Posts Tagged ‘ IX.I ’

Defenestration: April 2012

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

Good morning or afternoon or evening or whatever. Welcome to the April 2012 issue of Defenestration, by far the greatest issue of Defenestration I’ve had the pleasure to publish in April 2012!

Since Defenestration isn’t a particularly large operation, Eileen and I act as both editors and slush readers. It’s an interesting experience. We get to see everything, absolutely everything, that pops into the in-box, without anyone filtering the content. We get to see the great, and the not-so-great, and the downright bizarre.

“Bizarre?” I hear you cry. “But you’re a humor magazine!”

Well, sirs and madams, when I say bizarre, I mean bizarre. And if you’ve ever read slush for a magazine, you know exactly what I mean.

“Alone, in Good Company,” by Hall Jameson

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

Melissa’s guaranteed quick fix for depression wasn’t exercise, drugs, or food; it was George Clooney. On a bad day, she could close her eyes and summon him, and they would stroll in the park, go snorkeling in Key West, or sit in front of the fire and talk. His presence in her life, though imaginary rather than tangible, was essential.

George was happiness.

Unfortunately, the George-trick wasn’t working lately, not since her boyfriend Kyle moved out. The absence of both men left her heartbroken and numb, and to make matters worse, she now had peculiar new visitors.

“Umbro-Matic,” by Gary Newhook

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

He got the idea from a Persian Silk Tree in the backyard. It would make him rich; a patio umbrella that automatically opened when it rained. He spent a small fortune conducting research and building a prototype. A small circle that was three inches across at the top of the umbrella tied into some motors inside. When water landed on the circle, or wet mat as he called it, the umbrella opened with a “splong.” It had some wires sticking out, the edges where he had made cuts in the pole were rough, it had to be hooked up to a car battery, and it opened far too quickly, but it worked.

“The Non-Binding Employment Discussion,” by Thomas Mundt

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

The Dad was tired of Baby Boy. Tired of his face. Really tired of his face, actually.


That’s what Baby Boy would say in the morning, when he saw The Dad emerge from his Slumbernator. (This is as good a time as any to tell you that The Dad never wore shirts when he emerged from his Slumbernator. You should also know his chest was the color Burnt Sienna, after spending too many hours in the Pigmentation Alterer at his work.)

“What Hamlet Said,” by Sameer Saklani

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

I answered the phone and he said, “I’m going to do it, Sandini. I’m going to kill myself.”

And I said, “Who is this?”

He informed me that it was Ernest. Knowing it was Ernest, I responded, “No, don’t do that, Ernest.”

But Ernest was an obstinate man, there was no dissuading him. In the past I’d told him that it was silly to go sky-diving. Ernest went sky-diving. I told him he shouldn’t involve himself with a boxer’s ex-woman. Ernest courted, bed, and left that woman. I told him to be wary of the mercury levels in fish. Ernest’s breath always reeked of fish. In retrospect, I believe Ernest may have been suicidal longer than I had expected.

“You Procrastinate,” by Fred Smith

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

You procrastinate. You study for every exam the night before. You prepare for every meeting that day. But somehow you succeed. Wildly. You are respected and known. So much so that they tap you to head the winter Olympics coming to your hometown. They appoint you five years before the Games. Does anything really take five years to prepare for? A year in, it is still four whole years away. A whole presidential term for chrissakes. With three years to go, you consider lobbing in a call to a couple of construction guys, get some estimates on a bobsled course and somesuch, but then the ex-wife rings your cell with some pain in the ass problem. Three years is 36 months. That’s a buttload of months.

“The Predict-O-Ma-Tron!” by Chris Nelson

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

“Why, how deliciously morbid!” said heavyset dowager Belinda Buxingham as she peered through lorgnette eyeglasses at the stout black box in front of her: The Predict-O-Ma-Tron! A thrill of exquisite, almost sensuous pleasure ran through her plump body and caused a single, elegant peacock-feather sticking out from her ornate headband to tremble rapturously.

“And you say it’s never been wrong?” Belinda looked up through the aforementioned eyeglasses at Montgomery R. Whistlingcox-Falsborough, their host for this evening.

“After Opposites Attract,” by Robert Schladale

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

When he met her at the marina with a single long-stemmed rose and the poem he had written just for her, she said if he didn’t stop she would have to make him marry her. And when they took her daddy’s powerboat out into Florida Bay and he told her not to worry about sharks she said fine, she trusted him. But when they snorkeled and he said that the death of the coral was caused by her father and other men like her father, they argued.

“The Doritos Guy,” by Eric K. Auld

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

Somebody told me
the Doritos guy
died recently.

Although I wasn’t
at hearing this news,
a sadness overcame me,
one that leaves
a crumbling, artificial
powdered-cheese sensation
in my throat,
with bags of guilt to follow.

“Consummation,” by Lloyd Aquino

Apr 20th, 2012 | By

Ever stick a vibrator
in your mouth, bite
down, and pull
the trigger?