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the dada magazine about nothing

N A D A


friends come and go with the passing of the rush. phones calls judged when coming o avoid sypathetic judgment. they run off to trash littered apts. dirty holes with a bed to hold dirty deeds like a cherished secret.sometimes silence is best. they take the miracle and wash it down with with vinegar and threats of guns. smoke inhaled and repressed by weary lungs. cancer is knock knock knockin on all the doors. hes lookin 4 U. My wet nap bear trap bites as it cleanses. Teeth barred and barbed. were comin for ya. trailing surely yet slowly behind. gaining speed. we're gunna get ya.


As Jones was walking from Pine to Wall he ran into Herbert who handed him a bag of pita bread. Herbert pointed to a nondescript building and said, Take this to the apartment down the block. Jones nodded solemnly and said, I understand. Jones turned and walked with a patriotic energy to the building. At the building he stood outside for a moment, calculating his trajectory. A police officer came up and stood behind Jones. The police officer kicked Jones in the square of his back. Good day to you sir! Jones said. Fuck you, you piece of shit! The police officer said. It sure is sir. Jones said. Eat shit and die you scum-sucking vomit pile! Said the police officer. Without a doubt sir! Jones said. Give me that! Said the officer as he wrenched the bag of pita bread from Jones’ grasp. Jones stood in front of the building feeling a little bereft and confused. Jones felt as if he had had his life goal stolen from him. From a window above Dan Brown’s head popped out and said, What’s all the ruckus down there? I’m trying to work! Dan hoisted up his spittoon and poured it out over Jones’ head. Jones smiled at him then turned nervously to watch the officer go around the corner. No sound was heard.

Jones turned to you and said, Did you think the bag of pita bread I gave to the officer was a bomb? Were you expecting a large boom at the end?


Alright boys, gather round. Now listen up and listen good. A lot a folks out there think we’re crazy. They say we’re just a bunch a rednecks with too much time on our hands and we oughta let the Feds do this job. Well I say hogwash. Just cuz yer not regular army soldiers don’t mean you ain’t just as vital to the defense a this great country as anybody in Afghanistan. And God bless those boys over there fightin' the jihadis. But we got a jihad of our own over here and it ain’t no lalalalalala, godless, Allah worshipin, towel head jihad. No sir, what we gots is jihad in a sombrero on our hands. And these two-bit, sombrero wearin, no English speakin, tequila guzzling, Pope worshipin, taco mongerers ain’t no different. They constitute nothing less than a frontal assault on our entire way a life. And ol' comrade Barack Hussein Obama don’t look like he’s fixin' to do nothing about it ‘cept roll out the red carpet for ‘em all. Let em all overrun us ‘till we gots to recite the Pledge of Allegiance in Spanish and our sons don’t got no work and our daughters are all impregnated with brown skin mongrel devil babies. So you boys are this country’s last line of defense. You are the Minute Men and you come from a proud tradition. A tradition ‘a free people that don’t need no government to train ‘em and arm ‘em. No sir, you take personal responsibility for your freedom. You were there at Lexington and Concord. You were there at the Alamo. You were there at D-Day. Thems all facts, you can look ‘em up.

But the fact is, ain’t nothing standin' between them sombrero heads and the freedom of all the good God-fearin’ Christian folk in this country ‘cept you boys. Yes sir, y’all ain’t just defendin' this country. Y’all are soldiers in God’s army. So tonight we’re gonna go out there and catch every one a them Sombrero Jihadis no matter how slippery their wet backs are. We move out at 21:00 boys now get yourselves some barbeque.


We are born from poetry and war, all nations say that, and it’s sadly very true. War and poetry, when mixed, lead to terrible things. {George Bush paints himself holding intestines. A cow? a mare runs wild in pastures, hogtied and then rendered infertile? Actually, it’s the intestines, he notices, of a goat.* Only much later did he think, or realize, that they were really the intestines of a child}. Khushal Khan Khattak lulled us to war and heartache with his shitty poetry, a grand warrior, but ultimately as all of those unfortunate enough to rule this detested rock are, a dandy. The prophet slept in Kabul one night, before he met Gibril, and got very high on opium. He started weeping because he could not understand a play he was watching: The basement of the Kabul Regent The black night shimmers with green and red and orange light. Bombs fall on the ancient Capital. The Afghan Liberation army is moving in on Kabul. There are lights in the basement, but they are fluorescent and provide a sense of nausea more than comfort. Katie Couric is standing on a tight rope. She juggles and tips her hat to everybody around. Somebody giggles, she giggles back. Drinks are passed around the bar. Everybody smiles.

