Friday, July 21, 2006


Where's Lyzako?

Cops also looking for Marty Sherman

FERNDALE, Michigan, July 21 ... Eight hot prostitutes and rap star Blackosis were arrested last night for suspicion of prostitution. Detectives are looking for the man they believe to be their boss, Art Lyzak, a so-called writer who claims the whores, Lady Bomb Escorts, are merely fictional characters.

Lieutenant Gerald Frenzer told reporters: "I'll tell you who the character is - that fucking clown Lyzak ... he's pimping these girls and making a fortune doing it. Fiction, my ass ... that's not writing, that's goddamn internet stupidity - that's all it is. He's a hooker salesman, plain and simple. That man is guilty as the day I was born ... or whatever that saying is."

Frenzer believes Lyzak is hiding out with friends - though he finds it hard to believe he has any.

"Nah. He's a millionaire goofball - in the right place, right time ... ," the Lieutenant explained. "Wrote a two-bit column for an entertainment rag then used his juice to lure lithe young things to a life of putting penis in their mouths and vaginas."

Police would also like to speak with legendary Hollywood comedian, Marty Sherman, in connection with the disappearance of his wife Jackie. After moving to Detroit to blog, Sherman won the hearts and belly laughs of the blogosphere with his spot-on blogwork.

"That guy's not wrapped too tight either," Frenzer said. "He's an alcoholic, like the other guy and he recently blogged that he murdered his wife and ate her ... funny stuff, right? He's looney tunes and may have really killed her ... we want to talk with him."

Neither man can be found.

The girls are still in police custody; Blackosis was released this morning.

A.) Crack?
B.) Check.
A.) Bics?
C.) Yepper.
A.) Labatt?
B.) Uh huh.
A.) Chips and dip?
C.) Of course.
A.) Condo ... wait a minute - did a dumb ass write something?
B.) What? I'll look ... yes. Dammit.
A.) What's it about?
B.) A big bust.
C.) I'm an ass man, myself ...
A.) Ha, ha, ha - good enough, we're done.



Groundbreaking Blog to Follow?

After hearing rumors for a week now that Cuban leader Fidel Castro died, I decided to do a little journalistic investigation of my own.

Attempts to phone the bearded dictator proved fruitless, but when I emailed I received the following automated out-of-office reply:

"As of July 15, 2006, I am no longer alive and any future email should be sent to . Sincerely, F.C."

Well, there you have it. Proof positive that there will be change in the tiny island country that has kept Communism alive in America’s backyard for so long while continuing to make the best cigars in the world. And don’t forget the pressed ham-and-cheese sandwiches and mojitos that have become popular here thanks to the arrival of thousands upon thousands of Cuban refugees.

Mmmm, pressed ham-and-cheese stomach’s rumbling...
Where was I? Oh, right. Dead Castro.

That reminds me...

Our weekly development meeting at the Bomb didn’t go so well this week for yours truly, my friends. It seems that Marty Sherman may no longer be welcome to contribute here. I was told that there’s a lot of big changes coming to the blog and the editor is shutting down for a month to gear up for the grand re-opening in September.

It wasn’t said in so many words, but I can read between the lines.

According to the boss, they need more "hip, cutting-edge stories" and more "structure" to the blog. Right, like that’s going to make a difference. I write from my gut, dear readers. My fucking gut. The process is painful to me, but I give it every ounce of energy I have in me and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to pander to a bunch of snot-nosed twenty-somethings just so the famous Lyzako can sell advertising and cheap merchandise.

All I know is I’m gonna enjoy the time off. I’ve already contacted the unemployment office (this is the first real job I’ve had since I was a bus-boy at the Coffee Manor when I was sixteen) and in two weeks I’ll have a cool $150 a week coming in while I sit on my dead ass and contemplate my navel. And my next move.

It’s going to be big. The next move, that is. You’ll see you bastards.

A.) I hope he moves to Cuba.
B.) Cuba’s not far enough away as far as I’m concerned.
C.) Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Now let’s get the fuck out of here.


Thursday, July 20, 2006


Writer Excited
About Upcoming Break

'I can't fucking wait,' Lyzako admits

MIAMI BEACH, July 21 ... After five months of almost daily blogging, blogging, blogging, and entertaining the blogosphere with hundreds of billions of laughs and smiles, Art Lyzak AKA Lyzako, will take a much-needed vacation from his wildly popular Lady Bomb Escorts blog. The mess will return in September.

