Thematic: A Barrel of Laughs

by Jeremy Vagrant

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    Also known as "More Stories, Stories the Second, Again".
    The writing's a lot looser on here, and I'm not sure how I feel about that in hindsight. However, Pizza Chris is the best thing I've ever written, I don't care what you say.
    Once again I shouldn't have to tell you that I'm not a crazy person




Written from around winter of 2014 to fall of 2015
All stories written by Jeremy Vagrant, with the exception of True Story Part III. I found it on some news site and absolutely had to include it

Recorded on Halloween, 2015


released October 31, 2015



all rights reserved


Jeremy Vagrant Gaithersburg, Maryland

Bum dropout, preemptive surname, shallots, scamps, jubilee

Formerly of Malaise. I write and record stories and things like that

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Track Name: Premonition, Prelude. Foreword. Hello
19 years old
Surreal and purposeless
Now let me begin
I'll ask you with no amount of sarcasm, without expectations because I am afraid of you. A demeanor like yours can never be overstated, can't be exaggerated. Still, please don't underestimate the power of menstruation. I have made this mistake in the past and it cost me dearly. But I suppose you already knew that. After all, it was your species that told me this
Track Name: The Art of Seduction
With a sentence you can get just the right sort of attitude atmosphere the essence of life the fruit the golden valuables vegetables minerals maladjusted free-spirited artsy women. You can ruin them too. If you want to be considered some kind of authority on the subject you've got to use your imagination, pal. Get your hands dirty and your feet wet and if you've really got nothing to say it makes you more desirable more mysterious more muscular. Harrier. A specimen worth looking at with just that slight little twinge of interest. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?

Sure you do
Track Name: Bones
Tiny powerless stilted child whose bones creaked audibly and without relent from sunrise to sunset, bringing pain and guilt and humiliation into every corner of every room. A practical joke of an existence, a cruel punch line without a setup, a farce of a life, a jape, a gas. Lived to be a hundred and seven before some merciful soul took pity and eviscerated the child's intestines. The end did not come quickly but beggars can't be choosers. The child's bones, which had been the source of his misery, life's greatest insult, were donated to a museum where they continued to be laughed at by vicious hordes of leering sneering jeering customers. The bones were discussed and puzzled over at dinner tables across the world. Somewhere far away, in an incorporeal form, the child was beside himself. Even in death it seemed he could not escape his shame, his embarrassment. He was cursed, doomed for all eternity to be belittled by souls of the living and dead alike. He wondered what he could've done to deserve this fate, but deep down he knew: his favorite actor was Paul Giamatti
Track Name: Extramarital Extraterrestrial
For once, there would be repercussions Against my better judgment I was assured, I was made to understand that action would be taken in response to my injuries. I should've been aware that this was a fallacy for several reasons. The first was that as a hideously deformed alien creature from another planet, I didn't have basic human rights. There wasn't much that could be done either way, as a result of the second issue. That is to say, it would be exceptionally difficult to attempt to bring a lying scheming harpie devil woman of her caliber to justice, especially one as enigmatic as she was. I took this last piece of news quite well given the circumstances. It became abundantly clear however that I should give up to avoid further damage. I accepted this mentally but my body rejected it rather violently. In my delirium I heard distorted voices and saw the ghost of a dead man. He warned of looming frustrations before bursting into a viscous liquid. I wished I could do the same
Track Name: Interlude I
Now hear this:
I believe that
I've removed the
weight from my ankles,
your success being a large part of it
And I've
thrown it clear
in the hopes that
someone else will know
what to do with it