Tom Brokaw makes a speech: “Sometimes rain becomes screws. Sometimes bad things happy and liquor isn’t the cure. War is an American value and really this has nothing to do with terror. It has to do with that. Muslims think that they are the warrior people but they aren’t. We are. Guardians of something. Once I figured it out I asked a man (who had shot a German in the neck while he pissed back in Normandy) what made him sooooooo great:

1) God 2) Liberty and Free Enterprise or, 3) The American way of life/cherry pie. He answered all three, when I said he could only have one, he looked thoughtfully down at the ground and pierced his temples, (howling) GOD.” -------Speech cut due to Brian Williams’ endless laughter.


Bush is talking anyhow: (hogwash) (spinal fluid left over after a long evening, washing into the sea, launched into space like a rocket) (Cowboys in space lassoing the moon and eating left overs out of steel lunch boxes) (the fifties, the forties, the days of lynching and burned crosses) (Jerusalem is calling and I happened to be next to a phone, wearing a suit) Truly, not even GOD knows what to do next.

End first scene: Mohammed, high on dope, is throwing up in a bathroom in Kabul. The arch angel asks what kind of falafel he had for lunch. “Cherry”, answers Mohammed. “They took a lamb and stuck tubes into its bones, pumping thousands of pounds of cherry juice into its marrow.” “Fascinating,” answers the angel, “And the lamb enjoyed it?” “No” Mohammed sighs, suddenly heart broken. Grabbing at his beard he muses. His eyes to the east, he pukes into his hand and slaps Gibril's back.


When I returned from my reverie Lorraine had barely finished the night's weaving. She sat slumped, absentmindedly dreaming of Rome and stirring coffee with a dirty finger. The bones in her hand moved like keys on a piano, only louder. Walking past her, I removed the brick of Velveeta from the shelf and began carving off clumps with the scalpel. She wouldn’t allow me to use her chopsticks. We sat in a state of mutual respect, listening to the water boil over. The events of the last few months buzzed around the room and landed in my day old coffee. There was a loud knock followed by tense silence. Neither of us moved, as if we'd forgotten that we lived in a world with other people. At the third knock Lorraine rolled towards the door. 'Who's there?' 'Interrupting cow' The voice on the other side was scratchy with a thick eastern European accent. 'Interrupting...' 'Moo! Let me in goddamn it.' Instinctively Lorraine undid the latch and glided away from the door. A tiny old lady, wrapped in fur, burst into the room. She puffed at a cigar, wheezing. Lorraine spun back from the door, too quickly. The rickety old chair smashed into the door jam and sent Lorraine to the floor, vomit exploding like confetti.


'What a dump. I haven't set foot in a shit hole like this since I left Latvia.' She rushed around the room peering at all thirteen items intently. She eventually paused at the loom and its pornographic tapestry. Forgetting our presence she extended a hand towards the woven image. Before she could make contact Lorraine (now disgracefully recovered) chucked the bananas (now moldy) at the back of her head. 'Who the fuck do you think you are? You can't just barge in here, run around my house like a cracked out old gnome and then start groping my shit.' It was always safer to let Lorraine handle security. I realized that I'd seen this lady before. She was the one singing Nirvana when I had my date with Larry, the old coot. She looked different though, all done up in gaudy makeup and gold spandex. Cheap dollar store pearls hanging from her neck. I liked this woman immediately. Even more for making Lorraine so mad. She turned away from Lorraine and looked at me with this crazy glint in her eye. 'Honey, I don't know who you are but I do know a thing or two about your friend here.' We maintained eye contact for a full minute before she began speaking again. The accent seemed to come and go depending on her level of excitement.


I like watching you. The show you perform is like nothing I've ever seen before. Oh my, the way you amputated that silly girl's tongue midsentence was artistic genius. The KGB would have been lucky to have you on their interrogation team.' The accent thickened considerably when she mentioned the girl I fixed a month ago. She had given terrible head. 'So you mean to say you've been following me for the last month?' I had the feeling that I was on my way to nominating a fan club president. 'Short answer, yes. Don't misunderstand, I follow many people. That's my job really, in a nutshell.' The old woman meandered over to the boiling water and made tea. She filled three Styrofoam cups and added a bag of lapsang suchong to each. Her cigar, forgotten, sat on the floor next to the bananas. They were friends now.


