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"The Fall of the House of Douchebag" (Part Three), by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
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NancyGene
Sep 26, 2023, 3:13:46 PM9/26/23
to
The Fall of the House of Douchebag
by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
https://imgur.com/gallery/OPzRCZD
Part Three
I learned that Dirtnap’s legs had been hanging out of his mother’s private parts for several years before he had actually been born. He was slow and small when living, but now was just dust in an ashtray. We did not long look down at Dirtnap’s transmogrified form, for cat piss and cigarette smoke filled our noses. There was still a little color in Dirtnap’s ashes and there seemed to some semblance of lips under a red wool beanie. Dreckweasel said that what I was smelling must be my upper lip.
We poured Dirtnap into an empty peanut butter jar and returned to the rooms above, which were hardly less trashed than the rest of the dilapidated house. And now a change came in the smallness of Dreckweasel’s mind. He went from room to room with a stumbling step. His face was, if possible, fatter and baggier than before, and the pus in his eyes was similar to the walls at a rest stop bathroom. The mumbling in his voice seemed to show the greatest insanity. At times he sat looking at himself in the mirror for hours, as if seeing some matinee idol no one else could see.
I felt his tiny hands, slowly but certainly, moving over me; I felt that his crazy ideas were affecting my own mind. As I was trying to find a bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after we placed Dirtnap into the peanut butter jar, I experienced the full power of Dreckweasel’s unwashed body. Sleep did not come — while the cats yowled. My mind fought against feeding the strays. I tried to believe that much, if not all, of what was wrong with Dreckweasel was due to the mold, alcohol, drugs, fat and venereal disease that he had.
He broke wind in the other room. But my efforts to justify Dreckweasel's piteous state were not successful. He was to blame for his difficulties and for losing all his life. A revulsion I could not stop filled my body and nose, and disgust caught my heart. I sat up, looking into the shabbiness of my room, listening — I do not know why — to sounds of the Conley Brothers and HandySandy which came when the storm was quiet and I could hear YouTube. A feeling of horror lay upon me like an obese hooker. I put on my clothes and began shambling to the apple grove and then back.
I had been back for a very short time when I heard a light step coming toward my door. I knew it was Willie of House of Douchebag. In a moment I saw him at my door, as usual very filthy, but there was a wild laugh in his eyes. Even so, I was glad to have his company. “And have you not seen it?” he said. He hurried to one of the windows and opened it to the storm. The force of the entering wind nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a stormy but beautiful night, and wildly strange. The heavy, low-hanging clouds which seemed to press down upon the house, flew from all directions against each other, always returning and never passing away in the distance. With their great thickness they cut off all light from the moon and the stars. But we could see them because they were lighted from below by the air itself, which we could see, rising from the dark lake and from the stones of the house itself.
“You must not — you shall not look out at this!” I said to Douchebag, as I led him from the grimy window to a broken chair from his last interview. “This appearance which surprises you so has been seen in other places, too. Perhaps the cat piss is the cause. Let us close this window; the air is cold. Here is one of the chapbook stories you like best. I will read and you shall listen and thus we will live through this fearful night together.” The old chapbook which I had picked up was one written by a fool for fools to read, and it was one that Douchebag wrote. It was, however, the only one without the pages stuck together. He seemed to babble quietly.
Here I stopped reading, for it seemed to me that from some very distant part of the crumbling house sounds came to my ears like those of which I had been reading. It must have been this synesthesia that had made me notice them, for the sounds themselves, with the shitstorm still increasing, were nothing to stop or interest me. They were similar to sounds heard at an open call of a karaoke bar. I continued the ill-written story, and read how the Fatman, now entering through the long-broken and warped door, discovers a strange and terrible animal of the kind so often found in a place such as Shitkickerville. He bites it and it falls, with such a cry and lyric that he has to close his ears with his hands. Here again I stopped, unable to bear the shrieking sound.
