mancomb seepgood

Shy/Chai-Town

I tend to overthink trivial occurences/events that I notice/happen to me throughout the day. Certain things tend to catch my eye and as I settle down at night and recount my glorious day, those are the little things that tend to nag me the most. On a superficial level, they might seem perfectly normal, but my subconscious doesn’t let it slide—it identifies certain anomalies that might lie dormant from mainstream thought but are prone to reemerge at the most inopportune times.

One of my friends had a Facebook status that said, “Flying back from Chi-town!” There’s no doubt that he meant Chicago, so I went on with my life, not giving it a second thought. But wait, “Chi-town?” That seems a little off. What is it about “Chi-town” that bugs me? Who knows, let’s just sleep on it.

At 5:43am, my subconscious woke me up and I thought to myself, “Chi-town? How the FUCK do you pronounce that?” Could it be SHH-Town? After all, it IS pronounced SHH-Cago. But that’s ridiculous, I’m pretty sure no one says that. Then how about Chi— as in Chi-squared values, Chi-Omega? KAI? KAI-town? But then that doesn’t even relate back to Chicago’s original pronunciation. Plus— KAI-KAGO. If I say that too quickly, it’s like “cock-cock-cock;” probably not the intention of the person that coined “Chi-Town.”

Wikipedia. NOW.

“Chi-Town” or “Chitown” — Pronunciation of this nickname can vary from /ˈtʃaɪtaʊn/ to /ˈʃaɪtaʊn/ (from chai-town to shy-town).

How deceptive. Let’s go back to bed.

๏̯͡๏﴿ Sad owl.

It's Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers.

By Colin Nissan

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables.

When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.  I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I’m going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, “Aren’t those gourds straining your neck?” And I’m just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, “It’s fall, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.”

Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff’rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn’t it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they’re both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that’s upsetting, but I’m not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.

The next thing I’m going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I’m going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it’s not summer, it’s not winter, and it’s not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it’s fall, fuckers.  Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you’re going to fucking love my house. Just look where you’re walking or you’ll get KO’d by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you’re going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.

For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.  Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!