I looked at Lorraine and found her smirking. I dragged a milk crate towards the old lady and motioned for her to sit. 'Alright madam, spill it. Who are you, why are you following me and what do you want?' The old lady slid down the wall and perched on the milk crate like an ancient, cross-dressing parrot. ‘My name is Yana Mikhailovna Volkov. I'm in the recruitment and reconnaissance business. I've been watching you to determine whether or not you could be of use to me and I am here now to offer you a job.' At this point Lorraine started laughing uncontrollably. The piercing screech of a bitch in heat. You want to hire him? To do what, dismember puppies and juggle their bleeding torsos to entertain school children? Oh ya, then he can sew them back together and call it art.' She grew solemn, a rare state. The look on her face was one of fragilely veiled disgust and distant contemplation.


Yana looked up at her and squinted, as if she were trying to gain perspective. 'Your tripod is actually quite correct, besides the juggling. There is a fine artistry in your work and it is your artistic sentiment that I'd like to appeal to.' 'I'm sorry lady, you're shit out of luck. I love puppies, all animals actually. I'd like to have a dog myself if I didn't think the tripod would cook it up with hollandaise out of spite and a cantankerous spirit.' Referring to Lorraine as a tripod made me feel like a photographer fucking his equipment rather than the models,. 'As a matter of fact that's just as well. We rarely deal in nonhuman animals and on those occasions we turn to highly trained specialists.' 'Alright so you don't dismember animals, frequently that is. Now that we've cleared that up tell me exactly how my poetry can be of use to you and more specifically, how you can be of use to me.' 'Simply put, I am connected to certain parties involved in the harvest and marketing of organs. My employers are seeking a surgeon to carry out some very delicate procedures. I've told them about you and at the proposal was met with extreme skepticism. As would be expected I work for a hesitant and paranoid group of people. But after explaining your military and let's called it recreational background I was able to draw a few parties over to my side. Please understand that I am sticking my neck out by even speaking with you.'


'Honestly, lady I think you've got the wrong idea about me. I can’t imagine myself cutting someone open and removing a few of their organs. That’s fucking sick shit. Not to mention getting paid for it. I could never sleep at night. To tell you the truth I am disgusted by blood and innately despise pain and suffering. It is a tool however and a useful one at that. I don't just walk down the street and chop off three fingers from the left hand of the first man that passes by. Animals do that. My work is something else entirely. I like to consider myself a physical therapist, in the most literal sense of the term. I correct physical, mental and emotional problems with a blade. Each subject is better off when I've finished with them, each one has a well-defined reason to live. That could hardly be said for a disemboweled immigrant.' I envisioned myself removing the spleen and kidney from a young Salvadorian man. The smell of ether made me dizzy and mildly euphoric. It helped to counteract the moral conundrum and general nausea associated with cutting open a family man for money. Mario (let’s call him Mario) twitched slightly. In that moment I was struck by an overwhelming empathy and disgust. Holding Mario's quivering kidney lightly in my gloved hand I felt the urge to swallow it whole. I replaced it with a shoe and ran away with him to an inadequate paradise for the mutilated and infirm. We got married in 1960's New Delhi and honeymooned on Mars. We suffocated in each other's arms.


They looked at me like I had gone mad. The tears streaming down my face conveyed a sensitivity comparable to a parasite mourning for its host. Lorraine actually looked frightened, paralyzed by confusion. Yana leaped from her crate and rushed at me with her arms spread. They encompassed my slimy face. Stale cigar smoke and vodka infiltrated my nostrils. Drowning in my own future. 'Mario, oh Mario. How could I ever do that to Mario? He's innocent. Well intentioned and innocent. He has a wife and kids somewhere.' Unable to contain the visceral hallucination I began to sob. Yana stroked my head and I turned her into a wet blanket. She removed a flask from her pocket and held it to my lips. The burning liquid flowed down my throat and settled in my stomach. Mario's liver I thought. 'Settle down. It can't be as bad as all that. Who is this Mario? What has you so distraught?' 'They're all Mario. Every single one. I could never flay Mario like a fish. He's not a fish. He's a man! He's my friend. We went to basketball camp together. You flabby old cunt, how could you do this to Mario? I'll kill you if you touch him. I'll fucking shove rebar up your ass and roast you for dinner you evil troll!' My face made a dull, wet popping sound when her fist collided with my meat. The blood seared my veins as it rushed towards the site of impact. I imagined this was what love felt like.


our stained t


our stained t shirts represent petty crimes and small cash empty pass times and soiled cloth inside each of us is a small ghost wimpering pleading free me but we repress the tiny spirit the ectoplasmic voice in the void and go along with our aching days


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orerbmoS a ni dahiJ

Š 2013 draoB lairotidE adaN 41# 2SN devreseR sthgiR llA

Nada2 14 Jihad in a Sombrero  

for the love of god and country

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