Poor Mojo's Newswire

... As Wycliffe translated Gensis II.7: "Therfor the Lord God formede man of the sliym of erthe, and brethide in to his face the brething of lijf; and man was maad in to a lyuynge soule." So, we may see man's life itself as posthumous, after the earth, and the breath of life is in man's face. Is it fair to say that a thing here has ended? Is it fair to say that you should hold on to your divine breath? I dare include myself in this statement (though it be slightly etymologically askew): We are all of us posthumous, and all of us held in the breath of God. ...

...Puella dips the pin in the ink then pokes Anson. Dip and poke. Dip and poke. Dip and poke. Using a damp rag, Puella wipes away the excess ink. Anson talks nonstop while Puella pokes and pokes and pokes mild-eyed and silent. After hours pass, the room becomes quiet except for the sound of two sets of lungs inhaling and exhaling in response to one another. And hours after that, a blue whale materializes bloody and black on Anson's arm. Puella wraps the whale in white bandages....

... She's been seized by these seizures, after overexposure to strobes shining epileptic suns, ...

... What do you think you'll use it for anyway? Storage? Baking? Holding bottles of wine? It's ridiculous, you know, this line of thought. That thing'll get covered in mountains of shit, you'll never be able to find your keys, and it'll be this one giant dunghill of shitbombs before you've had it for a total of two weeks. Good luck getting to that electric bill. You might want to store that in the overstuffed file drawers you got on sale at CB2 since they were, like, super cool last fall. Idiot. ...

Dear Giant Squid, Itz winter an it kindda suks cuz itz alwayz cold now i hav2 where sokks !!! unsigned Dear Unsigned, I confess that your letter, more than any missive or correspondence that has ever reached me afore, confused me terribly. As is the manner of the aging Baby Boomer, I held the letter (sheathed in plastic to protect it from my waters) at varying distances from my face, moving it closer and further, tilting it slightly. I squinted at the letters, willing them to make sense—though it should be noted that mine eyes are optically perfectemundo, dear readers, and so squinting is merely for show. My eyes did not fail me. The difficulty in reading your letter did not lie in mine eye. ...

One day after Mary had a dream about being burned at the stake by her immediate family, she was eating bacon for breakfast and something unexpected began to happen in her mouth. Her tongue swelled up and she felt as if it wasn't the bacon she was eating but her own tongue. It tasted burnt. Then everything tasted burnt and Mary stopped eating. Her parents noticed, but when they tried to talk to her, she said, "Don't worry about it. I'm dead." ...

No one's met the guy who owns the company Secreted away in some distant high-rise, he doesn't drop by A ghoul from another universe who speaks a foreign language Rumor has it he hunts animals and sticks the heads on a wall Does the guy care about what you're trying to accomplish? (not really) Does he comprehend what your business actually does? (doubtful) What qualifies him to run the show? (other peoples' money) The black cowboy boots with the expensive suit were a hint that something's wrong ...

Tom, man, what is up?—what I can barely hear you man— probably your lame ass cell phone dude—what—yah man I'm hanging out at the beach major tight ass chicks all over the place—I said I can barely here you maybe it's from the accident—lost partial hearing in my left ear snowboarding when I hit a tree it rocked—yah I'm chillin' at Venice Beach totally got sweet babes with major racks man—dude I think your connection is bad are you in your mom's basement— ...