Jamie Iredell's Blog, page 3

autofellate This is the act of performi...

autofellate
This is the act of performing fellatio on oneself, a feat performed at a bar by an alternative circus performer. Also, another, a different guy, sticks a light bulb in a woman’s vagina, a woman who has the wires connected to a car battery stuck between her teeth, and this light lights up. All of this, as previously mentioned, happens in a bar.

In the same bar a clown called Piss Puddles the Clown gargle-sings the chorus to “My Sharona” with his own urine. Afterwards he walks out among the crowd where, while inebriated, men who are nonetheless far from the intellectual capacity of, say, Niels Bohr, all shake Piss Puddles’s hands and of course those hands are covered with urine.

In this same bar a guy shoots an apple off a woman’s head, but it is obvious that the gun is fake and that, probably, the apple has an M-80 shoved into it, or something. This is the lamest act of the night, other than that everyone, including this little circus, gets pretty ripped. Most will not remember how or when they get home.

In this bar a guy autofellates on a bed of nails. Naturally, this guy’s penis is on the large side. You kind of forget about the nails.

Also another—a different—clown, nails his dick to a two-by-four then swings his dick back and forth between his legs, so that his dick stretches and looks kind of like a rubber strap one uses to find a vein, pulled taut.
The girl with the light bulb-in-the-pussy trick also has her pussy lips pierced, and she hooks up a six-pack of Pabst to her pussy and swings it back and forth in the same fashion as the clown with his dick nailed to a board.

Then there’s a woman who twirls fire and eats some of it. This is also known as fire manipulation. You can find a list of safety-approved fire performers on the Internet; however, like almost everything ever to be seen, this act is relatively normal and totally lame. 

Bearded lady When menopause paused the flow of estrogen a...

Bearded lady
When menopause paused the flow of estrogen and her ovaries shedding eggs, and her uterus its lining, tiny whiskers popped from her chin. At first she trimmed them with her husband’s electric nose hair trimmer while he sheared away at their credit card debt and mortgage by trundling his body off to the insurance firm he’d seat belted himself to, a poem-wielding vice presidentialism. Nights this husband returned home still hungry sometimes, even for her forearms against his own. More often for beef liver, onion, potatoes, mashed. His fork was the fork of a forklift and his face the warehouse into which he drove the loads. After dinner: Law and Order reruns. He always guessed the murderer before her and for this, and this alone, she hated him. 

Big legs Breached out the birth canal m...

Big legs
Breached out the birth canal massive legs first, legs like gas planets, in leg-shape. Titanic legs, unsinkable, sinking through the air of the hospital into the briny wash. Her body: normal as a body, a baby’s body: skin and eyes. A shriek like the song of humpbacks. She grew, her legs expansive, exponential. Her legs were the trunks of redwoods. Her legs became Studebakers. She drove forward into redwoods. Everyone stared. What’s wrong with that woman? Her legs became their own ecosystem: rains of bleach-blonde peach fuzz, clouds of cotton socks and landslides of darkened sweatpants. Custom shoes size eighteen women’s. Her crutch is her body, so normal, skin and eyes. 

Blind Awoman’s hips like an Appalachian...

Blind
Awoman’s hips like an Appalachian crest, her breasts foothills: these among infinite eye-pleasures the blind never witness. Take this blind man: his older brother mouthed out descriptions: a dim wood-paneled stair leading to the ladies’ rooms, candle-lit. It’s like a mouth, the candles its teeth. The browned gold of whisky drizzled from ivory-stained bottles. Among what his brother would never see: the grunts of ramped hips below him, the brine smell of sweat, the air licked their skin, a cavern where sight should’ve been. The sound of his brother in the next room, not fucking, but sobbing and talking. Whispers about not taking it anymore, that it’s too hard. Our blind man, he thinks his brother must mean him, the sight of him, one hand upon his brother’s shoulder, as they shuffle after one another down a sidewalk. That is what he thinks—even, what he sees. 

BlurBs Blurbs can often be found on a b...