We'll see where our loyalties lie
in the springtime
We'll empty the contents
of our skulls with rakes
and proudly emancipate ourselves
from the burden of self-assuredness.
Become a student?
Well alright
Track Name: True Story Part II
When I was eight years old I developed a crush on one of the girls in my third grade classroom. I was interested in girls before that, but this was the most notable case up until hat point. Like most eight-year-olds, my attraction was superficial. She was pretty and had long hair and smiled a lot. Proximity was also a factor since our assigned seats were next to each other. With each passing day I seemed to like her more. But I also had very low self-confidence. I wasn't sure how to talk to her, or what I would say if I did. One night I made the mistake of asking my father for advice. He said that parent-teacher night was coming up, and offered to mention my feelings to the girl's parents. I was terrified by this idea, but I was desperate and couldn't come up with a better alternative. So I agreed to let my father be my emissary. But he didn't speak to her parents.
There was another desk next to mine. A girl named Gina sat there. She and I disliked each other for reasons that I don't really remember. It was Gina's parents my father spoke to. I only realized what he'd done after Gina told the other girls in class. She stared at me with disgust for the rest of the year. This began my somewhat complicated relationship with women
Track Name: Beratement
You're no saint, my friend. You're no shining example of chivalry. You don't have a PhD a master's degree or even a layman's understanding of chemical engineering. People don't come to you in a pinch or when they need advice. If they did they'd find you watching reruns of classic popular sitcoms. Not even really enjoying it. You're no role model. You're no white knight. You don't deliver babies grow your own food or join archaeological digs. Excavations, friend. I'm saying you don't care for the elderly. You're no trusted confidante. You're not precious to anyone. You go into your neighbors' houses and hold their pets the wrong way. You make weird faces at children as you pass them on the street. You stand too close to people when you speak to them. You drive at exactly the speed limit and forget to turn your signal off after making unsafe lane changes. You're a son of a gun son of a bum good for nothin' beast of a person. You chew gum loudly
Track Name: Train Tracks, 1973
It can be a real hindrance when you wake up on train tracks. A real predicament. One minute you're sitting in your armchair just having a blast, having a good old time. Now you're on train tracks. Next to a guy who wants absolutely nothing to do with you. Not for any particular reason or anything. He's just not into whatever it is you're putting out there. Just from looking at you he's able to get a pretty solid grasp of where you're coming from, and it's not for him. He dislikes and fundamentally disagrees with your entire essence. He wants no part of you. Whatever you're about to say, no to that, even if it's not a yes or no question. Because it's YOU saying it. You won't win this man over. He made up his mind the moment you appeared, and in fact, he likes you less the more you speak. He's made himself perfectly clear but you won't listen. In his eyes, you've made this situation about you. You could've focused on the matter at hand, but now you're two men on some train tracks about to be killed. Was he not right to dislike you?
Track Name: Flies, Meat, Paralysis
Cut me loose from hinges of salty sweaty meat, the scent of which can attract the rapt attention of flies. I'm glad to see you're having fun, but I don't believe you have anything to be proud of, and neither do I. Me, a barely 100-pound single white male so full of vague spite I probably reek of sulfur. In the old country they referred to me as a miserable malignant melodramatic man, a title I accepted without resistance. How quickly the confidence can dribble out like some kind of sloppy yellow discharge. It paralyzes anyone unlucky enough to gaze at it. Quarantine is the only cure. You're a victim without equal it seems. They were all right about you
Track Name: Interlude II
Depravity proves to be the impetus behind a sudden flash of charisma. Will you identify with my impulsive and very much exaggerated ideals? Probably best if you don't. Irritate all interns. Ask them what they think of Chinese people. As an added bonus, mutilate the desecrated remains of buried pets everywhere

Sullen skeletal surge of surprise
A flagrant vagrant, a worm
Suckle on the teet of financial security
With fleeting flirtation
you single-handedly
single-mindedly deceive me
so that you and all your kind
