In an alley
a giant Cadillac, like my grandfather drove,
dried blood rage red.

From under festival orange tarp shroud
juts chrome snarl grill
between lifeless headlight eyes.

What better to do
with such a monster
than bury it with its children?

Ben Bumhertz writes:

I’m a new driver, and I’ve heard that being passed by cyclists can strike you gay.  I’m scared, what should I do?

Well, Ben, you heard correctly.  Being passed by a cyclist while driving can strike you gay.  It’s only natural, as you sit there powerless in your car or truck, to imagine those powerful legs and glutes pounding your fleshy bottom (with prosthetics as required) for hours on end.

Researchers in the field call it queeralysis, and if you drive a large truck or sports car, you may be especially vulnerable.  And we’re sure you are aware of the downsides of being struck queer: constant discrimination, no longer being able to call everyone a fag, possibly dramatic changes in hygiene and style, and an enjoyment of TV shows that are only aired on expensive premium channels.

Fortunately, you can protect yourself. There are several tactics that you can use to delay or even avoid being struck queer.

1) Pass the cyclist as quickly as possible, even if it means speeding. It is very important that you also rev your engine as you pass, to signal to the cyclist that you meant to let them by, and that you could have overtaken them at any time with your powerful machine, and that you didn’t just spend the last thirty seconds imagining them filling every inch of you.

2) Shout at the cyclist. This technique has been used since the time of your ancient, lemur-like ancestors to reclaim dominance and heterosexuality.  ”Get off the road!” is one suggested line, since it gives an impression of authority, wisdom and straightness, but if you feel the strike coming and you can say it without a quaver in your voice, try shouting “Fag!” or “Dyke!”  Since this technique might lead to eye contact with the cyclist, we suggest that you clench your anus before shouting, in case they use witchcraft to teleport inside you.

3) Endanger the cyclist. Remember, the goal here isn’t to kill, only to prove that you’re not queer.  If they don’t survive the encounter, they will never know.  Passing them as closely as possible and then cutting them off is a classic; try stepping on your brake afterwards for a more powerful effect.  Again, we suggest clenching your anus to protect against witchcraft.

So there you go, Ben.  With the appropriate use of these techniques, you will be as well equipped as possible to resist queeralysis.  Good luck, and happy driving!

Sam stood in the darkness, one foot raised, eyes closed.  He took a slow, deep breath and let it out, focusing his attention on making the inhalation and exhalation even.  Still, his heart was racing and his beak was clenched.  He tried to remember his Sensei’s words.  Breathe the feeling into your chest.  Gather it into a ball in the centre, over your heart, and you will be able to separate yourself from it.  Then transmute its power to positive chi.

He took breath after breath, his body completely still, using the movement of the air to gather his rage, but after each inhalation contracted it, the exhalation delivered more to every part of his body.

He tried to focus on what he’d gathered so far, but if there was any ball it barely stood out.  His heart ached; maybe that was part of it.  Maybe he was getting somewhere.  Oh well, he’d try to transmute what he could.  Remember how it worked: shoot the energy down through your rooted foot, your anchor anchor to the ground.  Concentrate on cleansing it, or maybe trading it in for good chi.  Bring it back inside.

OK, he could do this.  He visualized the energy moving down from his chest, but didn’t feel anything.  But something shot up, and he suddenly wanted to cry.

Sensei!

The image leapt to his mind, as vivid as the day it happened: his Sensei, head and neck stretched over a log, the farmer with his axe silhouetted against the rising sun.  Sensei looks to Sam with an unreadable expression, and then up at the farmer. The axe falls.

With a shout, Sam lost his balance.  He put a wing out to catch himself, and struck it on something before falling against it with a deep thud.

“Shit,” he whispered as he gathered himself, feeling his bruised elbow and opening his eyes.  He looked at what he’d fallen against, bewildered, and then it struck him: it worked!

He had grown!  He was way taller than he had been before, as tall as the farmer.  Maybe taller.  He’d channeled a portion of his rage into growth energy and had unlocked the power to defeat the farmer and get revenge!  YES.

It was still dark, and the farmer wouldn’t be up for a while yet.  Sam didn’t want to confront him in his fortress, there was no telling what defenses he would have devised to keep himself safe from Sensei.  He decided to wait until sunrise and prepare.  He resumed standing on one foot and dropped back into meditation, finding his rage soothed by cold intent and the giddy confidence of his new-found power.

Sam held the feeling for over an hour, and started to feel uncomfortable. Strive for light and warmth, Sensei had told him, but what he felt was dark, cold and sharp. Was this right? Of course it was: it was justice. The farmer had killed, without provocation or reason. He deserved what was coming to him. Besides, Sensei also said that way to the light is always through the darkness.

And this is where his concentration was snapped by a scream and a terrible shattering sound. That scream… it was Ella! And it was coming from the farm house! Oh no, she was the only one left! He ran towards the sound as quickly as he could, and rounded the corner of the house to find himself face to face with the farmer. Fragments of glass littered the ground between them, and from the inside they heard the sounds of struggle.  Sam locked gazes with the farmer, and raised his head into the first wing-fu offensive stance.

The farmer’s eyes were wide, and then they closed. He exhaled and seemed to collapse slightly. “I never would have thought it’d come to this,” he said, apparently to himself.

“You killed my Sensei. Prepare to die.”

The farmer’s eyes squeezed tighter, and a tear trickled down his cheek. He has remorse, Sam thought; good, he has accepted justice and his soul will find peace. Beak ready, he leapt.