"I'm married now - and pimping hookers, looking out for cops, and writing about it is getting to be a drag," the handsome 55-year-old writer admitted. "My wife, Christine, wants me totally out of the whore business - maybe she's right, I don't know ... "

Lady Bomb Escorts began in 1999 as a fictional shtick for Realisms, a column Lyzak wrote for Real Detroit Weekly until March of this year. Lady Bomb soon became an actual prostitution racket.

"When I introduced the LBE device to Realisms in 1999, a couple of hot chick readers emailed and asked if I needed escorts ... I played along, we had a few drinks, I took them to a cheap hotel, banged them hard - I was single then - and started whoring them out. Go figure."

Selling sex proved to be incredibly lucrative for the talented, lucky Polack. With houses in Malibu, Miami, and Ferndale, Lyzak says he has more money than he knows what to do with.

"I have more money than I know what to do with."

He left Real Detroit Weekly earlier this year because they wouldn't cough up a well-deserved, couple buck raise. "I was going to goof on them with a boatload of snark right here - I had some funny fucking lines, trust me - but decided to take the high road instead: I wish the paper terrific success."

The writer immediately started Lady Bomb Escorts dotcom with the help of Internet whiz Meg Geddes, and the musings of legendary Hollywood comedian, Marty Sherman.

Will Sherman be along for the ride when the laughs resume in September?

"I'm not sure," Lyzak shrugs. "He just did a hard-hitting seven chapter non-fiction piece for us (Murder Without Mystery - scroll down) - and admitted to murdering his wife. We're going to have to wait and see if the Detroit cops believe it or not. Sherman might do time, I don't know. She was a nice woman, his wife, Jackie."

While the writer claims the time off is long overdue, he won't be resting on his laurels - he doesn't know what the word means. But he does promise a bigger and better Bomb in mid-September.

"Well, we're getting 75 million hits a day now and I plan on doubling that at the new place. Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to turn off the computer for two weeks, cool out, and then turn the Godforsaken, monkeyonourbacks, thing-from-Hell back on and spend a month creating a much stronger product. In fact - a much fucking stronger product."

A.) Speaking of money, tell Lyzako I can use a bit more.
B.) Yeah, we have to write for Sherman, too. We should get more.
C.) Or Sherman should at least toss a few rocks our way like Lyzako does.
A.) Damn right. We're the funniest part of the blog.
B.) Fuck, yes - we are.
C.) We should stay in touch during this break, my letters.



Chapter Seven

Three days went by with no news.

In the meantime, I had prepared the fresh meat with soy sauce, rolled it in cracked black pepper and dried it in the dehydrator according to the instructions for turkey jerky. The next day it would be done and I could start on another batch.

But I couldn’t make all of Jackie’s remains into jerky. I’d have to eat some of the meat prepared another way. Jackie’s family was Portuguese, and one of her favorite meals was a Brazilian dish called feijoada. She would be proud to be made into a nice pot of the meaty stew, I thought. So, I tossed the rest of her into the biggest stockpot I could find, along with some potatoes, carrots, onions, black beans, ham hocks, cumin, oregano, garlic and fresh parsley.

Four hours later I had enough food for the month. I portioned most of it into single-serving bags, carefully marked them as "special stew", dated them and tossed them into the freezer. The rest was my dinner all that week and I must say it was more than a little tasty. I hate to honk my own horn here, but I’ve always been a good cook. Jackie never was much in the kitchen department, so I learned to cook out of necessity.

That first week after, I took a few half-hearted stabs at writing for the blog every day, but nothing seemed to click. I never really felt funny because I was waiting for the first shoe to drop.
A couple of days ago it did.

I got a call from Jackie’s sister Amy about an hour before Detroit’s finest knocked on my door. I told her that I never saw Jackie that night and I was shocked to hear that she was missing. "Is there anything I can do?," I asked. She bought my act hook, line and sinker.

The cops weren’t much tougher to sell.