will succeed indefinitely
Track Name: Important Information
Through the use of small yellow round cheerful little entities it should be possible to maintain a somewhat acceptable grasp on reality. Everyone'll be so pleased. The things that seemed unattainable probably still are only now they feel about as important as driving a spike into the veins of newborn weeping infants. VITAL. Take in the scent of a badly beaten and freshly broken kneecap when you enter the room. Scratch initials into a cast of your own blistered infected bladder. Take two by mouth each day. Are you writing this down?
How much longer can these tropes and themes be expected to represent anything beyond crude juvenile interest or curiosity? And do you know what sophomoric means?
It seems to me that even after, what, two and a half years of this only one process makes sense. Which is one of utmost controversy but one I can't repeat.
So smear the walls and smear your image. Savor the taste of iron in the morning when a stray finger ends up in the blender.
Let's dig in to the meat of the matter
Track Name: Lamentation
"Not too much longer," said the man, unknowing or uncaring of what exactly had just occurred a mere ten feet away. His companion, a woman about his age, had been unusually quiet for the last half hour. This was probably due to the unfortunate and rather spectacular way her head came apart, upon being struck by, for lack of a better term, a giant fucking meteor. It proceeded to crush her bones into dust and now only her shoes were left.
"Do you have the time, by any chance?" the man asked absentmindedly. "Nearly there, keep up now," he added cheerfully. For the better part of a week, the man had lead his now-deceased counterpart, herself a miserable wretch he'd happened upon, in an aimless death march through the desert. Along the way he offered only vague encouragement that soon they'd reach their destination of, wherever. The woman had had nothing better to do and so she'd followed the man without question, right up until her untimely death.
"Not too much longer," the man said with a smile, but even as he did he knew something was wrong. Slowly, for the first time in a week, he turned around
Track Name: Hyperbole and Disfigurement
Thick layers of hyperbole threaten to distract from the point. A man with a cliched sense of moral ambiguity will come to find that there is nothing inherently fascinating about androgynous culture. A man so muddled in his speech that what little he's able to articulate comes off as unintentionally profound. For him this is a bother, and at the worst of times. When he awoke there was a note on the wall that said simply: EMBELLISHMENT IS KEY. Puzzled by its boldness he squinted with misplaced suspicion. He disagreed after all, and made sure to let the empty room know this. It was then that he made his decision. He would take ordinary cooking utensils and with them remove portions of his own face. The result would be a wound so terrible, none would look. A select few would revere him for his bravery, the rest would deem him a lost cause as he felt they should. The important part was the unwavering support and adoration of the so-called "alternative" female demographic. In these loyal followers he'd instill a doctrine so utterly impregnable that non-believers would roll their eyes at its mere mention. One reprehensible act on his part would polarize the community while simultaneously securing his future. It was something to look forward to
Track Name: The Orgy
Point of contention, the content herein containing equal parts contentment, resentment and a jadedness exhaustively researched with the consistency of alfredo sauce. Allowing the assembled populace an opportunity of a meaningful collective release is no small task. First they must be delicately enticed with the public castration of a renowned actor or hockey player. Tentatively aroused, the people must then be pelted at length with coins of varying monetary denominations. This continues until they are at a stage of considerable sexual fervor. Frenzied copulation begins. At the front, a thoroughly confused man shouts racially charged slogans through a bullhorn. The crowd pays him no mind, so great is their lust. Wife swapping can be observed en masse. Coprophilia begins to come into play. The various effects one comes to expect of feces occur rampantly. None are excluded. Repulsed, the disgruntled citizens disperse. Mysteriously, the perpetrators are never idenified
Track Name: Interlude III
envious bowel scrutiny
whose motivations captivate audiences
as far as the eye can see
Enchant them with
clever fraudulated micro-transactions
People always
think more highly
of a carefully orchestrated
elaborate hoax

