A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Butterbrot

There’s very little on this earth that a dollop of butter can’t make taste better. Bread, eggs, leather. If you’re one of the survivors of a crashed airliner with a bunch of briefcases and a few rods of butter between you, you’ve got it made in the shade, my man. No cannibalism for your party—you’re sliding Land o’Lakes across a dead fuck’s boiled wallet and living decent. A few airplane nips of vodka keeping everyone nice and pickled? 255 days. Me and ten people could survive in the mountains for 255 days.

Recently, while tremendously high, I found myself asking the question, “what’s the difference between butter and cheese?” I invited my friend Louis over because it freaked me out so much.

“Is butter… is butter just rich cheese?” I asked him, eyes red and watering. He was dumbstruck for a minute. And then we both cried and ate a pound of Havarti.

The butterbrot is a sandie of German origin that is bread coated in butter. It is also known as a butterstule, a bütterken, a bemme, and a stulle. Do not call it toast. On top of the butter layer, a sort of anything-goes game is played, depending on the diner’s mood, the season, and the time of day. For breakfast, it could be topped with, say, blackberries and honey. For supper? Salmon roe. Do not call it toast. For lunch, egg salad. It is an open faced sandwich. Do not call it toast.

Isn’t this the same as a toast sandwich

No fuck you.

What’s with the fake sandwiches lately?

They’re not fake. These articles about sandwiches are almost-exclusively sourced from the famous Wikipedia article, List_of_sandwiches. The only exception I can think of is the chickpea salad, and since Wikipedia is the Online Encyclopedia Anyone Can Edit, over a long enough timeline, that absence is merely temporary. The butterbrot also has its own Wikipedia page, in which there is a subsection called “Decline“.

What’s with the bullshit sandwiches from this list then?

I am trying to illustrate a certain sense of austerity as I think about big things in my real life. Picture me with my chin resting firmly on my knuckles, my arm bent at the elbow on a desk made out of stone.

I’m gay.

Me too, dude.

Photo credit: Wikipedia user Pianist

A Journey Through the Sandwiches—Tongue

When it comes to the canon of Weird Meats, beef tongue is pretty low on the proverbial scale of exoticism. It could be fairly argued that it’s not that weird a part of an animal to eat at all; we’re not exactly talking about chowing down on a cereal bowl full of eyeballs, here. But the limitations of the imagination that an underdeveloped diet incubates cannot be overstated—I know people who prefer their steaks well done. There are people who have only ever known the stale-air taste of Pizza Hut. For plenty of people, for all sorts of reasons, tongue is very weird indeed. If it’s a niche meat for any reason, it’s because the aesthetics simply aren’t for everybody. DSC04360_1523x1012

I think it’s fair to not be able to get around this. Personally, I enjoy it. Eating a tongue makes the delightful savagery of consuming meat particularly real—it’s one of the only organs in the body you can see. And when you eat it, you will gain the powers of the animal whose soul you’ve taken. MOO.

A common myth goes to the effect that relative to its size, the tongue is the strongest muscle in a body, or at least the human body. It’s not true, but still, the tongue impresses. Under normal circumstances, it doesn’t fatigue. You can flap and flip it hither and thither all day (and ~all night~) without ever experiencing anything that you would fairly term as soreness.

Anyway, your strongest muscles tend to be your quadriceps, and also your glutes. Yer ass! Personally, I think that’s a heck of a lot cooler.

Beef tongue, a fatty meat, is often paired with onions during seasoning. When well-prepared, it can rather fairly be said to have a texture that melts in your mouth. Dressed up as a delicious sandwich, served with diced vegetables, vinegar, and oil, between two hearty slices of seared bread, it’s an absolute barnburner. Just thinking about it makes me look longingly out the window, as though I were a schoolgirl, head full of dreams, eyes alight reflecting all the beauty in the world.

There’s also a breakfast variant: an open-faced sandwich that they call tongue toast.


Oh, we’re getting f-a-n-c-y now.  Look at that soft bagel. Damn. My, that dish is playful and appealing to me. Maybe I’m unsophisticated. Maybe I’m wrong. Shit. Who cares. That looks like the kind of meal that could compel a girl to wolf it down in thirty seconds, and then lick the plate. I’m whipping myself into a frenzy, over here. God, it’s made me high as fucking balls.