There could be no doubt (not the musical group). This time I did hear a distant banging/shrieking/mumbling sound, very much like the cry of an animal in heat or which tried to accomplish a bowel movement. I barely controlled my gag reflex so that Dreckweasel would see nothing of what I felt. I was not certain that he had heard the sound, even though he had ears 10 times the size of normal men. He had clearly changed his dirty pants into another pair of dirty pants. He had slowly moved his chair, which collapsed, and he was helpless like a whale on the floor. I did see that his lips were moving as if he were speaking to himself, which he did a lot because no one else wanted to listen to him. His head had dropped forward and his tongue lolled to the side of his mouth into his crumb-encrusted beard, but I knew he was not asleep, for his tiny eyes were open and he was moving his enormous body from side to side, trying to get up using the downed-elephant maneuver.
It was as I feared! The shirt moved on its own across the room but instead of sweeping the floors of dirt, it was somehow depositing more. It wrapped itself around the Dreckweasel as he began caterwauling about women at truck stops, child support and cheap steak dinners.
Blue tarps started to fluoresce and the cockroaches scattered towards the entrance, as if giving myself a hint to get out as well. Anyone smarter than a Douchebag would take the hint and follow the vermin and I almost did. But i was transfixed by the apparition of a fat hillbilly with a guitar playing the same three chords over and over. Suddenly a sign saying "Theater of the Mind" appeared with a female hand making jerking motions.
The words on the sign had just appeared when I heard clearly, but from far away (which is not a contradiction in terms although the house was only 784 square feet of decaying building materials), a loud screeching sound, accompanied by one drum — as if something of iron had indeed fallen and couldn’t get up, or as if a prison door had closed. (I heard a ghastly voice saying “Joey.”) I lost control of my bowels completely, and jumped up from my chair before I soiled myself.
Dreckweasel still sat, although his fat arms, legs and jowls jiggled on their own from side to side. His beady little eyes were trying to look at his cheap mobile phone but he was too poor to afford reading glasses although he had 20/200 vision. I rushed to his chair before he broke that one too. As I placed a mummified cat on his shoulder, I felt that his whole body was trembling; a five-for-a-dollar smile touched his lips; he spoke in a deep-south drawl, in one syllable words and no sentences, for there were no subjects or verbs in Dreckweasel’s speech patterns, and a smoke and drug-ravaged voice as if he did not know I was there and could not care less about anything but himself.
“Yes!” he said. “I heard it! Many minutes, many hours, many days have I heard it — but I did not dare to speak! We have put Dirtnap, still living, in the shed! Did I not say that my senses were too strong? I heard his first movements many days ago — yet I did not dare to speak! Oh, where shall I run?! Dirtnap is coming — coming to ask why I put him in the cheap cardboard coffin too soon. I hear his footsteps in the shed. I hear the heavy breathing of his cigarette-ravaged lungs.” Here he jumped up and cried as if he were giving up his soul: “I tell you, he now stands at the door!!”
The flimsy door to which he was pointing now slowly opened. It was the work of the rushing wind, perhaps — but no — outside that door a shape did stand, the squat, slouching figure, in its grave-clothes, of the Dirtnap of House Douchebag. There were cigarette ashes upon his filthy shirt and pants, and the signs of his pathetic efforts to escape the shed were upon every part of his obese form. For a moment he remained trembling at the door; then, with a low cry, he fell heavily in upon brother Douchebag; in his wheezing last breaths, as he died at last, he carried him down with him, down to the floor and knocking over the cigarette-filled ashtray that was to be Dirtnap's final resting place before being spilled off a mountain.
I rushed from the ghastly sight of a resurrected and reconstituted Dirtnap Dave. I hauled ass from the House of Dreckweasel. I ran, skipped, jumped, stopped, dropped and rolled. The shitstorm that was Dirtnap Dave was around me in all its strength as I crossed the Riverwalk, where there were hundreds of beggars and bums.