Never intending
to become a thing
of great scorn
An emaciated mannequin,
a stuttering nervous husk
Superficial wounds
remained present, regardless
of any well-intentioned context
Even so, I admired
your nose,
which is fitting
of your face
Quite unlike mine
Track Name: Cuckoo Cuckold
Patrick could only glower as his wife's words pierced his already fragile sense of self. He was rooted to the spot, trembling with a rage quite unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Sylvia, the woman he would have killed for, presently sipped from her wine glass haughtily. She had just outlined for him, in a very matter-of-fact sort of way, his various inadequacies.
"I have needs," she finished calmly. At this, Patrick could only emit a hateful scoff of disgust. Every inch of his skin burned as though it had been licked by flames. Surrounded by a thick red mist, Sylvia gazed at him with disinterest. With each passing moment, it became increasingly difficult to focus on her through the haze. An itch he was incapable of scratching, that was how she'd put it. But to invite the scum of the streets into their home to have their way with her, and to be so callous about it, so casual...
His fists clenched, Patrick found his words at last.
"What about everything we've shared together?!" he spat. Sylvia only stared at her husband with something that might have been mild amusement. He took a step forward. Projected against his closed eyelids, he saw the faces of their children. Children he would kill, as soon as he was finished with her
Track Name: Hairy
After years of arduous trial and error I've had a breakthrough. A foolproof method, an airtight formula, a plan. I will abandon my integrity in favor of results. I'm gonna be just like you. I'll trade in my jeans for a pair of salmon pink shorts. When I look at a woman I'll see only a potential conquest, a tally mark, success. I'll ask them questions and immediately cut them off as soon as they begin to answer. I will blindfold myself and stumble around, erection in hand, crashing into the sharp corners of countertops and desks until I find something warm and wet to furiously thrust myself into. Not even bothering to check what it is first. I will revel in my parents' wealth and appropriate culture that has nothing to do with me, that exists in spite of me. This I'll do in secret while publicly condemning the actions and individuals the culture celebrates. I will see my country in explicit shades of red and blue, and if you disagree with me you are my enemy. Or a woman, in which case you are emotional and therefore have no place in politics. I will trivialize or outright relegate any feelings of discontent I encounter, unless and until they affect me and people like me. I'm gonna be just like you
Track Name: Killer on the Road
When I grow up I want to be Pennsylvania kleptomania Beatlemania and jack off giraffes using a step ladder. I'll dive into a lake in a three-piece suit at midnight and ruin a brand new pair of shoes. Take 'em off and find something to do. Find a girl walking around with no legs and strike up a friendly conversation. Offer to buy her some legs then bash her head in with my soggy shoes. Wipe off the blood wipe off the seaweed and repeat. Not an easy life by any means, but someone's gotta do it.
Reminds me of older stories, and maybe the goal is there but sometimes a man just has to adhere to his calling. I'm a serial amputee killer, and there are worse things to be. Like an IT guy. Or an accountant. People should thank me for cleaning those mutants off the streets. I ought to get a medal
Track Name: Pizza Chris
I live in a pizza hut. I live at Pizza Hut. I keep a sleeping back tucked behind the back corner booth, and I won't let anyone sit there. Except large groups of shrill giggling teenage girls. These I glare at from the shadows of my cramped space. I judge their tastes and shriek out in poor imitations of their voices. When they're not looking I leave parts of my own body in their food. I'm a cheese man. I'm a pizza man. I want to watch as they eat me. I want to be devoured. I want to poison them with my shit. I want to scald the roofs of their mouths with my molten skin. Pepperoni man. The pizza man. Nothing good inside my crust. Living out my greasy days in a place I'm unwanted, a place I hate. I was born here, and I'll die here too, the single member of my kind. No one will touch my pizza cock. No one will bear my progeny, my cheese child. Gluten-free? I'll never get to know. I'm a bottom-feeder. I eat dust and parmesan. I scrape gum off of tables. I lick the floor with my sauce tongue. I'm a mistake, nothing more than a series of ingredients. But I'll have my revenge. I'll turn you into me. A slimy man of burning heat and toppings. Pizza man
Track Name: Amnesiac Gastric Sac
Creativity lost, creativity gained.
Briefly consider rhyming but lose enthusiasm.
Like some kind of reptile it's time to shed my skin and leave it in someone's front yard to be silently judged by the cold stares of lawn gnomes. With any luck they'll enjoy its company.
No muse can bring my dissatisfied and very naked form any comfort.
Yellow now white now orange spheres of influence may yet prove to be a worthy replacement for the things that elude me.
But I don't think so.
The gastric sac has ceased to glow, replaced by the irritation of my siblings' betrayal.
The cessation of all that was good continues to produce a shrill sort of ringing sound that fills the town with vitriol.
Maybe no one will understand its cause
Track Name: Schizoid Manifesto
Desperate to reprise his role and revisit a rather peculiar point of his existence, the troubled individual again identified with only words. The pseudonyms in all their banality had served him faithfully. Wanting nothing more than to deviate from an unquestionably stifling way of thinking, our admittedly unlikable hero relinquished his futile expectations of understanding and sincerity. The sympathy he'd long sought now seemed droll. Misguided in its delivery, he found it embarrassing. Too easy it was to attract weaker minds. Instead it was now more pertinent to delve into machinations of the past. He imagined all the worthless relationships he would begin to neglect. The nature of an act so inconsequential to him would surely prelude the ire of others. Perhaps they were too healthy for their own good. Turning away from those of sound mind, our thinly-veiled protagonist chose to forego comprehension in favor of the contrived yet preferred method he'd worked so hard to perfect. Which is to say, to withdraw into the deep recesses of his own consciousness. No longer would the forefront of his daily concerns be the troubling personalities of those around him. He would lie dormant until confronted with a desirable outcome
Track Name: True Story Part III
The Clinton Police Department released sordid details about the recent kidnapping and subsequent sexual abuse of a Florida man visiting Jackson, Mississippi to participate in a bodybuilding competition. The unnamed victim was walking through downtown Jackson, when Cathy Priest, 43, allegedly forced him at gunpoint into her Mazda Miata and drove him to her mobile home in nearby Clinton. The victim's hands and ankles were bound, and a butt plug was inserted into his rectum. He was then forced to perform oral sex on Priest for up to four hours at a time, over the course of seven days.
"She made me eat her, you know, vagina and anus despite me begging and crying to not make me do it. But she had a .357 pointed at me and said she'd shoot me in the foot. At one point, she tried to make me penetrate her but I couldn't get an erection, despite her giving me oral and putting a vacuum cleaner hose over my penis. She starved me too. Said she was the only thing I needed to eat. She let me drink Pepsi though, so I was never thirsty. Although I hate Pepsi, because it has extremely high sugar content and too many carbs."
The victim was able to shuffle out of the house after Priest passed out after drinking several boxes of wine and taking Xanax. Otherwise, Priest never slept. Priest denied kidnapping the victim, claiming instead he was a Mormon missionary trying to "recruit me into his Devil religion. After I says no to becoming a moron, he said when he saw me open the door it was love at first sight, and he wanted to lick my bang holes. I love big muscles. I love muscle men. So I invited him in and we started sexing. But I don't kidnap nobody. I'm just a weak woman."
Police seized the weapon the victim described, and in addition, have multiple witness accounts from people who found the bound victim, stating he was "highly distressed". Priest has been charged with kidnapping and sexual torture