BlurBs
Blurbs can often be found on a book’s back cover and sometimes in the opening interior pages. Blurbs consist of short sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs, devoted to developing the ethos of the volume’s author or authors, and/or the contents of the work. Typical to the language of the blurb are the following alphabetized adjectives: acrobatic, adversarial, apparent, artful, astute, awe-inspiring, beautiful, big-hearted, bookish, brilliant, brutal, captivating , careful, cautionary, charming , compelling, curious, daring, deft, dubious, enchanting, endearing, essential, evocative, excellent, fascinating, first-rate, flagrant, faultless, funny, garish, grammar- changing, happy, harrowing, haughty, haunting, honest, humorous, indelible, ineffable, imaginative, impressive, inventive, irreverent, jocular, laudable, laughable, likeable, lively, lovely, lush, marked, masterful, merry, meticulous, mournful, murky, nascent, note-perfect, notorious, obsessive, oppressive, opulent, original, passionate, poignant, precocious, promising, rare, relentless, remarkable, revelatory, rich, riveting, skillful, solid, strange, striking, subtle, surprising, tender, timeless, thoughtful, unforgettable, unpredictable, vibrant, visionary, warm, whimsical, wise, xerotic, youthful, zany. There are many nouns used in the blurb (most notably, “debut”, as beginning authors are common users of the blurb), and certain whole phrases (example: “tour-de- force”) are quite common. Here follow examples of the quintessential blurb:

“Jamie Iredell can spin around with a disc in his hand and then throw that disc incredible distances. He can also do freakish things with words.”
—Michael Kimball, author of Dear Everybody

“This is a book you will like if you like other books like this. Look at it, look hard, and decide if this blurb surpasses your own wit and literary acumen. Then purchase the book for the retail price, avoiding sales tax if possible. Or place it gently back where you found it, being careful not to bend the pages or smudge the cover.”
—Zach Dodson, a Publisher Who Knows

“Blake Aldridge’s ‘James Uncovered’ is a tour de force of modern christian statuary. In its bright and pulsating curves and shadows the attentive reader’s rewarded handsomely. Like a fried egg. Or a chocolate strawberry. Or a cow’s head in a bright burning sky. The small galaxy of encounters and flesh (or edicts) that is ‘James Uncovered’ bristles with fierce intelligence and keen psychological wine-insight. Rumi himself would blush and Plato on his brightest day would kneel down in terror because young Blake’s sure touch and disarming potencies are capable of taming the most savage monsters as well as inflaming the most spoiled housepets—and I would know: I am one of them! ‘James Uncovered’ is more than a must-read it is a life-essential: a beautiful gift for the beginner, a delicious surprise for the expert and a total and ravaging miracle- enlightenment for both and everyone in between.”
—Ruaun Klassnik, author of Holy Land 

“This is the book that you should buy for your stepfather next Christmas, if you want to show the unctous, lecherous asshole exactly how you feel.”
—John Dermot Woods, author of The Complete Colection of People, Places, and Things

“Blurb (blûrb) noun, hence transitive verb. A brief endorsement or encomium usually on a back cover or book jacket. Coined by F. G. Burgess, presumably as a portmanteau of blurt and burble, or else purely for its onomatopoetic quality. The sound is produced by bringing the lips together for a mildly plosive /b/ followed by a liquid /l/ as the tongue rolls from the back of the upper teeth to the lower lip for a comically fat-sounding /ur/ gargling at the back of the throat before terminating with the voiceless stop of a second /b/. Jamie Iredell’s The Book of Freaks bears the hallmark of truly great literature: it at once delights while making imitation inconceivable.”
—Man Martin, author of Days of the Endless Corvette

“Jamie Iredell’s The Book of Freaks is in alphabetical order. My two-year-old thinks he is the absolute shit.”
—Todd Dills, author of Sons of the Rapture

“A preternaturally gifted new writer [with] a voice that’s street-smart and learned, sassy and philosophical at the same time. He damns progress and upholds the ethics of eternal return. Enchanting . . . a startlingly fresh work, an innocent and humorous story about the strangeness of life. It is about youthful dreams . . . and how some of these dreams were fulfilled, and about what happened to those dreamers after reality and old age arrived. It is also a book about ourselves, those of us who shared and identified with the dreams and glories of our heroes.” —Josh Russell, author of My Bright Midnight