They told me that the Mustang was found stripped and abandoned on Belle Isle and that a local car thief was in custody. His fingerprints were everywhere in the car. They also told me that they needed to get a statement since, according to her sister, Jackie had been headed to my house at the time she disappeared. I complied.

The cops went on to say that two more suspects were in custody in connection to the case. They had been caught trying to buy gas with one of Jackie’s credit cards and the police were trying to tie them to the car thief as accomplices. Even without a body, they told me, they had a good chance to get a conviction on intent, if not actual homicide. And that meant serious jail time, they said.

Before leaving, they offered their condolences. No dropping of the second shoe, I guess.

Home free.


Well, that’s my story.

I never could bear to get rid of the tape. I know it’s evidence, but it’s also Jackie’s voice. I listen to it once in a while just to remind me of her. Funny thing, too...Since the divorce wasn’t final, I was still named as the beneficiary of her $1 million life insurance policy. I’m going to ride it out here for a year or so just to keep from arousing suspicion, but then I’m headed for the suburbs. I’m thinking Royal Oak or Birmingham. I might even move back to L.A.

Before you judge me, dear readers, I beg you to put yourselves in my place. Think you couldn’t do what I did? Don’t doubt yourselves for a minute, my friends. We all have the capability to kill inside of us. And you’ll never know when circumstances will call upon you to do it. Be ready.

Surviving makes you stronger. Trust me I know. Jackie and I have made peace with each other, and from now on, I’m kicking serious ass and taking mother-fucking names!

So, look for more on Beyonce next week! Also, "J-Lo says ‘No!’ to Lipo!" Meanwhile, "Brad Pitt kisses Angelina Jolie’s ass...AGAIN!!!!" and "Turkey Jerky Plays Well At Blog Office Party!"

A.) Do you think he realizes that he just confessed to murder?
B.) Shh! Maybe there’s a reward.
C.) Quick, call 9-1-1.


Wednesday, July 19, 2006


20th Century Bomb: 1911


We are starting a petition to force the Coca-Cola Company to use their old recipe of coca leaves and kola nuts for their soda drink. It was a far more refreshing beverage—an uplifting tonic, if you will—when it contained coca leaf in the last decade of the 19th century.

Unfortunately, it’s a mere sarsaparilla without it. Doctors afraid of “cocaine habits” and “cocainism” should tend to their own gardens.

A.) Ah, the 1890’s—those were the days.
B.) Can they make a sody pop with morphine?
C.) Poor Mayor Corridor, ‘twas the cocaine, the morphine, and Minnie Woodward what killed him.

20th Century Bomb: 1913


Publisher Jefferson Gratiot is pleased as punch to announce the grand opening of a ‘gentlemen’s club’ exclusive to members of the Fellowship of the Lady Bomb. The nightly get together shall be hosted by Dorothy “Hot Buns” Rossetti. Prices begin at one dollar.

A.) One dollar? Sir, do I look like Rockefeller?
B.) One dollar? There’s goes this month’s Model T payment.
C.) One dollar? Why, I'd rather f**k a duck.

20th Century Bomb: 1928


I don’t know if you have a radio yet but you have to get one. On this wonderful invention you can hear music and news and sporting events without having to buy a record. Me? All I listen to on the radio is jazz, jazz, jazz. My favorite is the great Negro singer & trumpeter Louie “Satchmo” Armstrong.

A.) Radio, shmadio—what’s wrong with talking with one another?
B.) A little reefer with your jazz is a kick, kiddo.
C.) And I say to myself ‘It’s a wonderful world.’



Chapter Six

My back was aching from the effort of dismembering the body and my ribs and arm were still sore from the beating I had taken the night before, but I was fairly sure by then that nothing was broken and I’d be able to heal without a trip to the doctor.

Things were definitely looking up.

After a half-hour break and a couple of beers, I dove back into my work with renewed gusto. I hacked through the head with a pruning saw, scooped out Jackie’s brains and flushed them, too. I then got to work cutting up all the bones as small as possible. The bolt cutter saved lots of time and worked wonders on everything from fingers and toes to the forearm and some of the spine, but I had to saw through everything else and it took a while.

I used the pliers to pull her teeth and flushed them down the toilet. The channel locks were also useful for breaking up the skull along suture joints, so that it was eventually just a bunch of bone chips.