Photo Credits: Star Chefs; The Curious Coconut

entr’acte, exeunt, intracting

I am beginning to cocoon myself. Alone beneath the open sky I pull and pluck at disparate strings, thin to the point of nonexistence, barely matter, from the air, twining them between my fingers into thread. Unlike spider’s silk, my threads are coarse, peppered in color, irregularly shaped. The patterns of my weaving are rough to the eye and jagged to the touch. There is no elegance to my construction. It is miraculous, but that is all.

I begin with my torso, twining the threads about me upward and downward in turn, thickening the center of what will become my cocoon. I am protecting my most vital points; tight, but not uncomfortable, my chest and stomach press firm against the weaving when I breathe. I am beginning to imagine how the next few years will be.

I twine new threads down my left leg, straining against the bulk of what I’ve already created. Over hours I cover the limb, beginning with the fat part of my thigh. It feels less imperfect, more secure, inside the casing I’m creating. I resist the urge to tighten it; there must be room for bloodflow. I hope that time will make me smaller.

I wrap my second leg in thread and marvel at the reality of my creation. It is beginning to be difficult to imagine an alternate, prior existence. I am encased, I am myself. I must internalize the new reality, a mental readjustment proving easier, more automatic, than one might initially expect.

I begin my arms with apprehension; the more that I continue, the more difficult the work becomes to undo. There is a point that I will lose my ability to escape what I’m creating. This I consider, as I twine the tendrils down my forearm, asphalt gray and hardening.

In order to ensure that my cocoon will be impermeable, I now begin to wrap my head. I will finish the construction blind. It is the only way to ensure that my head will be protected; to secure the webs around my nostrils, ears, the fine contours of my face, I will need dexterity. It is difficult to decide what last to cover—my nose, my eyes. I seal my mouth without concern. There is nothing left for me to say.

Now I have become as like a being otherworldly, my shape wide and irregular, save for the flesh of my hands and feet, protruding from my stiffening sleeves as I commence the final step. This is the point of no return. I lay myself upon the ground and begin to bind my legs together, lashing them into a rigid plank, inarticulate. I wrap my feet to one another til they form a rounded tip. I wiggle my toes, and tighten.

The work grows harder as my body fatigues, but soon, it will all be over. I lash my left arm to my chest, and bind my fingers flat against my body. I place my right hand on my heart, using what little space remains between my other arm and chest to squeeze in my uncovered digits, these last five fingers of bare skin. The web will seal my hand, in time, inside the space beneath my other arm. The key to making it secure at all is to stay as still as I can be. The inexactness of the seal creates the weakest point of my cocoon, but is not so due to oversight. I stretch my fingers, and try to feel my heartbeat as it slows. In years’ time, I will need the space around my fingers slack, when I use my unbound hand, finally, to break free.

Photo credit: Zdzisław Beksiński

Wisdom > Power > Courage holla holla hyrule BOO-yah

Tattoo Guy: “You want to get the Triforce tattooed… where?”

Me: *v.quiet* “Uhhhmm, yes, just around my eyes, my pupils…nmnn..

Tattoo Guy: “Speak up. You have to tell me what you really want. Don’t be embarrassed, kid. Where do you want me to tattoo the Triforce?”

Me: *beginning v.quiet but my voice just rises & rises into a roar* “—my pupils & my eyes & in my ESSENCE & my SOUL!!!”

He jams the needle in my third psionic eye as my body is propelled upward into the clouds with sword in hand towards journeys most fantastic

Youtube Rabbit Hole: Boozie Bad Azz

Drunk Monkeys Anthology Volume 3 On Sale Now

Ah! You know, I suppose it’d be prudent, wise and kind for me to pimp this.

So, Drunk Monkeys is an (I believe? Primarily?) California-based web blog lit journal film crit megalith of a writing thing that I have written for that is producing works of writing that I and many more would call exemplary. I love it like the dickens; I love it with my soul!

A few months back or maybe more, the editorial staff at Drunk Monkeys was so kind as to accept a story of mine that I’d submitted, called Awake, which you may have read or heard of, for which I won an Adult Creative Writing Contest award from the Tulsa City-County Library. (This award, which I am extremely proud of, ensured the enshrinement of my story, from the day of that award ceremony forward, and henceforth into time immemorial, into their tucked-away archives, paper-clipped together, typos and all, clapped up inside a very specific and—y’know, one would hope—bulletproof binder.) This was the story about the guy that cannot sleep to death. It’s very Stephen King-y, which should surprise not many—King’s a major inspiration. The way he welds Americana with its sick, tormented underworlds, and makes it look so effortless. Who cares if his endings suck? Even if they always suck? Except for, maybe, Hearts in Atlantis, if that counts, which it should, because that book is great. Stephen King wrote a story about the American dream blooming in the Vietnam season; I wrote a sad, sad one-off about a guy that fuckin’ died.

