Sharon Mesmer

The Swiss just do whatever like masturbating their doink-doinks deep in rural France in the shadow of Mont Blanc. Heavy, dependable and prepared for whatever the Swiss vago-simulacrum recognizes as larder King Hussein and President Fabio, always just about to touch each other on their devolved sparkle-offs and Neil Patrick Harris appreciation pages. Everyone knows when these bizzarre Swiss cometh they cometh with fluffy Beatles-like six packs of shit-covered reindeer knock-knocking like a bummer. Glitter is the Swiss Army knife of the most bedazzlingly ridiculous emotions: the part just before the paranoid cheese-maker says, “Whatever you do in Palm Springs, don’t yodel”—a most unusual Swiss Miss mixture of very early skunk and the robotic sadness of women’s mold heavy, greasy, dense and low, like lethargic sea-green gardens with a buzz overpowering, like modern outdoor inbreeding.

Harry Whittington: the man accidentally shot by Dick Cheney Have you ever been in a situation where somebody you thought was your friend did something that hurt you very much, and then they tried to blame it on you, and then you had a heart attack? Just wondering. I thought Jack Abramoff was my buddy— a small fish with a large chicken. What a dick. Why’d he have to remind me of my first wife, Jacqueline Bouvier-Kennedy-Onassis-Bono-Crowe-Pitt-Degeneres-Federline? Of course, that speaks volumes to and of itself. On the other hand, everything tastes like chicken. And cooked people taste like butter. I barely touched the clam chowder but I ate the chicken fried steak. Then I ate hot beignet and sludgy chicory and I accidentally drove the hot ‘n’ sporty. Now I may try the chicken fries. Why poo’ed vindaloo? The founding fathers risked life and limb just so I could trust the kung pao ham. But the former potions master spiked my polyjuice with mango juice, and now I like drinks with chicks in them. Doesn’t anyone care about my feelings? All I wanted to do was kill little birds. Because, you know, that’s fun. I forget, which one am I banging, that Plame bitch or the Ambassador to Switzerland? I’d ask Dick which of the two he’s screwing but he never answers my emails. In other news, I’ve been up to my neck in new food intern activity. The skewers are kind of like hot wings, except they are made with chicken tenders. The backwash is kinda long, but watch the whole thing for the slo-mo matrix-esque finale. Way cooler than any other stick figure theater. A barn-raised quail just said “Bugs Bunny isn’t real.” Is there no end to the horrors this shooting will reveal?