“When I was 47 I killed a child with a razor bat and a pocket mirror. I had to beat the shit out of that childbaby face so good if it was going to die and I surely wanted it to, for it wore gold slacks, the best slacks to this day still I’ve ever seen. The good thing is that after I killed the child I brought it back to life, but then I killed it again for smiling. Point is, I have the gift of reanimation, which I picked up because I sometimes look at books and can imagine how writing a book works. Jamie Iredell likes fucking metaphors, but this blurb isn’t a metaphor at all. Anything you read in this hot penis-lifting amalgam of Ire-language is meant in private by Mr. Jamie to stand for something else because he thinks metaphors are really powerful. But me, I really killed a child. This is a confession. The child’s name was Spencer and he was clean. Next year when I turn 59 I’m going to unmetaphorically kill your fucking dog because fuck your fucking dog.”
—Blake Butler, author of There Is No Year

“The Book of Freaks was pretty good. I liked how the author used American English in a neat way, and how different things and different ideas appeared on different pages, also how there some sentences were long , others short, and the variety was cool. I also liked how there was some poetic stuff, use of imagery and metaphor, etc. I believe the author used simile very effectively. I could not find an instance of foreshadowing that stood out in particular but this does not mean there was no foreshadowing, only that I did not catch it while reading. Despite the lack of foreshadowing, I think the book was pleasurable to read and also informative and edifying and in general I liked it.” —Christopher Higgs, author of The Complete Works of Marvin K. Mooney

“I’m too fucking busy.”
—Mrs. Babcock, The Compilers’ Wife

“Clarifendorfum orgefic nallus! Iredell kraddad undistrom addai, blostrum wives, a cat, orange reduction, plarebic destrata a mystery novel calissandic Future Tense. 10,274 ignan . . . o worg.”
—Adam Robinson, author of Adam Robison and Other Poems 

BooBs Boobs are witnessed upon blazing ...

BooBs
Boobs are witnessed upon blazing a cigarette through themorningfrost.Adumptruck’sengine’sgrumbling echoes in the parking garage. The sea gulls flit about, packs of sea gulls like a curtain of feathers falling over the sun. The neighbor’s boobs—which is the neighbor, that is, she is nothing but boobs—walk out to the mailbox. The boobs climb the stair to the apartment where the boobs do boob things: eat boob-enlarging formulae, and sleep in bras—a boob bed. There are wishes that those boobs could be other people’s boobs, that others are in fact a bra-less set of boobs juggling through the office and burning with glares, a thousand eyes drooping and moistening. 

Boys This is the common moniker in Engl...

Boys
This is the common moniker in English for males in the growth periods from newborn to young man. After this period boys are typically referred to as men. Boys can be characterized by their extreme emotional swings, their propensity to violence, and their desperate attempts for attention. For instance, there was a little boy who dwelt in a housing development called Oak Hills, on a drive also called Oak Hills, and one day he got mad at his mother. This was because his mother had taken his stupid sister’s side in that fight in the game of Candyland. The boy decided to run away. Before he ran away he slipped on his Superman Underoos, and stuffed his High Sierra backpack with his Batman Underoos and a pair of socks, and other details that would normally be left out. He came to a spot on the edge of the strawberry fields where he liked to sit with his brother and watch the turkey buzzards circle overhead. So he crawled up the embankment to where they’d rubbed the wild grasses flat with their asses, and he took off his backpack. He stared into the sky, and over across the strawberry fields to Meridian Road, where—in a few years—another boy with whom our protagonist played football, would die in a fiery crash, the bumpers and fenders of his Mustang wrapped around an oak. Over there on Meridian Road the boy could see cars sidling by at safe and reasonable speeds. The boy looked again into the sky and this time a cloud floated past. The cloud was little, and did not look like anything, other than a cloud, but the boy determined to keep watching the cloud in the hope that it might eventually look like his dog. He kept watching the cloud until the cloud was just over Fremont Peak. Then the boy became distracted by Fremont Peak, and the radio tower way up at its peak part, near where the boy and his Tiger Scout troop had camped the summer before. They’d played night tag with flashlights up there on the peak. It was fun. By now the boy was feeling a little hungry. He swept up his backpack again and again looked at the sky. Now the cloud that had looked like a cloud looked just a little bit like an evil face, a face that the boy knew the world needed eradicated. So the boy slung his webs to the oaks around him and he pulled himself into the air. He swung from oak tree to oak tree until he reached a trail. Then he lowered himself to the ground again. There he ran into two vampires who tried to bite him, but he knew they would try to bite him because his intuition told him so. So he told the vampires that they couldn’t bite him. The vampires looked at each other and said, “Okay. Do you want to come live with us?” The boy thought for a minute, then he said, “Okay.” And he went and lived with the vampires and their families. After a little while, the boy went back home to his family because the vampires only ate blood, so the boy was always hungry. His mother was happy to see him, and she said she would never take his sister’s side in Candyland ever again. Later the boy would play football, and this kid he played with would die in a car wreck on Meridian Road. But the boy did not know the other boy that well and when it happened the boy did not cry. 