By 9 p.m. I had it licked. I randomly put the pile of bone pieces into a couple dozen trash bags, being careful to keep them very light, maybe only a pound or two each. I then double-bagged the lot and put them into two cardboard boxes. Tomorrow they would be at the bottom of Lake St. Clair. The pile of flesh was divided into quart- and gallon-sized freezer bags, most of which I dropped into the chest freezer that had been left in the basement by previous tenants.

After that I cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, but was surprised by how little blood I had got on anything outside the tub. Even if the cops eventually searched the place, it would be hard to detect anything out of the ordinary without a shit-load of equipment. I then swept up the glass from the living room floor, put my books back on shelves and made sure that there were no tell-tale Jackie fingerprints by wiping down everything that she could possibly have touched.

The remainder of the flesh was put in my refrigerator while I read the manual for that food dehydrator. You see I had made up my mind from the beginning that this wasn’t just my fault. No way. Jackie was at least as much responsible as I was, if not more. Did I come looking for her? No. Did I attack her with a bat? Fuck no. So I was determined that she should share in my guilt and my punishment. In order to do that, she had to be a part of me. I would make her that...a part of me. Jackie and I would become one.

I would eat her.


Tuesday, July 18, 2006


Carmen Electra
+ Dave Navarro
= Splitsville
‘Til death do us part? Yeah, right

Love? It’s for suckers, man. Proof? A writer is too busy to elaborate but look at the tears on the keyboard. They are the tears of a clown ... a dancing monkey.

Stick a spork into Dave Navarro and Carmen Electra - that's it, they're done. Cut. The End. Finis. They are separating “amicably” according to Electra's publicist (and peanut butter cup magnate) Brit Reece.

The beautiful couple is severing ties and moving on to bigger and better penis and vagina.

Electra is the former Baywatch star who has made a career out of being hot and that’s about it. She can’t act; she can't talk. Though we did see her walk and chew gum at the same time once.

She looks like the kind of dame you want to throw down on the bed and stick your shlong into as hard and fast as you can.

That’s a talent, a writer guesses.

Her soon-to-be ex-husband, Dave Navarro, has a storied past with Jane’s Addiction, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and heroin, and now hosts the CBS fake rock reality show Rock Star. He’s real good looking, too. In fact, while a writer is heterosexual, after some premium tequila he may pick Dave to be the hotter of the two. Maybe.

They met on a blind date, fell in love and - crazy kids that they were - turned their 2003 wedding into MTV's 'Til Death Do Us Part: Carmen & Dave.

But that was then ...

No one is saying why the pair is kaput, but Navarro is probably having too much fucking fun on his TV show, if you know what a writer means. There's more backstage action going down in one night over there than in all the porno you saw last year.

You know you're going to burn in hell for watching that stuff, right?

Anyway, Lou Rawls said "Love is a hurtin' thing." In this case it’s a celebrity thing – you don’t have to know or understand it, you just have to feel sad, and click on the little envelope at the end of this piece to send it to a friend.

Together, we can make it through this mess, trust me.

A.) Dave wears more make-up than Carmen.
B.) Ha, ha, ha, you got that right, Max Factor.
C.) His lipsticks are sublime, ha, ha, ha.
A.) That douchey Rock Star show is on tonight, isn't it?
B.) Yep, the piece of shit is on at 9pm.
C.) Pure garbage is all it is.
A.) Are you gonna watch it? I am.
B.) Of course, are you crazy?
C.) Shit yeah, I'd rather die than miss it.



Chapter Five

Before I go any further, I feel the need to say a few things here by way of explanation...

Jackie and I had no kids. Not together, not from previous relationships. Her sister was her only living relative and they weren’t particularly close. She had few friends. All-in-all she wasn’t very well liked. I’m not rationalizing here, it’s just the way things were. She wouldn’t really be missed all that much.

And, despite various business ventures and my Sure-Jack Productions deal with Pat, I was pretty much broke. Losing money with Sure-Jack was a welcome tax write-off for Pat, but it had meant living near poverty level for me. The $150 in cash that I lifted from Jackie’s wallet was twice the balance of my checking account. Sad, I know, but true.