Suddenly a wild hair moved along the ground at my feet, and I turned to see where it could have come from, for only Dreckweasel’s butthole and the House were behind me. The light was that of the full moon, or maybe a gibbous moon, or a blue moon, or a super-duper moon, or a red moon, or a harvest moon, or flower moon, which was now shining through that crack in the foundation and walls of the House of Dreckweasel, or maybe it was a butt crack which I thought I had seen when I first saw the House.
The vermin and cats escaping the wreckage made for a hard slogging. I suspected the roaches were actually the foundation. Again, suddenly a wild light moved along the ground at my feet, and I turned to see where it could have come from, for only the shithole shack and its darkness were behind me. The light was that of the full moon (or as I described the moon above), of a blood-red moon, which was now shining through that break in the front wall, that crack which I thought I had seen when I first saw the squalor. Then only a little crack, it now widened as I watched. A strong wind came rushing over me — the whole face of the moon appeared. I saw the great walls falling apart. There was a long and stormy shouting sound — and the deep black lake closed darkly over all that remained of the House of Douchebag.
This was just in time because the property tax assessor had stopped by. The outraged neighbors, complete with pitchforks, torches and a Spic and Span-filled firetruck cheered loudly. Even the homeless drunks cheered the development. Suddenly the last surviving member of the House of Douchebag appeared and exclaimed "Fear not, Hogbottom is around the corner and we've engaged all the best talent Shadowville has to offer! Poetry readings, music and the best pickles ever!"
To the horror of all, the shed still stood, protected by the bluest of tarps.
The Shed appeared not like a Home Depot Tuff Shed, but like a house of cigarette packages that had come back from beyond the ashtray. Every 30 minutes, it cried out "Fag!" which I knew was Olde English/Deep South/Shitkickerville terminology for Camels (not the animal, but the smokes). The Blue Tarp saluted the sky, which was not Blue or Red or Yellow or Green or Purple, but not there because it was dark and the Shed was positioned where the Moon don't shine.
by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
https://imgur.com/gallery/OPzRCZD
Part Three
I learned that Dirtnap’s legs had been hanging out of his mother’s private parts for several years before he had actually been born. He was slow and small when living, but now was just dust in an ashtray. We did not long look down at Dirtnap’s transmogrified form, for cat piss and cigarette smoke filled our noses. There was still a little color in Dirtnap’s ashes and there seemed to some semblance of lips under a red wool beanie. Dreckweasel said that what I was smelling must be my upper lip.
We poured Dirtnap into an empty peanut butter jar and returned to the rooms above, which were hardly less trashed than the rest of the dilapidated house. And now a change came in the smallness of Dreckweasel’s mind. He went from room to room with a stumbling step. His face was, if possible, fatter and baggier than before, and the pus in his eyes was similar to the walls at a rest stop bathroom. The mumbling in his voice seemed to show the greatest insanity. At times he sat looking at himself in the mirror for hours, as if seeing some matinee idol no one else could see.
I felt his tiny hands, slowly but certainly, moving over me; I felt that his crazy ideas were affecting my own mind. As I was trying to find a bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after we placed Dirtnap into the peanut butter jar, I experienced the full power of Dreckweasel’s unwashed body. Sleep did not come — while the cats yowled. My mind fought against feeding the strays. I tried to believe that much, if not all, of what was wrong with Dreckweasel was due to the mold, alcohol, drugs, fat and venereal disease that he had.
He broke wind in the other room. But my efforts to justify Dreckweasel's piteous state were not successful. He was to blame for his difficulties and for losing all his life. A revulsion I could not stop filled my body and nose, and disgust caught my heart. I sat up, looking into the shabbiness of my room, listening — I do not know why — to sounds of the Conley Brothers and HandySandy which came when the storm was quiet and I could hear YouTube. A feeling of horror lay upon me like an obese hooker. I put on my clothes and began shambling to the apple grove and then back.
