Great Inventions

Includes striking panels on all four sides plus top.

The Dick is Back

Watch your Dick. Which Dick? Dick Cheney? Dick Nixon? Take your Dick. Dicks are back, That is, if you know how to time-travel.

Ryan Forsythe’s speculative novel Dick Cheney Saves Paris is absurdist, stick-in-the-eye sci-fi at its best. A blast to the past, a kick in the ass, a time-trip to warped worlds unknown. No, make that warped worlds you’ll recognize but wish you didn’t. Is it a mirror or just déjà-voodoo? Take this trip and you’ll have the answer. But just make sure you can handle it, as the novel is freaking funny. You’ll laugh yourself into a coma, and when you come out of it—holy shit!—Dick Cheney will be there to greet you with his lopsided smirk.

Scope the book’s trailer below, then BUY the paperback.

Oh, Florida…

A Curious Compendium

Open publication - Free publishing - More collage

From the lovely cranium of Michael Leigh

A Site for Sore Eyes

Jennifer Kennard’s splendid LETTEROLOGY blog is a feast for artful minds and letter-brained aficionados of typography and symbols and all things nice. You will always find pleasant surprises there, like the Ryan Anderson’s noirish mini-masterpiece, dead letters. It’s Weegee at the keyboard morgue.


CLICK HERE to read Jennifer’s post:  WHO KILLED SMITH CARONA?
CLICK HERE to visit Ryan's blog.

Overlappa & Crappa (mea culpa, kinda)

I’m not sure why the image in the previous post looks so crappy, as it also appears over on Letter Bomb and looks resplendent. But that brings me to the subject of duplication for which I owe readers a rare apology. I’ve been reprinting quite a bit of Beuyscout effluvia here and now realize that FOLLOWERS of both sites may be experiencing déjà voodoo.

Dazzling as the work may be—and it is nothing short of dazzling, yes?—it might lose its resonance due to overexposure and we certainly don’t want that. Thus, I will restrain myself from snatching Scout-spews and reserve Scat for the material for which it is so famous.. The exception being the call for submissions to the collective’s spring project (below). Participation by YOU is important since this,after all, is war.

Light Reading

Back when Scoutmaster Norman Conquest was just a wee Werewolf Scout, his dream was to open a matchbook store devoted to “light reading.” Unfortunately he never achieved his goal because he couldn’t afford the insurance. That, however, did not stop him from producing a small library of Beuyscout matchbooks, some of which appear below. He is currently at work on what surely will be his “pièce de résistance”—a coffee table matchbook.  Stay tuned.

The above may be downloaded for use as a bookmark by pyromantics..

Geometric Porn by Luciano Foglia

 

The Geometric Porn app was rejected by Apple. 
Boo, hiss.

Good Books for All Beuyscouts

We’re pleased to present the first issue of BOOKSCOUT to appear this century. It’s  a quasi-independent “floater” published on behalf of Beuyscouts of Amerika.

Here’s a LINK to pre-order the book.

Keep Out of Kitchen

AVANT-POP (circa 1998)

It’s better than Andy’s — Norman Conquest

Happy Paddy’s Day from BOA!

Yepper, girls are Beuyscouts, too.

The Day Judge Crater Came Out of the Linen Closet

 
Judge Crater, with zombie-like determination, stalked out of the Fletcher's linen closet, exited the bathroom, and entered the hall where he paused, momentarily, to adjust his robe. A life in the closet had come to an end. Nevermore would his honor hunker in the dark under a jumbo-sized carton of sanitary napkins, nor subsist on linens and shards of soap which clung, ever obstinate, to the edge of the tub.

The judge had ruled in favor of himself. He had suspended his sentence, dismissed all charges in a life devoted to illegal eccentricities, and was now prepared to announce his presence to his unsuspecting hosts, whose inadvertent charity and sheets had—for nearly two years—kept him alive.

Downstairs, in the immaculate but garish dining room, Margo Fletcher was busily serving breakfast to her family. The clan was seated around a converted operating-table--complete with bloodstained top and tilt-bar--in anticipation of another meal served with the clumsy, yet loving, touch of Mom... a woman whose only vice appeared to be occasional stints as a prostitute at local Kiwanis meetings.

Her husband Elmer, despite his inability to ejaculate during coitus, was a good provider. He wore the pants in the family, though sometimes inside-out. In his spare time, Elmer Fletcher was fond of football and test tubes.
The Fletcher children were, with the exception of one, models of modern American youth--healthy, happy, and severely overweight. Butch, the oldest, tipped the scales at a hefty 327 lbs. and was a senior at Phlegmwood High, where his feats of pyromania were legend. By contrast, his brother Billy was the intellectual of the house. Although only twelve years old, his head alone weighed an extraordinary 85 lbs.! Furthermore, Billy's collection of antique pamphlets on the treatment of spinal curvature had been estimated in value at over six hundred dollars.

