THE RATASS GAZETTE

Hi, yourself. Jerk.  Oh? You didn't realize I have been up for hours working on my computer stuff?  I was sitting there in my room. I was trying to concentrate...okay?  I maximize my time. Maximize . Maximization, shit-head. Uh, yes. I do know what that fucking word means. Taking care of business , that's what it fucking means. Look it up, Billy. Pfft... Billy ...what are you, a fucking 7 year-old?  A God-Damned, 33 year-old " man " named Billy ... Either way, it's something you wouldn't even know about... You don't need to "Google" anything, asshole. What the fuck are you doing anyway? Making a fucking mess , it looks like.  No...seriously...go right on ahead...let's use the paper-towels that I bought. Wiping up butchered, animal meat and blood...why not?  Remember, I'm just a fucking vegetarian .  You know, completely opposed to the cruel living conditions And the insanely, inhumane treatment of animals...

It was a cool, breezy, Summer day in June of 1994. The temperature was a pleasant 82 degrees. This day presented the perfect conditions for baitin' up a hook with a plump and juicy earth-worm...or a night-crawler or some green worms or any other number of dirt-dwelling invertebrates and casting a line into the muddy depths of the Bessie Tonka River. Hell, maybe if your Pop had been working extra shifts at the Carlyle Industries you just might have found yourself with a container full of stink-bait. And if he finally got that raise he'd been prayin' for at the church, you might have even woke up with some chicken liver next to your pillow accompanied by a nearly illegible note informing you: "I gotta work 19 hours t'dee so you go on an' get some fishin' in. Don't fergitt!" A boy of twelve emerged onto Main Street from Larson's General Store with a Mountain Dew Big Slam in his right hand. His name was Murray Tinklewater. This is the life, tho...

Goddamn-It-To-Heaven...there he is. What in the fucking Hell are ya looking for? You can see where I'm pointing, right? You have to fucking turn all the way around and look directly at him? Just because he's wearing those mirrored, wrap-around shades Inside the bar here, don't mean he can't see you. And that Hogan-Stache he sports, pretty much says "You're fucking with the wrong dude." Just fucking sit still, Shemp. Casey Tinklewater is that man's name. To some people, he is more than a Goddamn Man... He is a Goddamn Legend. And that's what he is... A walking...talking...Legend. Around here, it ain't no bad thing to be known as  One of Casey Tinklewater's drinkin' buddies. His buddies will beat the shit out of you  Then buy you dinner, because they're decent fucking people. He is probably the biggest, dumb, sack-of-shit I ever met, too. The only guy in the history of Coleman County To repeat all four years of hig...

By:  Brandon Schlong Written: 10/12-15, 2006 Fucked and Formatted: April/2013 rEUBENICKENOBICKLe The gentle crackle of the smoldering logs That lie deep in the fire-pit before me  Composes a faltering, off-beat melody That I cannot seem to recall. Under the influence of a steady wind (And a tropical storm that has darkened the Earth) The Netherworld Musicians quicken their pace. Ritualistic Jungle-Barbarians ward off all sources of Evil By unleashing their frenzied, systematic incantations  To the God of Energy. To pronounce this amoral God’s name One would have to remove one’s own colon And squeeze the organ from one end to the opposite. The slobbery, phlegmy noise that is spat  Out of the dripping, human bung-holder  Is the actual name. It is a name reserved for Immortals With all-enlightening powers. A guttural chant that suddenly And with absolute-focus-devotion to this Mutant-Mind-Voyeur Molecule-Vertigo-D...

By:  Brandon Schlong Written: Wee hours of the morn Nov. 28, 2006 Fucked and Formatted: April/2013 rEUBENICKENOBICKLe What the Goddamn-hell d’ya mean ? Of course, I did!  Like, fuckin’ three, four hours! Jeez-uss Harold Christ on the Shitter! W-w-w-w-w-what the shit is this, anyways? Of course!  I’m Goddamn great! I already told you…like three hours! Yeah? Well, I ain’t Goddamn lyin’ about this ! What the fuck is with all the looks yer givin’ me? Hey, there!  Mr.  Tollackson!  Hey, Larry! Yeah, my wife here thi… Yes, good morning Stephanie. Larr ...!  Oh, absolutely gorgeous. Yes…yes…yes, indeedee-o. You and Larry off to the vineyards this weekend? Beautiful... Excuse me, please…Steph…Larry… You better Goddamn not start walkin’ away again! Y…?  Yeah! Seems it must be opening night of: "Inquisition By The Davenport.” The latest comedy by Arthur Dickerson, Cause you’re  fuckin’ laughin’...

Written By: Brandon Schlong Copyright 2013 Reubenickenobickle You’ll never guess who I bumped into this morning. Nope, nope.  He actually moved back to upstate Warshington I guess, sheeit… Musta been two years ago.  Was it two years ago…? Hadta been cos’, I remember he helped me feed the heifers the morning of Patrick’s birthday. First frost of the year that very same mornin’ come to think of it. Oh, sure! Their daughter Bridgette, runnin’ round a-peein-and-a-poopin ever’ where. I can tell you for Goddamn  sure, that he and Kathy had never been happier. Anyway, it was shorely just a brush-stroke of luck who I… No, it wasn’t her either. Her son died , ya know? Ugh, and it was just so Goddamn messy ! She still wanted an open casket and boy, oh boy…old Hard-nosed Hilda Bickered and fought with Reverend Donaldson till the very last minute. No, they didn’t. Hell, they couldn’t have all them school kids seein’ him the way he looke...