I had been back for a very short time when I heard a light step coming toward my door. I knew it was Willie of House of Douchebag. In a moment I saw him at my door, as usual very filthy, but there was a wild laugh in his eyes. Even so, I was glad to have his company. “And have you not seen it?” he said. He hurried to one of the windows and opened it to the storm. The force of the entering wind nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a stormy but beautiful night, and wildly strange. The heavy, low-hanging clouds which seemed to press down upon the house, flew from all directions against each other, always returning and never passing away in the distance. With their great thickness they cut off all light from the moon and the stars. But we could see them because they were lighted from below by the air itself, which we could see, rising from the dark lake and from the stones of the house itself.
“You must not — you shall not look out at this!” I said to Douchebag, as I led him from the grimy window to a broken chair from his last interview. “This appearance which surprises you so has been seen in other places, too. Perhaps the cat piss is the cause. Let us close this window; the air is cold. Here is one of the chapbook stories you like best. I will read and you shall listen and thus we will live through this fearful night together.” The old chapbook which I had picked up was one written by a fool for fools to read, and it was one that Douchebag wrote. It was, however, the only one without the pages stuck together. He seemed to babble quietly.
Here I stopped reading, for it seemed to me that from some very distant part of the crumbling house sounds came to my ears like those of which I had been reading. It must have been this synesthesia that had made me notice them, for the sounds themselves, with the shitstorm still increasing, were nothing to stop or interest me. They were similar to sounds heard at an open call of a karaoke bar. I continued the ill-written story, and read how the Fatman, now entering through the long-broken and warped door, discovers a strange and terrible animal of the kind so often found in a place such as Shitkickerville. He bites it and it falls, with such a cry and lyric that he has to close his ears with his hands. Here again I stopped, unable to bear the shrieking sound.
There could be no doubt (not the musical group). This time I did hear a distant banging/shrieking/mumbling sound, very much like the cry of an animal in heat or which tried to accomplish a bowel movement. I barely controlled my gag reflex so that Dreckweasel would see nothing of what I felt. I was not certain that he had heard the sound, even though he had ears 10 times the size of normal men. He had clearly changed his dirty pants into another pair of dirty pants. He had slowly moved his chair, which collapsed, and he was helpless like a whale on the floor. I did see that his lips were moving as if he were speaking to himself, which he did a lot because no one else wanted to listen to him. His head had dropped forward and his tongue lolled to the side of his mouth into his crumb-encrusted beard, but I knew he was not asleep, for his tiny eyes were open and he was moving his enormous body from side to side, trying to get up using the downed-elephant maneuver.
It was as I feared! The shirt moved on its own across the room but instead of sweeping the floors of dirt, it was somehow depositing more. It wrapped itself around the Dreckweasel as he began caterwauling about women at truck stops, child support and cheap steak dinners.
Blue tarps started to fluoresce and the cockroaches scattered towards the entrance, as if giving myself a hint to get out as well. Anyone smarter than a Douchebag would take the hint and follow the vermin and I almost did. But i was transfixed by the apparition of a fat hillbilly with a guitar playing the same three chords over and over. Suddenly a sign saying "Theater of the Mind" appeared with a female hand making jerking motions.
The words on the sign had just appeared when I heard clearly, but from far away (which is not a contradiction in terms although the house was only 784 square feet of decaying building materials), a loud screeching sound, accompanied by one drum — as if something of iron had indeed fallen and couldn’t get up, or as if a prison door had closed. (I heard a ghastly voice saying “Joey.”) I lost control of my bowels completely, and jumped up from my chair before I soiled myself.
Dreckweasel still sat, although his fat arms, legs and jowls jiggled on their own from side to side. His beady little eyes were trying to look at his cheap mobile phone but he was too poor to afford reading glasses although he had 20/200 vision. I rushed to his chair before he broke that one too. As I placed a mummified cat on his shoulder, I felt that his whole body was trembling; a five-for-a-dollar smile touched his lips; he spoke in a deep-south drawl, in one syllable words and no sentences, for there were no subjects or verbs in Dreckweasel’s speech patterns, and a smoke and drug-ravaged voice as if he did not know I was there and could not care less about anything but himself.