Sure, I felt bad for her. Who wouldn’t? But I couldn’t see how confessing and going to jail was going to do me any good either. Odds are, I’d never come out alive, and if I did, I’d be a broken man. So, by the two-wrongs-don’t-make-a-right rationale, I decided to get rid of her body. No body, no murder. End of story.

When I got back to the house, I carried Jackie into the bathroom, took off her clothes and carefully laid her in the tub with her head near the drain and her feet propped up. A quarter turn of the hot water tap produced a slow, steady stream of water. I went to the kitchen, put on a fresh set of gloves, started a pot of coffee and grabbed my Chef’s knife. It was already going on 9 o’clock.

Once back in the bathroom, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and made a slow, sure stroke across Jackie’s throat with the knife, being careful to keep the cut side away from my body in case any blood squirted out. I was surprised at how easily it sliced the flesh. All my knives had stayed much sharper since I started storing them on that magnetic strip I had installed on the wall near the stove.

Thirty bucks at Crate & Barrel sounded like a lot when I bought it, but it seemed like a pretty wise investment under the present circumstances.

Again, to my surprise, the blood didn’t squirt, but oozed towards the drain, mixing with the water. Before long I realized that hot water wasn’t such a good idea. The odor of the draining blood was intensified by the steam that began to rise from the tub after several minutes and I choked and gagged as I hovered over Jackie, struggling to turn off the hot tap and replace the stream with cold water. But once that was done, it was just a matter of waiting.

While Jackie drained, I poured a cup of coffee and headed to the garage for tools.

I found a pair of large bolt cutters, some channel locks, two or three types of hand saws and an old food dehydrator that I had bought at a garage sale just two weeks prior for 2 bucks. The Chef’s knife and a boning knife that I rarely used would round out the implements I’d need to finish the job. By the time I got back inside, she was pretty much dry and I spent a few minutes trying to figure out the best way to cut her up before diving in.

Jackie was in pretty good shape for her age...about five-five, one-thirty-or-so. And a lot leaner than two years ago, thanks to all of that liposuction I paid for. It really didn’t seem like it would be all that much work once I got started.

I stripped naked to keep from getting blood on any of my clothes, straddled Jackie’s body and began cutting strips of flesh away from the bone. When joints were exposed, I sawed carefully through them and slowly began assembling two piles of remains on either side of the, a stack of naked, grisly bones and the other, a limp, wet heap of flesh.

It was sweaty work and it took much longer than I thought it would, but by mid-afternoon I pretty much had the arms, legs and head removed and, along with the torso, stripped of flesh. I carefully cut into the stomach, trying not to puncture any of the internal organs, but a nick of the colon produced horrific odors to the point I thought I would have to stop. After wiping the sweat from my eyes, I steeled myself and went back to work, eventually getting used to the stench. It occurred to me that I hadn’t had to be so careful anyway, since I was planning on chopping the organs into pieces that were small enough to flush down the toilet.

It took another hour or so, but eventually liver, lungs, heart, kidneys, etc. had all been cut into flushable chunks.

An hour after that and they had all been sent straight to the Detroit River.

I checked the time. It was half-past five and I was ready for a drink.


Monday, July 17, 2006


Right and Left Hand Man to Ol' Blue Eyes

Bill Miller, pianist and conductor for Frank Sinatra for almost 50 years, died in Montreal last week from complications following a heart attack. The guy played on all of Frank’s greatest 60s and 70s sides. Like the singer, he could swing and then turn around and break your heart; Sinatra called him “my partner at the piano.”

Miller, born in Brooklyn in 1915, was 18-years-old when he started playing the big band scene with Larry Funk and his Band of a Thousand Melodies before moving on to stints with Joe Haymes and Red Norvo. It was after his tenure with Norvo in 1952 that Miller and Sinatra hooked up. Miller joined Frank on the road and in the studio and is most famous for his deft finger work on unforgettable recordings like One For My Baby, Lady is a Tramp, The Lonesome Road, and more classics than you can shake a martini at.

Their professional relationship made them friends. In 1969 when Miller lost his wife and house in a mudslide in the Los Angeles hills, Sinatra paid his hospital bills, bought him a new apartment, and helped the inconsolable musician resume a somewhat normal life. Onstage the singer nicknamed the pianist "Sunshine Charlie" – ironic, because like Sinatra, Miller dug the night time and rarely saw daylight.

