaid shirts to fill their financial voids?$]
my dad said brb and then he went to a barbeque and when he returned he gave me a grilled zucchini, but i felt uncomfortable because just before i ate it my father said, “sucking green charcoal dicks.”
so then i began to worry about money so i shit on a piece of paper and mailed it to someone i know who sort of liked the smell of my brown stains and they said,
[$boom.$]
and the next thing i knew i was the CEO for a healthcare unit that believed in the principals of golf, trout, and puppies. every saturday i would smear my golf clubs on the calm areas of a congressman and when our golf clubs were no longer shiny we would go sit beneath the antique lampshades that were a product of herds of spanish chi-chi’s our grand members had accidentally scalped even though they had been aiming at the product of the last prairie-fed buffaloes left in america. when our skin was finished toasting under the incandescent lamp scalps of the land we noosed from the immigrants we now pay to mow our lawns we decided to sit in a sauna and take out our fishing poles so we could compare the size of the trout hanging off the end of these fishing poles. eventually someone got their fishing lines crossed with someone else’s fishing line and we had to snip their excess from the base of their annual financial losses. around dinner time a few of us would gather and watch our poor decisions pollute the rivers where we had spent the last twenty years dumping our chi-chi waste. sometimes we’d be a little drunk at this point and our CEO laughs would get out of control and we couldn’t help but become giddy at the prospect of who would get cancer from these poor decisions. when it’s time for our quarterly financial reports to be release we often celebrate by buying our families new puppies and selling the old puppies we bought three months earlier to a waste management company that specializes in swine feed. our children usually tear up when we take away the old new dogs, but when we explain to them about how they’ll be going to a place where they’ll eat dog ice cream all day and get to chew on kitten poop under palm trees filled with air fresheners the shape of wet dog sexuality our children usually nod and hug the new-new dogs until they begin to pee on their chests. of course, once, there was a CEO who only believed in the principals of golf and trout, but not new-new dogs and we had to tell him about the moral benefits of feeding our old new dogs to our pork chop industry. the oldest, whitest, richest CEO said it best when he said,
[$we no longer live in a society with space for old new products unless those old new products are white, rich, and the chief of a multi-national banking system that provides multiple options for the financial collapse of the entire global pork chop.$]
dad said he was tired of the monotony of the holiday season so we ate a christmas tree for thanksgiving
at the end of the age of worshipping our own gaze of everything we did not know, i realized the fundamental transformation that would set upon me if i actually became the CEO all of us eventually turn into. in short, as i’ve gotten older i’ve learned to pray to my own stupidity and accept my immoral judgment of money piles. this revolution of ethics and the planting of ships into my harbor of understanding have resulted in the inevitability of psychological costs that i had no choice but to pass onto the flea biscuits that continue to whine of the persistence of class in american culture. to be honest, i have no clue what i am. once, i felt more confident in my ability to speak nonsense. i used to not get anxious with my inability to come to terms with either where or who i am. now, it has become clear that i am of a circular nature and my nonsense is not helping me grow to an actual truth, but is only a wheel with no beginning or end. when the beards of dawn do not lighten to a grey, but only grow a darker shade of brown then i have no choice but to believe my heart has swallowed my ability to see and that i am left to blindly follow the selfish pulse of my own being’s continued existence.
dad is a good dad because he bought all thirty thousand of my rap demos

