Excerpt from the Sistinass Sessions: 1,000 words / Barnabus Rooblay

One thousand words before I go to sleep (and yes, these words count (that’s why I spelled out the word ‘one thousand’))

There are different ways to go about the whole. . .

It’s no wonder why mankind. . .

Isn’t it about time someone gets the balls to. . .

Say what you will about ‘standard procedure’, I say the only thing standard about it is the procedure itself. Because what is a procedure if it’s not standard? I can only think of one exception to the rule and that would be creating a giraffe out of balloons while high on PCP and wing-walking on a crop dusters chock-full of magic beans flying over the world’s largest two-bean casserole.

I mean, let’s just turn things around in general. How hard can that really be? You take the various things and you firmly applying your hands to both the right and left side simultaneously and lift the whole fucker and give the bastard the ole one eighty and set her back down. Viola! There you are now standing face to face with whatever it was in God’s name that needed turning around in the first place. And I’d argue that that’s exactly where you want it. Looking right at you. Eye to fucking eye. Then you can finally let loose a big “Well fancy seeing you here! I hope you remembered to get your hand stamped because ladies night is over and the two for ones are now zero for threes. I suggest you and I both head to a different establishment down the block, pull up a couple stools to the bar and settle this with an old fashioned game of ‘Hyper Mayhem’. Best out of seven. No tie breakers. U.S. open style. That is, if you’re up for it. Well are you?” Because what’s the things going to say to that? Not jack shit probably. Before you know it you’ll all be slapping each other on the back, laughing so hard little pieces of stale oriental mix will be flying out of your mouths, peppering your nice work trousers with shards of wasabi peas and you’ll forget why it needed turning around to begin with. But then again what the hell do I know. . .

Tell me something I don’t know. At least one word. Throw out a ‘milderon’ or maybe a ‘carphoon’. I don’t know those words. If you can’t do that then why are we wasting out time exchanging letters arranged in common patterns which are then arranged in a familiar order, all in one big structure of redundancy? It’s a travesty of detrimental proportions. I’d even go so far to say that it’s a detriment of travestial proportions. Yes, travestial. See, now we are talking! So how about that weather today?

A common misconception about whales is their sheer size. Don’t get me wrong, those fuckers are big but subjectively speaking they get far too much credence. All they do is mope around, gorge on krill, and blow a few gallons of salt water a couple dozen feet in the air like some pathetic nerd rocket geyser. You call that majestic? Give me a break. Now if you want to talk about size give me a bald eagle carrying a dead grizzly bear any day of the week. You ever see that shit? Me neither. I heard about it first hand though from my uncle Randy who used to squirrel hunt in a fictional land called The Great North Something. One morning he was prepping himself by dousing his hunting cap with fox urine when a grizzly that had to weigh two tons if it stood a foot came lumbering at him from the creek about a stone’s throw to the east. That old bear was muttering something about politics being nothing but good haircuts swapping motivational speaker jargon when it tripped on a stack poorly buried porno magazines and started a perfect barrel roll towards my uncle. Almost too perfect. Or so the story goes. Anyways he loaded his gun while trying to determine the boar’s trajectory (something he could do rather easily due to the surprisingly smooth terrain and stupefying precision that was the bear ball combined with his expertise in kinematics) and just before he pulled the trigger that damned eagle swooped in and knocked off his piss cap before seizing the dizzied beast by the throat, breaking its neck in three places, and hoisting him to the splendor above, never to be seen again. He also said that just then a rainbow appeared but me and the rest of the family pretty much agree that that part had to be bullshit. I mean c’mon.

Hold that thought. Don’t stand there like a scarecrow with it cradled between your two palms while you wait for further instructions. Just hang onto it and go about your normal day to day. Ideally you’ll keep it in one of your hands but I understand that situations arise that may require both thumbs. May I suggest that when such a circumstance rears its head you put the thought in your pocket, but not before cutting a small hole in the fabric so that the thought can maintain contact with your body in some capacity, albeit limited. Because that’s important. For what is a held thought if not lovingly clutched to the holder’s bosom? Totally kidding. No need to maim your good jeans for this little nugget. Play with it. Toss it in the air while you whistle and walk down the street. Better yet, eat it. By the time it’s done its song and dance through the twenty eight feet of tubing you got in your engine there it’s likely to have taken on a deeper meaning. One a tad more sinister sure but then again I am asking you to do me a favor here. As long as I get it back and it’s not “my socks don’t match” we’re cool. Thanks.