When Sinatra died of a heart attack in 1998 at age 82, Miller played One for My Baby at the funeral and eventually ended up working in Frank Sinatra Jr.’s orchestra until two weeks ago when he fell and broke his hip while touring with Junior in Canada.

The heart attack followed soon after. There were complications.

The last thing the pianist said as he was wheeled into the operating room was “Fly me to the moon.”

Bill Miller was 91-years-old.

A.) I understand Nat King Cole was a great influence on him.
B.) 91-years-old and still playing onstage ... bravo.
C.) I hate goddamn Mondays.

WARNING - Do Not Click:

1.....81-Year-old grandma stabbed, strangled, and stuffed in closet.
2.....Justin Timberlake and his secret drugs.
3.....Marisol Bello writes about a "pungent odor akin to rotting flesh mixed with manure."
4.....Oh fuck, I think I'm gonna puke.
5.....Eminem allegedly beats on an old guy at a titty bar.



March 21 - April 19
I feel your pain this week, Aries. I know it's bad. Unfortunately, you'll be feeling it a lot more than I do and I strongly recommend self-medicating with your recreational drug of choice. Lucky malt liquor: Colt 45

April 20 - May 20
Unlucky in love this week, Taurus. Sorry, but that's what it says. No matter how smoothly things have been going with the old ball-and-chain, it's about to get dicey. An unwanted pregnancy followed by a botched abortion could be the straw that break's the alcoholic camel's back . Drink until you turn yellow. Lucky color: yellow

May 21 - June 21
Take nothing for granted, Gemini. Even if you are my favorite sign, the sweet life can be over just like that (snapping of fingers). And there's going to be a lot of you finding that out this week. The stars are saying bad financial news, repossession and eventual bankruptcy. Hey what can I say? It's in the fucking stars. No lucky numbers this week.

June 22 - July 22
Ah, Cancer. Next to Gemini, you're my favorite sign. Unfortunately I don't have much good news for you this week, either. If you're a user, you might want to find a new supplier. Your guy is cutting it with some dangerous shit. Lucky numbers: 10cc

July 23 - August 22
Yo, Leo. Why can't you listen up when I'm giving you good advice? I've told you time and again to watch your temper, maybe even take an anger management class. Did you listen? Of course not. Well, this week it gets the best of you. I see a bloody barfight followed by jail time. Lucky shot: Dewar's, neat

August 23 - September 22
Half way through with my astrological chores for the week and I look down and see your chart, my Virgo friend. I was encouraged at first when I saw that there would be transition for you this week, but then I realized it meant from this earthly life to the beyond. Have a nice trip. Lucky prayer: Hail Mary

September 23 - October 22
I have been pretty vague with your horoscope in the past month or so, Libra, but that's because the stars haven't been telling me shit about you. Unfortunately, that means I have to make something up just to move this whole dog-and-pony show on. I just can't think of anything right now. I'll wish you luck, but...No lucky numbers.

October 23 - November 21
Okay, Scorpio, after waiting for two weeks I owe you a doozy of a prediction for this week. Here it is: by the end of the week all of your mother-fucking problems will be solved. And I mean ALL of them. That's right, you lucky more worries, anxiety or fear. Too bad it also means no more eating, breathing and having sex. Lucky roll: egg


November 22 - December 21
I believe in you, Sagittarius, even if those closest to you have deserted you. Your spouse has abandoned you when you needed him / her the most, and nothing feels worse, I know. Nothing except maybe a knife stuck in their back, instead of yours. And in this case, I mean literally, not figuratively. Get a knife and stab the prick / bitch. Lucky getaway car: Pontiac Sunbird

December 22 - January 19
I can't believe I wasn't deluged with complaints about addressing you last week as Cancer, Capricorn. Just goes to show that as a group, your astrological sign isn't all that bright. You're a friggin' Capricorn, okay? Not a Cancer! I hope you followed my advice last week, though. That part was right on. No lucky anything.