Anyway, that insomnia story’s in this book.

And so are a lot of other things, actually. Better things—the sort of thing you maybe haven’t read before. Like Christopher James’ sexotron story; that was pretty fuckin’ funny.  And a poem by Michael Passafiume that made me sorta wanna cry, that’s in there too.

Anyway, I got the thing for free. I read it in an afternoon. A cooler me would leak it, but, y’know, well, idk. A saner me prevails.

That said, the Drunk Monkeys Anthology Volume 3 paperback (which I would happily arrange to sign and slobber on for you, should that be your bag) is available here.

And the Kindle edition of the Anthology, which costs $2.99, is available here! Shit! I bet some of you fools can even figure out how to get that for free!

All jokes aside, thank you sincerely for supporting me in what I try and like to do. And thank you, incidentally, to the editorial staff of Drunk Monkeys for supporting it. If you all didn’t seem to like it, I wouldn’t be here. So all my best to you, friends, always. Selah.

Drunk Monkeys header courtesy drunkmonkeys.us

Another Fun Thing that We Could Do, IN SPACE

I hope that you’re enjoying the occasional lunchtime sandwich thing. I get fulfillment out of writing them—heck, it’s my pretty earnest hope that we’re all getting something out of it. Hungry, maybe.

Anyway, that’ll continue. But I’ve been brainstorming this evening, yes I have… some tornadic inspiration! This most blustery eve. We’ve figured out how to make the site a lunchtime hotspot. But what about the nighttime? What about… Twitter After Dark…?

I propose we do a nocturne journey through the art of space music. I don’t know shit about it. Neither do you. Let’s discover it together…

All… freaky-like…

…In the Dark…?

Youtube Rabbit Hole (Tell Me You’re Not Down With This): And the Stars Go With You

Photo credit: pics-about-space.com

I used to moderate a forum dedicated to the band from Arkansas called Evanescence

at the time, I was very into it. I was 13, and they understood me, swallowed up in the sound of my screaming, not ceasing, for fear of silent nights. Oh, how I longed for the deep sleep dreaming—the Goddess of imaginary light.

The record that they cut before we ever could’ve heard of them—Origin—was dope. I still listen to it, sometimes.

I have a lot of memories around the album they called Fallen

and once in seventh grade, a teacher asked our favorite songs, & I said this:

w/e—you don’t know me

scenes from the upcoming feature “Star War—Ep 7: the Force is Up” (3)


The captive rebel fighter POSEPH DAMERON kneels in a dark room. He is exhausted, battered, looking beaten—but there is fire yet behind his eyes.

The doors open with a shooomp. It is KYLE REN, the dark vader.

I’ll never talk. Don’t even try—you’ll only waste your breath.

Word. I just wanted to show you something.

Poseph looks up, expectant. Kyle lurches forward… and grabs Poseph’s head between his hands. Poseph SCREAMS…

…and sees a vision.

We see the REBEL HOMEWORLD, ripped with winds that seem unnatural, impossible, destructive beyond our wildest imaginations. The clouds are RUST RED, and an ominous HUM bears down from somewhere beyond the atmosphere. The trees are swept up into DUST. Towers crumble in cacophony. There is a chorus of TEN BILLION SCREAMS


And then SILENCE.

Poseph SNAPS OUT OF IT. He is sweating. It takes a beat for him to register, in front of him, the standing form of Kyle Ren, CLOAK SPREAD WIDE…

What do you think?

I, um—

Kyle Ren shuffles uncomfortably. Viewed from behind, we see the barest hint of MILKY THIGH FLESH.

…I don’t understand the crossguards.

fuck the slow mo

saw a dope band tonight with some dope people

hard to elaborate

run the jewels


killer mike

hell yes

free spliff

PBRs and nike forces at the merc

well whiskey

coors light in a twist off can

lyft there nb

lyft back nb

good vibes all round

tecate light

“outside please :)” on a napkin underneath a joint

drunk guy wants mac & cheese

woah dude

diet coke

sour d

fawk meee



&c on & on then

youtube rabbit hole: cool dudes just drivin’ their dang cars around on winding roads