Sometimes I just want to scream…and then I do. Not directly at anyone, that's not cool, but rather in my car, at the top of my lungs and about nothing at all. The stress of everyday life sometimes weighs heavy, like a set of cinder blocks in my skivvies, and instead of screaming at the wife, child, mother-in-law, boss (not you Mr. Murray) etc…I just widen my wind pipe, reach down deep for that voice that doesn't usually get a chance to roar and then I bark
something like this…
"Why should I care if penguins waddle through life without paying taxes? The merry little boogers."
I get myself into a fine lathered sweat while I growl, placing my hand over my heart so I can savor the deep baritone feeling that springs from my lungs.
"Ten years ago I didn't have these hairs growing out of my ears, do you have a purpose wee little hairs?"
What does this accomplish? Tons. When I see four construction workers at Malfunction Junction sitting around, gabbing, eating Subway sandwiches or playing a fun-filled game of freeze-tag while I sit in my car and creep through two lanes of construction I yell…
"I don't know why the other residents of Hundred Acre Woods put up with his Antics, Pooh bear is a greedy tyrant who puts his friends in danger at every turn!"
These absurd statements, reaching a pitch that sends animals and children running for cover, are a great release and if I do it long enough, correctly and with an open mind, soon I am cracking up and laughing at myself. Those earlier issues…wife, child, mother-in-law, boss (still not you Mr. Murray) etc… seem to wash away and I become as giddy as a 10-year-old at a Pixie Stick convention.
Try it next time you pull up to the pump and have to fork over $2.88 for a single gallon of gas:
"In his day, I'm sure that Gandhi would have loved a double-bacon-cheese burger. Super-size it Oldnon-violent one."
Give it a go. Feel the tension ease away. If, and inevitably when, the person in the next car looks at you like you have major issues, simply flash them the two fingered victory sign, shove your thumb in your nose and start to wiggle uncontrollably. They might be the other one of three people who read this article (hi mom) and understand your plight or they will laugh at you an in turn have a better day. Solid on both fronts, wouldn't you say?
As I finish this editorial I see that I owe a ton of money to Northwestern Energy. I am headed to the car as soon as my fingers stop banging these keys where the sound of:
"Why does my wife always kick my can when we play Trivial Pursuit? The next time we play I will trounce her, duck-tape my flag of victory to her forehead and then drink a hardy cup of Tang!"
Here at Clunk we aren’t really sure what’s going on. The name of the mag comes from the sound a human skull makes when it smashes into a keyboard.
We know that we are a group of writers and ranters that are sick to death of the literary world and their down-nose glances at everything they read. This on-line mag intends to entrain, inform, repulse, etc….in the gonzo fashion, or any other fashion for that matter.
This magazine is for those writers out there that are bored with hearing “how gross” or “blue” or “farfetched” their writings are from the literary “elite” who always know everything. Life is gross, blue and farfetched and we here at Clunk want to hear all your stories, your rants and ravings, because the literary-world of today is just plain bland!
This mag is a venue for up-and-coming writers, established writers and everything in-between. We will carry hard news, features, fiction and non-fiction, opinions and rants, but only from people who think a little out of the box and are tired of the norm.
A Clunk writer must be/ have/want:
1. Devoted to the craft of writing.
2. a sense of humor.
3. some of free time.
4. to be read by other likeminded individuals.
5. seen and enjoyed the movie The Big Labowski.
6. ever read, and at least semi-enjoyed, the late-great Dr. Hunter S. Thompson…may he forever hold his piece.
Keep writing and know that we here at Clunk have a plan…
“That's a great plan, Walter. That's fuckin' ingenious, if I understand it correctly. It's a Swiss fuckin' watch” The Dude