January 20 - February 18
Okay, Aquarius. I give up. You win. Go ahead and ruin your life. You know that having an affair with your best friend's boyfriend / girlfriend isn't a good idea, but you're proceeding anyway. Just know this: best friends can be psychos, too, and they can fuck you up good if they find out. Lucky position: doggy-style anal

February 19 - March 20
What's shakin' this week, my Pisces friend? Not much, you say? Well, hold on to your hat because by the end of the week there'll be a whole lotta shakin' goin' on. So much so that you'll feel like you survived the San Francisco earthquake. Which one, you ask? Okay, just for that, you won't survive. No lucky numbers... (SAL "THE CHAMELEON" BENSEN)


Sunday, July 16, 2006


Chapter Four
Without calling in help from a forensic pathologist, I couldn’t really be sure how Jackie had died. I guessed that she either hit her head during our struggle or I choked her...maybe a combination of both. It didn’t really matter, as I saw it. She was dead and my goose would be cooked either way.

Even though the tape had evidence of me acting in self-defense, they’d pin a manslaughter charge on me for sure at the very least. I’d be found guilty and I’d do time. What good would that do? I asked myself. Would it bring Jackie back? No. And I was no killer, in spite of what had just happened.

I looked at the clock again: 7:05. I’d have to hurry.

I went to the kitchen and put on some vinyl gloves that I use when I’m cooking. You know, to cut up hot peppers and stuff without getting anything on my hands. It’s a bitch if you get pepper juice on your hands then take a piss. Very painful. I went back to the living room and did a quick visual survey.

Her hand bag was on the floor near the body and I searched the contents for a hotel key or rental car key. If she had come by cab, I was sunk. Lo and behold, there it was...Hertz had put her in the driver’s seat and I began to have some hope.

I dumped the entire contents of her purse on the dining room table: two pairs of sunglasses, a wallet with over $300 cash and a hefty stack of credit cards in it, lipsticks, eye makeup, house keys, gum, mints, a couple of ink pens, airplane tickets and her cell phone. I picked up the phone, unlocked the keys and checked her call log. It looked like the last call she had made was to her sister in L.A. around 11:30 the night before. A quick check of her plane ticket showed that was around the time of her scheduled arrival at Detroit Metro. Probably just to let her know that her flight arrived okay, I thought. The call log also showed no received or missed calls since she landed, and none of the rest of the dialed numbers were mine. I let out a sigh of relief. Nobody knew that she had made it to my place.


First, I had to get rid of the car before she was reported missing and the police got involved. After that, I’d worry about the body. I figured that if I dumped the car somewhere, it would be at least a day before the cops got involved and a couple more days before they actually figured anything out. Plenty of time, I thought.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw a white Mustang was parked across the street. I didn’t recognize it from being in the neighborhood. The rental key was from a Ford and that meant it was probably the car Jackie had driven here in. Again, good. That meant even if somebody saw it, they couldn’t say for sure that whoever drove it here had come into my house unless they actually saw her do it. Since I lived right across from a water treatment plant and the house next door was vacant, I was pretty sure that nobody saw anything. It had been late. A forty-minute drive from the airport put her here well past midnight on a weeknight. I crossed my fingers and rolled the dice.

After making sure the place was locked up, I went out the side door, slid into the rental car and started it up. Nice car, that Mustang. Jackie always did have good taste in cars.

I drove it several blocks away, to a particularly desolate area just off Van Dyke. It looked more like Baghdad than Detroit over there, with burned out homes and empty lots filled with rubbish and piles of tires as high as your head.

I parked the car in a driveway next to one of the shabbier abandoned houses on the block, pulled it as far off the street as possible and left it, keys still in the ignition. Candy to a baby.

It wouldn’t be hard to imagine a woman from out of town getting lost in this area and being car-jacked, robbed and killed. Happened all the time in Detroit, I told myself. All the time.

I took half of the money from her wallet, then dropped her purse near a rusted out 55 gallon drum around which a group of crack-heads could often be seen socializing. My hope was that somebody would find the money and credit cards, try to use them, get caught and be arrested. With any luck, they’d get a quick conviction on something even if the cops couldn’t turn up a body. Case closed and I’m home free. I strolled back to my house as nonchalantly as possible, resisting the urge to whistle. So far, so good.

I had just one more problem to get rid of: Jackie’s body.


Friday, July 14, 2006


Global warming, insane oil prices, bad jokes, dollar burgers, stupid blogs, way too many celebrities, sick chickens, homos, heteros, hope, despair, fuck … this ball of confusion is making everybody crazy.

