INTRODUCTION
At some point this year I will begin my fourth novel and have realized that I have done nothing with my first three. So I am now going to busy myself with that. In the meantime I needed a place where I could put things that crossed my mind like poetry and shit. So this is that place and these are those things.  My paintings, poetry, and blog info can be viewed by selecting from the topics listed at top of this page. Thank you for reading.

TRANSFER ME TO BILLING
I am pestered by faceless bill collectors cloaked in enveloped statements and concealed behind voices over the phone demanding money. Insidiously they hide behind discounted services, call-center floor attitudes, push-button menus and hold music geared towards making you hate reality. Now there is an even greater threat to sanity embedded within a devious new technique of human torture called Interactive Voice Response. Add that to the pile of stress built from being continually harassed by the soulless monetary mercenaries (i.e. CSR’s) of the local corporate monopoly and you very well may find yourself cutting out paper dolls in the basement of a psyche ward softly humming the Family Guy theme song. You want to know what IVR is you pick up the phone and call Rogers and prepare to be greeted by ‘Emily’. I had such an experience. This is how it went and what I thought of it:
“Hi! I’m Emily!”
I’m way too fucking happy, you forgot to mention.
“Just say the name of the department you are looking for and I will immediately connect you. It’s as simple as that!”
Stop selling yourself, you fucking whore.
“Billing.” I said.
“Did you say ‘New Products’?”
“No. I said ‘Billing’ you automated piece of…”
A faint click and a hum droned into the speaker like the system was working overtime or something.
“Did you say ‘Add a New Service’?”
“Billing.”
“Technical support?”
“Billing.”
“Facials and agriculture?”
“I SAID EAT MY ASSHOLE, YOU SILLY BITCH!”
A click…pause…then: “Transferring you to Billing.”

Note: Rogers no longer utilizes the ‘Emily’ IVR assistant perhaps due to the increase of mental instability that has ravaged the local hospitals for the duration of its use.

THE ‘FUCK YOU’ PARROT
You walk into a variety store and there’s a parrot tucked into a small cage near the entrance. It’s missing an eye but looks at you with the other. It’s also missing a leg, wait…no it’s not.
“Listen Buddy, you gonna buy something or what?” It asks as you walk in.
“Fucking Nazis, all of you!” It squawks excitedly as you grab your first item.
You approach the counter and notice for the first time the old, kind face behind the register. He doesn’t say a word. He smiles silently instead.
“9.25, Asshole.” The bird says from behind you.
You lay your bill on the counter. The man gives you some change and bags your items. You turn towards the door.
“That’s right, get the fuck out of here, Nazi!” The bird shrieks, swooping its head down for emphasis.
You might be a little bit high but still you notice that the man didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. The parrot said it all with enthusiasm, but…where else would it learn that from? You start to question the nature of the relationship between man and bird but then you shrug. It’s just another dark corner of the fucking neighbourhood.

IF I COULD
If I could
I would tear this whole world apart just to show you something
that would awaken you from your
fucking coma.
All of you.

If I could
I would throw your perception into a waste basket
and start over.

If I could
I would bring the devil to your breakfast table
and the wars on TV
into your living room.
If I could
I would make you feel the pain of the misfortunate
and love all the wrong things.

If I could
piss away your empty soul.

If I could
make something matter
to you
besides you.

Photo w/ caption: HJM

BLOG REVIEW #1

Before I posted this blog I wanted to pass it by someone who would undoubtedly tell me bluntly exactly what they thought of it. So I had the opportunity to pass it by Blue Monday in the champagne room. Keep in mind that I was more than a little tipsy at the time and she was probably out of her mind on coke. This was our conversation:

“You know,” she began, “the first question I had while reading this was what the fuck you were on when you wrote it. You were high for sure and maybe a little drunk too.”
“Yeah, but that’s pretty normal…”
“I mean…have you even read this shit? Have you?”
“You got me there.” I shrugged.
“Fuck me!”
“I’m sure a lot have.”
“Yeah, well, you know whose perception should be thrown into a wastebasket and started over? Yours, that’s who!”
“I’m starting to find this a little excessive.”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck me, fuck you. Make up your fucking mind.”
“You’ll never get published because you’re an asshole!”
“Fuck this. I don’t need this shit from you. You’re as crazy as a corn-roast and I even paid you for the dance this time.”
Although my first review did not go so well I have concluded that it was probably the wrong time and place to bring it out and I have learned from that and am a better person for the experience. In fact I tell myself that a lot as if to justify something that I don’t fully understand.

Driving home a little later the clock illuminated on the dashboard read ‘9:25.’
‘Nine dollars and twenty-five cents!’ I thought to myself for no particular reason. I then began to chant it. Next thing I knew I was singing it. Finally I ended up belting it out like a reject from Canadian Idol, one of the fucking crazy ones. I became lost in doing so. And that’s when I drove across somebody’s front lawn to avoid hitting three parked cars.
An old lady that I nearly killed had stopped walking her terrier and was gaping at me like I had just landed from outer-space. After briefly assessing where I was I rolled down the window.
“Don’t…don’t you judge me!” I shouted while shaking my fist. I then roughly maneuvered through a two-point turn and gladly went on my way.

Stay tuned for the Blog Review #2, where:

“Hours after being drugged I had awoken to find myself duct-taped to a wooden chair.”

© 2012 Hernan J Monzon