This came the other day, addressed to “Current Occupant”:
Since they’re interested in “artsy capitalist” projects, well, I don’t own any buildings I can sell them, but I’ve been working on this proposal for an artwork — it’s primarily a piece of literature, but literature so HIP, so EDGY, so CAPITALIST – I’m talking about like if “The Great Gatsby” plowed “50 Shades Of Grey” from behind till it’s forceful literature-dick popped out 50 Shades’ mouth, and it’s head was a miniature Ayn Rand who belted out orgasmic arias for the Queen at the motherfucking Diamond Jubilee. But it can also be adapted into an art film (preferably $undance friendly indie cinema) or even performance art pieces that can be acted out on Bogart St. by Woodhull psych outpatients. Part of their therapy. Here’s a sample:
As the opening credits for “Girls” rolled, Halstead delicately juggled his scrotal sack between the fingers of his left hand. His testicles felts a bit rubbery and loose-skinned, yet at the same time soft and powdery the way he imagined Lena Dunham and her fellow “Girls” would if he could reach through the glow of the HDTV and touch them. He couldn’t imagine anything more seriously cutting edge Brooklyn than these privileged, all white, tv-attractive characters, and it aroused him magnificently. In his right hand he clutched a Big Gulp he had picked up on his way home from another grueling, gentrifying day at the real estate firm, and he occasionally sipped it when he felt his body in danger of overheating, usually when Lena’s character brought up her HPV.
A sudden sharp rap at the door shook him out of his reverie. “Fuck off!” he snapped at the boner-killing interloper.
“Roberta’s pizza. Special delivery for Mr. Halstead!” said a muffled voice on the other side of the door. The voice sounded vaguely recognizable, but he couldn’t place it. Still, Roberta’s! Their pricey mediocre fare was among the hippest of the hip in MORGANTOWN! Often when he was slumming it there in between “john trolls” in his SUV, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to eat at Roberta’s, Moo Moo (but not Momo’s), Shinobi, or The Anchored Inn! He hoped the delivery guy wouldn’t notice his erection-resurrection as he hastily shuffled to answer the door. Or at least, that he wouldn’t mind.
The door swung open to reveal no supple-yet-ordinary Roberta’s employee, but Mayor Anal Bloomburn himself!
“Mr. Halstead, I’ve been on your trail since I saw you pick up that Big Gulp! Normally such an offense would require me to slice you up thinner than city funding for HASA, but since you’re so dedicated to gentrification, I’ll spare you this time if you hand over that soda.” Trembling in awe as much as fear, Halstead relinquished the cup to Bloomburn, who stared at it with a mixture of revulsion and fascination for a moment. Then in the next moment he quickly unfastened the silk trousers of his $3000 designer Italian suit and plunged his own erect, throbbing cock into the sweet, wet, forbidden liquid. Bloomburn moaned deliriously as the carbonated bubbles tingled around his shaft. Less than 30 seconds later, he handed the soft drink back to Halstead.
“There, now it’s a protein shake! Much healthier.” Halstead eagerly guzzled down the rest of the soda–and Hizzoner’s spunk, as though it were nectar from atop Olympus. Alas, drinking such a supersized amount too quickly was a mistake, and Halstead lurched forward with a stream of projectile vomit that would have only narrowly missed ruined Bloomburn’s silk suit, had the Mayor not deliberately leapt in the way of his emulsion.
“Now THAT’S what I call tasting the rainbow!” Bloomburn bellowed as puke spattered him. “I can analyze from the smell of your puke that despite your Big Gulp transgression, you maintain a very healthy overpriced organic diet. OH GOOOODDDDD how I approve!!!!” His ecstasy ceased however, when he noticed the rivulets of vomit dripping off his person into a puddle on the floor were taking on a homunculoid form. “Dammit, not again!”
“What the hell is it?” Halstead asked in bewilderment at the bland and even homely, suburbanite-dull form that emerged, wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. She was nowhere near as masturbation worthy as the cast of that oh-so-transgressive HBO’s “Girls”.
“That is a lesser spirit of Harvard named Bonehead Kovoussi” Bloomburn explained. “I summoned her one evening in the hopes she could permanently suck away my genital warts, but her BJ prowess is even more laughable than her comprehension of New York history and housing, not that any of that matters to me. So I commanded her to return to the luxury Harvard dormitory from whence she was summoned, but she persists in stalking me. She visits me nightly when I sleep and slathers my bed with greasy BLT sandwiches. I wake up cumming like a racehorse, sure, but really that kind of thing is only healthy once in a while.”
“But I loooove you Master Bloomburn” Bonehead’s otherworldly voice issued through her pasty lips. “Together we can crush the poor of the city, and the long time working class city residents who stand in the way of me putting all my rich white friends into their meager little railroad apartments, which I covet for some damn reason although I’ve had just about everything else under the sun handed to me.”
Halstead scratched his chin. “That actually doesn’t sound like a half bad idea. In fact, all her talk of displacing elderly poor people puts me in the mood for a good pegging. Hey, have I shown either of you my official Morgantown king size butt plug I bought at The Loom?”…
TO BE CONTINUED…