Let’s all get on our knees and pray.

Right after we read this column.

This train wreck of a show, Rock Star: Supernova, may well be this season's most entertaining. It's about a rock band looking for a singer.

Watching the band / judges - Tommy Lee (Motley Crue), Jason Newsted (dumbass that quit Metallica), and Gilbey Clarke (late Guns & Roses? Not sure, sorry) - is not unlike seeing bad Spinal Tap outtakes with Tommy Lee as obnoxious as ever. Makes you wish one of the contestants would strangle the fucking guy.

Rock is the latest way to make a buck in reality TV.

The would-be rockers vying for the chance to front Supernova are spoiled snot-nosed wannabes; they make the Americal Idol crew look like seasoned pros.

The highlight and sexiest part of Rock Star is when hosts Dave Navarro and Brooke Burke exchange blouses. Navarro looks like a young Geraldo Rivera in drag.

Extremely entertaining televison at its sickest.

A.) Jason Newsted? That's the clown that quit Metallica?
B.) Yes - ha, ha, ha ...
C.) To do his own thing, ha, ha, ha ...
A.) Hey, now he's on TV with Tommy Lee, ha, ha, ha.
B.) Maybe he can make a sex tape with Tommy Lee, ha, ha, ha.
C.) I like that Rock Star show.
A.) Yeah, but you like crack too.
C.) That's true. We should go to the crackhouse.
A.) There are a few upcoming pieces to comment on, I think.
C.) Fuck that, let's go get high.
B.) Yeah - fuck it, it's Friday.
A.) Hmmm ... I got it! Let's just write a few generic lines ...
B.) ... and plug them in ahead of time ...
C.) ... and it will be swell.
A.) Yeah, fuck this place, stupid blog; let's go.
B.) Let's hurry up and type some crap.
C.) Let's do it right now.

Hipster book reading fiends are drooling on their thrift-store Dockers: Charles Bukowski's Factotum with Matt Dillon as Chinaski is coming to the big screen this August. Don't count on too many moviegoers checking it out; ten out of ten people don't know who the fuck Buk is. That means the DVD should be available by Christmas which means Factotum will be on dollar store shelves in the second quarter of 2007.

A.) Yes. As usual, the writer is right on the money.
B.) No, he's wrong - but he is incredibly handsome.
C.) I buried a prostitute under home plate at Comerica Park.

What's wrong with these teenagers today? They're kookoo. Did you hear this? Some kids in Burbank, Illinois beat up a fifteen year old boy. Then they tore off the prosthetic leg from his body and used it to whack another kid on the head. Now he doesn't have a leg to stand on. See how life is?

And the youngsters and their drugs ... why, Norm Macdonald remembers when pot was something you used to boil hot dogs in.

A.) Huh. I never looked at it like that before ... a refreshing take, thanks.
B.) I can't agree but your punctuation is always top-notch.
C.) Most Embarassing Moment? Drank too much and licked a lamb's genitals.

Not sure if it's Danny Buttafuoco or Joey Bonaduce, but one of those knuckleheads has scored their own new game show on the Game Show Network. In case you're one of the suckers that still actually watches cable TV, the name of the waste of time is Starface.

Pop culture, ha, ha, ha.

A.) Someday Oliver Stone will make a movie about that person you just mentioned.
B.) First the war, now this.
C.) I wonder if Miss Perchakowski really blew a priest.

Unless they can add a couple of hours to a day and then give it to me for free, satellite radio can kiss my ass. That’s right, I have spoken. Stern, Oprah, Martha, Jesus, 70's music, Blahbla … who fucking cares? I mean, really.

You have AM, FM, CDs, records, cassettes, TV, and DVDs to watch and listen to. You've got a mother, wife, mistress, and gay lover to entertain you. Will the motherfuckers never cease? I think we have enough crap for awhile, okay? Everybody take a deep breath, get a firm grip.

Refuckinglax; let's smell the roses.

And remember there’s a beautiful thing called silence that won’t kill you for two fucking minutes either, for fuck’s sake.

A.) Tell it like it is, brother.
B.) Rock Star rocks!
C.) Can’t read the column right now, I'm too high on crack.


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