“Yes!” he said. “I heard it! Many minutes, many hours, many days have I heard it — but I did not dare to speak! We have put Dirtnap, still living, in the shed! Did I not say that my senses were too strong? I heard his first movements many days ago — yet I did not dare to speak! Oh, where shall I run?! Dirtnap is coming — coming to ask why I put him in the cheap cardboard coffin too soon. I hear his footsteps in the shed. I hear the heavy breathing of his cigarette-ravaged lungs.” Here he jumped up and cried as if he were giving up his soul: “I tell you, he now stands at the door!!”
The flimsy door to which he was pointing now slowly opened. It was the work of the rushing wind, perhaps — but no — outside that door a shape did stand, the squat, slouching figure, in its grave-clothes, of the Dirtnap of House Douchebag. There were cigarette ashes upon his filthy shirt and pants, and the signs of his pathetic efforts to escape the shed were upon every part of his obese form. For a moment he remained trembling at the door; then, with a low cry, he fell heavily in upon brother Douchebag; in his wheezing last breaths, as he died at last, he carried him down with him, down to the floor and knocking over the cigarette-filled ashtray that was to be Dirtnap's final resting place before being spilled off a mountain.
I rushed from the ghastly sight of a resurrected and reconstituted Dirtnap Dave. I hauled ass from the House of Dreckweasel. I ran, skipped, jumped, stopped, dropped and rolled. The shitstorm that was Dirtnap Dave was around me in all its strength as I crossed the Riverwalk, where there were hundreds of beggars and bums.
Suddenly a wild hair moved along the ground at my feet, and I turned to see where it could have come from, for only Dreckweasel’s butthole and the House were behind me. The light was that of the full moon, or maybe a gibbous moon, or a blue moon, or a super-duper moon, or a red moon, or a harvest moon, or flower moon, which was now shining through that crack in the foundation and walls of the House of Dreckweasel, or maybe it was a butt crack which I thought I had seen when I first saw the House.
The vermin and cats escaping the wreckage made for a hard slogging. I suspected the roaches were actually the foundation. Again, suddenly a wild light moved along the ground at my feet, and I turned to see where it could have come from, for only the shithole shack and its darkness were behind me. The light was that of the full moon (or as I described the moon above), of a blood-red moon, which was now shining through that break in the front wall, that crack which I thought I had seen when I first saw the squalor. Then only a little crack, it now widened as I watched. A strong wind came rushing over me — the whole face of the moon appeared. I saw the great walls falling apart. There was a long and stormy shouting sound — and the deep black lake closed darkly over all that remained of the House of Douchebag.
This was just in time because the property tax assessor had stopped by. The outraged neighbors, complete with pitchforks, torches and a Spic and Span-filled firetruck cheered loudly. Even the homeless drunks cheered the development. Suddenly the last surviving member of the House of Douchebag appeared and exclaimed "Fear not, Hogbottom is around the corner and we've engaged all the best talent Shadowville has to offer! Poetry readings, music and the best pickles ever!"
To the horror of all, the shed still stood, protected by the bluest of tarps.
The Shed appeared not like a Home Depot Tuff Shed, but like a house of cigarette packages that had come back from beyond the ashtray. Every 30 minutes, it cried out "Fag!" which I knew was Olde English/Deep South/Shitkickerville terminology for Camels (not the animal, but the smokes). The Blue Tarp saluted the sky, which was not Blue or Red or Yellow or Green or Purple, but not there because it was dark and the Shed was positioned where the Moon don't shine.
Cujo DeSockpuppet
Sep 26, 2023, 3:40:02 PM9/26/23
to
NancyGene <nancygene...@gmail.com> wrote in
news:03df44b1-3698-473e...@googlegroups.com:
Simply tremendous. I can't wait for Scorsese to offer to make it into a
movie.
