Yuichi Yokoyama
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 22, 2013
Portrait
of King Willem-Alexander delivering his “monarch’s annual
address” on the day the government presents its Budget. September of the year
2013.
Short Open Story
Letter
to
King
Willem-Alexander-Fart-Nugget-Shit-Stain of The Really Really Low Countries.
By
A.N. Houx
Who the fuck is this motherfucking
bitch-fucking fuck-twit? Said a man. The French, they knew.
Just like a loaf of bread. Chopchopchopchop!!
And King
Willem-Alexander-Fart-Nugget-Shit-Stain of The Really Really Low Countries with his
portly wife Queen Maxima Cunt-Face-Arse, walked the grounds of their many
castles, farting and laughing, and kicking small children in the head until
their brains leaked out of their nostrils, while petting ever-so-cute little
kittens (mostly Asheras and Savannahs, but a few Peterbalds, also). Owh, my Deahr Queen, he said (only in
his own language, of course. Something like “Oh, mijn lieve koningin”? Maybe?),
as the blood was duly licked off of his $9000 loafers. Let uhs celebrhate beyhond what ihs called for, yesh? Old tihmes are
back agaihn, you knowhh. Finally we can act the pahrt. He gestured
majestically towards everything and everyone, as he felt, finally, that
wonderful feeling in his chest of knowing he was better than all the other
people and all the other things in the land. Queen Maxima Cunt-Face-Arse made a
sharp whistling sound out of her face-hole which caused a flock of doves to
die.
The celebration went on for what seemed like
forever, until someone, just anyone, got up and said, You know what, you fucking motherfucking child-raping fucking pieces of
shit. It’s fucking over. Kings are of the past. And the present should, really out of plain necessity, kill the past.
And everyone said Yes, why are we even listening to these fucking twats anyway? I mean,
really, what the fuck is wrong with us, taking a bunch of losers like this
seriously?! What the fuck?! And they all went happily to the palace at Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal and dragged the
fucking King and his fucking Queen and all their fucking children (they have spawned offspring,
I suppose? Right?) and any other fucking member of their fucked up family of fucking moochers,
and killed them slowly and methodically. And every year since then children, on
that very day, venture to the spot and urinate copiously and happily.
The End.
From:
“New Windmills” Work in progress 2012-
MS unpublished
To be
featured in the upcoming anthology “History Painting Just Now”.
LWBP Press.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 3, 2013
”Som jag satt vid
mitt bord med pennan i hand, drabbade mig ett feberanfall som ett åskslag. Då
jag inte varit allvarligt sjuk på femton år, tog jag illa vid mig av händelsen,
som inföll olägligt; inte för att jag fruktade döden, långt därifrån, men efter
att vid trettioåtta års ålder ha nått slutet på en stormig bana utan att ha
sagt mitt sista ord, utan att ha infriat alla ungdomslöften, fylld av planer
för framtiden, var jag knappast förtjust över det inträffade. Efter att i fyra
års tid ha levt i halvt frivillig landsflykt med hustru och barn, höll jag mig
undan i en bajersk by, överansträngd, nyligen stämd inför domstol, drabbad av kvarstad,
lyst i bann, slängd på avskrädeshögen, och det var känslan av revansch jag var
besatt av när jag i sista ögonblicket sjönk ner på min säng.”
August Strindberg
En dåres försvarstal (1893)
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