Palamades Publishing: Get your fix of poetry, ghosts, and soon…giant robots. That’s right: Giant robots motha duckas!

Hey guys, guess what time it is?  Fogey time!  I’ve been waiting decades for this, patiently building up my store of contextually inapplicable but objectively hilarious non sequiturs, working diligently on my old man cackle (I’ve modeled it after Clint Eastwood’s codgery masterpiece, that raspy “HEH heh heh” from Gran Torino), and I’ve got a rocking chair on my porch from where I can shake my cane at ne’er do wells and give pretty ladies a gross Old Man Leer.  Yeaaahhhhh BUDDY!  But this new band of young punks—all of whose balls probably just dropped yesterday, convincing them that they’re the inheritors of All That Is Man—these little dickbags don’t respect the time-honored position of Elder Fogey.  No, they whiz by on their fancy two-wheeled Zoomies (bicycles) and their new-fangled roller planks (skateboards) and give Yours Truly the finger, stopping every once in a while so they can ask me denigrating questions about my prostate and colostomy bag.  Filthy rapscallions!  Right now a quartet of them are parking their stupid contraptions in front of my porch.  They begin walking toward me, cocky smiles plastered on their hairless faces.  They begin their usual BS, talking smack to me using analogies based in trends and fads ‘cos they’re too damned stupid to think of anything truly funny or relevant to say.  (One of them, the ringleader Deke, almost says something funny about my overly saggy and wispy Old Man Balls).  I wait until they’re finished, then calmly reply, “I’ve had intercourse with your mothers.”  They respond with “PSSHHH” and “What is this old dude ON?” and “Yeah RIGHT!” Once again, I wait for them to finish, then rattle off a series of facts I’ve assembled about their beloved Moms; I recite birthdays, previous addresses, favorite colors, etc.  Their faces slowly go pale as they realize that the evidence I’m stating is becoming more and more irrefutable.  I move on to personal quirks, things that I would only know if I’d spent hours around these ladies, then I take a breath, and contort my features into each “O-face” specific to the kid-in-question’s mom.  I finish with, “Travis and Hunter:  Your mothers are ostensibly vegetarian, but when they’re around me, they develop an undeniable taste for kielbasa.”  I pause for a second, then, using obviousness to accentuate the joke, I add:  “By kielbasa I mean penis.”  They’re stock still, mesmerized with horror.  Now for the knockout punch:  “I’ve been with your grandmothers too.”  This straw-on-the-camel’s-back snaps them out of it, and they charge at me in a howling rush.  Sweet Sassy Molassy!  Maybe I could have fought these little bastards off twenty years ago, but if they get their hands on me, I’m done for!  I throw my head back and roar, “PALAMEDES PUBLISHING!!!”  Suddenly, my arthritis vanishes, my atrophied muscles swell into the former glory of when I was younger, back when I trained and I lifted.  Veins pop out across my neck, arms, and even my eyes, and my flannel shirt tears open from the sheer rippage of my pecs and delts.  (But my face and head stay old, ‘cos its cooler that way.)  I scream, “COME AT ME YOU WHIPPER-SNAPPERS!  NOW IS THE WINTER OF YOUR DISCONTENT!”  I’m picking them up, tossing them across my yard like I was the Hulk, and in short order, they beat a hasty retreat back to their mothers.  But knowing what they know now, they will find no solace there…only the faint, haunting echoes of my genitals slapping in horrifying time against butts and thighs.  Mwahahaha!

Perhaps you too have been wronged by the ignorant youth of today.  Maybe you have inadvertently seduced their mothers through your undeniable sexiness.  If that’s the case, and their hellspawn come for you, then don’t be caught unawares.  Palamedes Publishing.  Check out their poetry here:  Machu Picchu Me  They are assisting me with the process of getting Echo Volumes 1 & 2 in paperback.  Right now I’m in the middle of reworking Echo 1, trying to get all my noob mistakes out.  If you refrain from buying it due to my amateurish writing style, a product of my first ventures into fiction, then I totally understand, and I’ll announce when I re-upload an updated version.  If you buy it anyways, then many thanks!  Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle  Vol. 3 on Kindle here:  Vol. 3 on Kindle


2 thoughts on “Palamades Publishing: Get your fix of poetry, ghosts, and soon…giant robots. That’s right: Giant robots motha duckas!

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