vanderfookin raze they're publishing the man's private writings now, while he rests in cryogenic stasis. there is no dog. there is no shame. but in those eighteen thousand six hundred and three pages no one was ever meant to read, there is insight and foreskin that will forever alter our collective psyche. most notable may be the long-thought-never-to-exist six hundred page handwritten novel "the secret lives of miniature bagel-smellers", said to be a thinly veiled memoir of vanderfookin's time as a triangulated veil salesman. 150328 ... paste! i proudly recall an excerpt etched into the underbelly of a submarine (scuba, no lunch, anarctic 1934) by the legendary vanderfookin: "time grows stale when uninitiated to the sunflower-laden fields within the depths of unconscious baby elephants." he was an animal fondler in the most respectable sense. his lone scientific paper "baby elephants and the cosmos: a whimper and a bang" received slow praise and eyebrows, muffled laughter, the Scamslop prize and a gilded ambulance. i finally met him in 2054, on the sun. he told me to never stop swimming through the black waves, whatever that meant. 150329 ... raze you met the great man, in the year of the rebirth of our lord and barber sylvester stallone? i genuflect in humble quietude. i only ever spoke to him via tin can and string. he was going through his dark period then, existing on a diet of cat food and powdered milk, and all he did was bark at me about the importance of edible shoelaces. it was one of the greatest moments of my life. 150329 ... epitome of incomprehensibility Hey, I ran into him a few years ago in Newfoundistan! At least, I think it was him. Would he have been wearing a goatee reaching down to the neck of his favourite angina sweater? And was baby satan crouching on his shoulder? I didn't dare talk to Vanderfookin, but I was short on cash back then, so I asked baby satan if I could sell him my soul. Of course, he didn't want my soul. He just wanted Cheetos. The alleged Vanderfookin stroked his beard and murmured, "Mint Cheetos?" His voice had a slight gravelly rasp. Then they both vanished in a cloud of pencil shavings. 150402 ... raze you're squeezing tears of happy remembering from my stone eyes, you are, e_o_i. i kept those pencil shavings for years before caving in and selling them on ebay to a certain star of action films whose career was on the wane. it's one of my great regrets in life that i didn't get an autographed glossy photo out of the deal. 150402 ... e_o_i I didn't even think of keeping any pencil shavings as a souvenir! If I'd kept them, I wouldn't have to stuff my pillows with squirrel hair. And if I'd sold them, I'd be rolling in small change right now. Of course, I'd have sold them to the Lettrisme-Numerisme coalition in Paris, so the coins would be all Euro coins, but I've found that Euros kill squirrels so much more neatly. (Was Vanderfookin a squirrel pacifist or a monkey pacifist, though? I'd have to consult his writings on elephantery string theory to be sure.) 150404 ... raze in "a history of things and their various comportments" (a moral history just re-re-released in a handsome new printing that's been making eyes at me), the great man writes: "singed whiskers prevail upon you to discuss that which defies deification, but only within the confines of the psychic toothache which afflicts us all. this is rather forward of me, i know. what i mean to say, of course, is that i am not the fine flange you take me for. some vessels are unable to conduct themselves in a manner conducive to a constant state of unbuttoning. there are always horseshoes, except for those times when they're horseflies, and who would want to ride around on one of those? tally ho! sally forth! sigmund freud is heading north." and that's just the pre-introductory preamble hidden inside the disposable squid necklace that comes as a free add-on with every sixth purchase. 210826 ... raze excerpted from the controversial nonfiction work "moon shavings (in fragrant stasis)": "behold a victim of clementines — bernice has been beheaded. this is not a poem, but a benediction. you should know she was given every opportunity to surpass her own estimable worth, but declined to upend herself, saying only this: 'i plead for a fifth in the hope that it may inebriate me.' someone was heard to mutter, 'you're a bathrobe, bernice. bathrobes can't get drunk.' how wrong they were. she drank them all under the table (a picnic table, if you must know), and in the morning one member of the reluctant mob regained consciousness swaddled in pink putrescence. the warmth staggered him, as did his aching nostril incline. her gravest sin was drinking liquid cement. would that we all could aspire to a life of such nobility. in her last public appearance, bernice the incorruptible bathrobe addressed a nation of spores and cried, 'i am beholden to no man, marsupial, or magazine. if it floats, send it to me on the stomach of a nun. if it sinks to the bottom of the marsh, make it your master, and demonize that which you once claimed to deify in an act of defiance fit to inspire a vocation named in your honour.' her politics were suspect, but her sash was always in the right place." 211019 ... raze (defiance and deification seem to be recurring themes in several of his writings. this can only mean one thing: sticky rice is coming for us all.) 211019 what's it to you? who go blather from