I'd like to thank all the little people. And by that I mean their
intelligence and manhood. Their lack of spines made this whole thing
possible. To the sad, worthless and untalented shitkickers of Columbus:
I salute you all. Be sure not to inbreed any further, M'kay? At least
try to put some branches on the family tree for a change, ferchrissakes.
--
"I've been writing poetry for nearly fifty years, rest assured it's a
poem, Pendragon." - Will Dockery demonstrating why he's a douchebag.
news:03df44b1-3698-473e...@googlegroups.com:
movie.
I'd like to thank all the little people. And by that I mean their
intelligence and manhood. Their lack of spines made this whole thing
possible. To the sad, worthless and untalented shitkickers of Columbus:
I salute you all. Be sure not to inbreed any further, M'kay? At least
try to put some branches on the family tree for a change, ferchrissakes.
--
"I've been writing poetry for nearly fifty years, rest assured it's a
poem, Pendragon." - Will Dockery demonstrating why he's a douchebag.
NancyGene
Sep 26, 2023, 5:35:55 PM9/26/23
to
On Tuesday, September 26, 2023 at 7:40:02 PM UTC, Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
> NancyGene <nancygene...@gmail.com> wrote in
> news:03df44b1-3698-473e...@googlegroups.com:
> > The Fall of the House of Douchebag
> > by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
> > https://imgur.com/gallery/OPzRCZD
> >
> > Part Three
> NancyGene <nancygene...@gmail.com> wrote in
> news:03df44b1-3698-473e...@googlegroups.com:
> > The Fall of the House of Douchebag
> > by Edgar Allan Poe, Cujo DeSockpuppet, and NancyGene
> > https://imgur.com/gallery/OPzRCZD
> >
> > Part Three
> Simply tremendous. I can't wait for Scorsese to offer to make it into a
> movie.
Michael has the right of first refusal, though, for the print publication. His Malleus Maleficarum Press could enter the big leagues of publishing by scoring this sure bestseller. We do see Leonardo DiCaprio in the role of the narrator.
> movie.
>
> I'd like to thank all the little people. And by that I mean their
> intelligence and manhood. Their lack of spines made this whole thing
> possible. To the sad, worthless and untalented shitkickers of Columbus:
> I salute you all. Be sure not to inbreed any further, M'kay? At least
> try to put some branches on the family tree for a change, ferchrissakes.
"The Fall of the House of Douchebag" could bring about serious social change. However, do not be too modest about your talents. Poe has been waiting 174 years for the opportunity to write with you.
> I'd like to thank all the little people. And by that I mean their
> intelligence and manhood. Their lack of spines made this whole thing
> possible. To the sad, worthless and untalented shitkickers of Columbus:
> I salute you all. Be sure not to inbreed any further, M'kay? At least
> try to put some branches on the family tree for a change, ferchrissakes.
NancyGene
Sep 27, 2023, 11:37:50 AM9/27/23
to
Cujo DeSockpuppet
Sep 27, 2023, 12:55:18 PM9/27/23
to
NancyGene <nancygene...@gmail.com> wrote in
news:e1d06351-d6b9-43dd...@googlegroups.com:
pool. So have all three of the Douchebag progeny that we know about.
news:e1d06351-d6b9-43dd...@googlegroups.com:
> There are no branches on the Douchebag family tree. Everyone there is
> his own father, mother, brother, sister, cousin, and child. It's
> complicated and has led to the Douchebag ears, fat, and small hands
> and feet, along with a teeny, tiny brain.
Not fair. Dirtnap removed himself from this branchless part of the gene
> his own father, mother, brother, sister, cousin, and child. It's
> complicated and has led to the Douchebag ears, fat, and small hands
> and feet, along with a teeny, tiny brain.
pool. So have all three of the Douchebag progeny that we know about.
NancyGene
Sep 28, 2023, 1:20:28 PM9/28/23
to
The middle progeny did reproduce, but the results look to be substandard. The older male is gay and the younger one is in prison, where his partners are unlikely to get him pregnant.
NancyGene
Feb 22, 2024, 11:09:50 AMFeb 22
to
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