recently, a guy i know was talking about this girl he said he was sleeping with and he took out a picture of her, but there was a hole cut in her face so i couldn’t see what she looked like. in an attempt to free ourselves from our constraints we did not look to abolish these constraints, but instead redirected them to new spaces that we decided need to be owned. i once tried to be a black woman, but it did not work. yesterday, my father dropped his soap into the toilet and he yelled,
[$iphones have done nothing but restrict our leisurely progress as a society.$]
when i was born people had already been alive for at least a century. the guy who said he was sleeping with a girl sighed when he realized i had figured out he was in fact fucking a photograph of a purple blob named tina. when he dropped his soap in the toilet he said,
[$on the fourth of july a guest named ‘the thomas celebration’ drank so much that he began to think his name was ‘human failure number money symbol’. the after party turned into an after fuck. everyone was moping around, not talking, sucking on twenty-twos, ignoring the stains on their ponies, whispering to the huggies, and pooping out their baby boo-boos. yes, everyone was bored, silent, sucking on pistols, ignoring their cum stains, talking to their butts, and shitting from the wounds of their childhood.$]
my father began to tear up and asked why i only talked shit about him in my stories and never talked shit about mom so for the last section i changed all the dad parts to mom parts
last night a tuba named mom bought a motorcycle. it was 1973. she went to a school dance with someone named suzanne. at the school dance suzanne said she wanted to address some general issues she had with the presentation of my dad. mom was concerned with suzanne’s method of describing and manipulating the way her husband looked in her own brain. mom called me halfway through the dance to have me pick her up. i was negative ten years old. me and my friends were hanging out at taco bell. one of my friends got sick so we asked a bottle of cough syrup for advice. judgment was needed. the bottle of cough syrup was less efficient than we thought it would be. i got upset at the bottle of cough syrup. i said,
[$clarity should be your principal objective. everything you do should be directed toward achieving clarity. no one will care about you if you are a burden to understand. be precise. convey your messages efficiently. do not be longer than you should be. if the clarity of your structure is pure then the length of your pony shouldn’t have to neigh.$]
the bottle of cough syrup told me to fuck my rage down and build a pleasure cave where my calmness could sleep. a displeasure sprout grew from the spot in my ear where i heard the bottle of cough syrup telling me what to do. this sprout grew leafs that enveloped my calm spots and i felt my rage begin to fuck this pleasure cave. i wanted to be a soft pigeon, but when i opened my mouth all that floated out were brown cactuses. the bottle of cough syrup was not interested in my decision to rage my own calm dwellings. he seemed disappointed in my ability to be human. the source of my irritation grew. i was a fountain of bad men. a glacier of melancholy grew on the cough syrup’s label. some of the innocence in his tubes mildewed and all he could do is mouth his thoughts. he spoke of a glory that was not quite a feeling my temper was capable of feeling. i was never going to be a good person. the cough syrup did not seem to understand this. i squinted at some chest hair growing from a lagoon as the cough syrup said,
[$been living in admiration of the human race since the day i met a jewel of a species named roger. i was living in the mesquite region of a bulldozed earth grove when roger found me and pointed at a grub owl squinting at us from the cavity of a palm tree. roger taught me how to eat grilled quail from the butthole of a jackrabbit. in our free time we looked at pictures of african thorn bushes and herds of giraffes wearing business suits and professional eyeglasses while sitting in tiny cubicles. these giraffe photographs were created in an attempt to alter the viewers previous allegiance to objects of sentiment.$]
after listening to the bottle of cough syrup i realized i no longer wanted to be a poor, single, white male. i wanted to become the first black married CEO to walk on the moon. i called nasa. the line was busy. i hung up and decided that the part of me that didn’t want to be poor, single, male, and white could be filled with a living object the shape of a puppy. i called nasa again. a woman answered. i asked her for a puppy. she told me she would mail me one. after i hung up the phone i remembered i was still negative ten years old and my friend was sick. an ambulance arrived. i put my friend in the ambulance. my mother showed up on her motorcycle. she told me she was going to ride to the ancient tunnels of babylon. i climbed onto the back of the motorcycle and asked how her date went with suzanne. she said,
[$halfway through our first grind session i realized that i was on a date with the financial crisis. suzanne is another name for the global economy being a fucked rage of calm tunnels collapsing under the weight of people grinding out their bad decisions to snort taco bell rather than prepare a grilled quail in the butthole of someone named roger.$]
a few hours later my mother and i were on the side of a bridge looking at our chi-chi’s. i looked at my mother look at her chi-chi. she seemed worried that her chi-chi would not be capable of accomplishing anything in the next ten years. i told her it was okay if her chi-chi became a high ranking CEO and i became the product of her electromagnetic theory inside the low-income structures of her desire to have grind sessions with people who believe in their ability to fuck their way to the top even though human sexuality is nothing but a weak radiation of high frequencies that no one can see because the more we sex our chi-chi’s the smaller our photons get. my mother pretended to appreciate my words even though she lacked the digital self-esteem to believe in her ability to be anything more than a medium-sized cog in the underdeveloped school system that she will contribute her semen to when it comes time for her to give up on her childhood so she can create small children of her own. i began to understand the consequence of my mother becoming digital. i did not want her to become a bit rate in the informational age. as a piece of human flesh i estimated that she was worth between three or four million dollars. as a pile of bits she was worth less than a dollar. before we left the bridge my mother asked if i wanted a pet cd-rom for christmas. i said,
[$sure.$]
my mother seemed happy. she threw her motorcycle off the bridge. we had a long discussion about whether or not i should be breastfed when i was eventually born. i told her i wanted to be breastfed on the static of a television. she asked when i wanted to lose my virginity. i thought of a camel. my mother said,
[$i’m starting to feel uncomfortable. it does not feel proper to talk to a negative being about his sexual preferences if those preferences don’t involve a quail inside the calm of a bunny asshole. if i demand you care for your limbs within the realms of a social norm then i am endangering your sexual preferences. i don’t want to be the type of mother that defines every option of your life and then forces you into an option-less void of being that is unable to grasp a hold of your self-image because the microsexuality that you feel has been mis-defined by my need to define all sexualities and then you are forced to exist in the uncomfortable space of fucking with the act of fucking in an attempt to subvert the tension i’ve subjected you to in the negative conscious space before you were born.$]
my mother and i didn’t say anything else to each other. a few hours passed. we didn’t even say goodbye. i would not see her for another decade. when i got home there was a package from nasa in the mailbox. i opened the package, but was disappointed to find that my new puppy was nothing, but a dead trout.


The first CEOs was written inside Krammer Abrahams's fever womb and published in No Colony 3 to positive critical acclaim but poor box office results. The sequel was filmed on a budget of twelve very soft yellow men. Krammer Abrahams is writing the third CEO. It will be published as a laser disc by penguin. 

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