Bricks, the Agraph of mud and straw and...

Bricks, the
Agraph of mud and straw and calloused hands. Fingers like worms inching through soil and kneading out mortar. He’d cased them. They: these worn-handed workers who walled themselves, by his—the king’s— order. He ordered a palace built, and the builders came to blows, which is why the father’s eyes have swollen shut, and the oldest son’s knuckles are bright plums. The mother and two daughters (their saliva running thread- like from the seams of their mouths and pooling between their legs as tiny lakes, as spools of saliva-thread) stare, their eyes whiter, for their rags have browned as brown as their skin, which is black. Black shadows cast from the walls, which are symbols of their lives and of their class, as the walls shadow them and everyone beyond the walls, and the entire kingdom, even him—the king—who as far as he can tell has been unsuccessful at cutting away his own shadow. His heels have scarred and he’s lost every toe, and where the toes once were now skin smooth like a burn victim’s skin would shine if there were sunlight. But he stares at his walls, though he himself has not been walled, and he wishes he could hide its shadow, for he forgot in his manic walling to wall himself. Within a wall there are only shadows and so there aren’t any shadows at all. 

chicken fried steak Chicken fried steak...

chicken fried steak
Chicken fried steak is a common American breakfast and dinner food item that is not chicken, but a cube steak breaded and fried in the style of Southern fried chicken. A man named Jesse once wanted to order one. Jesse tripped down Fourth Street for four blocks before he found a nickel taking up space between the sections of sidewalk. He took the nickel into the Alturas and put it, along with the other two nickels and the dime he already had in his pocket, on the bar. The bartender took them in and returned to Jesse a quarter. At the door sat candy machines and Jesse inserted his quarter and scored about seven Skittles.

There had been a rash of car break-ins. Glass littered the streetsides like millions of diamonds. The air hung cold, the sky white, and a few snowflakes fluttered down. The last of Jesse’s Skittles got so cold they hurt his teeth when he crunched into them.

The Alturas was a biker and blues bar. Once Jesse had danced there with an ex who promptly (on the same night) became angered over a drink Jesse bought for his best friend’s girl, Mari. His best friend’s name was Mario, and Jesse thought that that was proof of a perfect match. Jesse couldn’t remember the angry ex’s name. Jesse supposed that these facts were grounds for the angry ex not being a girlfriend at all. He considered that perhaps Mario and Mari were not friends, especially since he didn’t hang with them anymore, but then he thought that since he remembered their names it was okay. He was about even with Ed’s Alley Inn. Ed’s was a bar/restaurant. Jesse considered a chicken fried steak. The chicken fried steaks at Ed’s were the best he’d ever had. But he’d spent the only quarter he had on Skittles, so a chicken fried steak was off.
Meantime, on the slopes of Mount Rose, a group of snowboarders were cutting through new powder on their way down the mountainside. When boarding in the wilderness, avalanches are notorious for overtaking snowboarders, then they’re buried, and only rarely recovered and brought to safety. These guys cruised across the snow whooping and hollering with glee. 

Celebrities See Asshole (pg. 9). Fruit—diced—and nonfat y...

Celebrities
See Asshole (pg. 9). Fruit—diced—and nonfat yogurt, pixelate the celebrity’s breakfast table. Paparazzi line like army ants fanning out a circumference of rainforest. Coke lines the bathroom countertops. Televisions spit life lies worldwide. When a daughter squeezes through and is christened Mountain, Stream, Native American of the Plains States, Star Lemon, the divorce papers file in—a stack of plant cells. And even the mitochondria of those plant cells have filed microscopic divorce papers, their photosynthetic component partners bleached and thick as cell Constitutions spelling Life, Liberty, We the Cells, Custody. Wrinkles botoxed smooth, a placid sea; the ass lipoed, unchunked. The tabloids scream— literally—“Guess who!?” Mothers lined like already- mentioned army ants at Schnucks across Iowa cry in the land where they let the mothers cry. Their children, fenced into grocery carts, and the frat boys, their polo collars upturned, pick their noses and blink in the blinding white light.