Prudence, the youngest, was down to a plump 145, having been dead for three weeks; a fact which Mrs. Fletcher simply refused to accept. Thus, she insisted on bringing the badly decomposed child to the table at meals, to be propped up in a chair and included in the conversation.

"Did you hear something, honey?" asked Elmer of his wife, as she bobbled a muffin onto his plate.

"Why yes, dear, as a matter of fact, I did. It sounded like someone opened the door to the linen closet."

Billy, who had been quietly squeezing a hard-boiled egg between his knees, looked up. "Maybe it's a burglar," he said, hopefully. "Or a psychopath. I read that the murder rate has risen thirty-four percent in the last three months!"

"Arson's way up, too," chuckled Butch, grabbing a fistful of oatmeal, shoving it into his mouth.

"Crime-crime-crime," chanted Mr. Fletcher, frowning. "Is it any wonder? Our criminal justice system is a shambles. The judges are corrupt, juries are rigged, and then there's those Jew-bastard bleeding-heart liberal lawyers!"

"Elmer darling, pleeeeease," said Mrs. Fletcher, smiling between clenched teeth, "not in front of the children..." She nodded in the direction of Prudence, "..you know how sensitive they are."

"Sorry, Mother," said Mr. Fletcher, rolling his eyes. "Guess I lost my head."

His wife smiled forgiveness, then handed a cup of chicken broth to Billy. "Pass this to your sister, dear," she told him.

"Gee whiz, can't you see she's—"

"—DO AS YOUR MOTHER SAYS!" screamed Mr. Fletcher, waving a blubbery fist. "YOU THINK I ENJOY WORKING  IN A GODDAM SPERM BANK?!..." His rage carried him to his feet in a sudden, spastic fit. He reeled violently about the room, bouncing off the walls and cursing.

"Sit down, dear, your coffee's getting cold."

Elmer whirled to a stop near the window, which faced out on a bright green lawn, dotted with white birch trees and pink flamenco dancers. He stared for a moment at the calming scene, recalling the day, ten years before, when he first saw her... dressed in that trim, seductive uniform and standing so authoritatively in the middle of the road, seeing the last of the children to safety. She had not been beautiful, nor even young, yet there had been something about her... something indefinable... something that made him step on the accelerator and run her down.

"You okay, Pop?" asked Billy.

Mr. Fletcher shrugged, then returned quietly to his chair.

"Listen," exclaimed Butch, suddenly, "footsteps on the stairs!"

The entire family, with the exception of one, turned in unison toward the staircase where the sound of descending feet creaked eerily. Rising from his seat, Butch removed a matchbook from his vest and went and stood stalwartly beside his mother's chair. The Fletchers gasped at the sight of the strange robed figure who now marched unblinkingly toward them with an air of crazed purpose. His hands were clasped juridically behind his back as he stepped into the dining room and bowed.

"What in god's name is the meaning of this?" cried Mr. Fletcher, secretly praying that his own life be spared.

"Allow me to introduce myself-my name is Joseph Force Crater. I have been residing in your linen closet upstairs for the past eighteen months."

Mrs. Fletcher clutched the neck of her dressing gown, nervously. "Oh migod..."

The judge nodded. "That's right, Mrs. Fletcher. Eighteen long months. No contact with the outside world whatsoever, not even at Christmas. And living on a diet of—" He smiled bitterly. "—well, let's just say I wouldn't recommend it. But no matter, I've come to bid you all farewell."

Billy looked concerned. "But where will you go?"

"Shut up!" snapped Mr. Fletcher.

Upon noticing Prudence sliding sideways in her seat, Judge Crater winced. "You really ought to do something about that."

"Better watch it, Your Honor," warned Butch, striking a match and tossing it at the intruder's feet.

Sidestepping the flame, Crater gave the boy a dirty look, then turned to Mr. Fletcher. "So this is how you've raised him, eh? Well, it's none of my business and, besides, I'm late. No need to get up ... I'll see myself out, thank you." And, turning on his heels, he swept out of the room.

When they heard the front door slam shut, Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher breathed a sigh of relief and, avoiding eye contact, faced each other.

"The guys at the bank'll never buy it," said Elmer, shaking his head. They'll think I'm back on the sauce."

His wife tried to sound an encouraging note. "But... they trust you, dear."

"I can't wait to tell the kids at school," chirped Billy.

Butch stared gravely at the matchbook in his hand. "There's going to be a fire tonight," he announced. "I can feel it."

Mr. Fletcher sighed. "I'd better go have a look at the closet...you never can tell."

"Come on, Mom," urged Billy,"let's all go."

Margo Fletcher, however, did not hear her son, but rather was listening to a voice far away, as she stared uncertainly at the body of Prudence which lay in a heap on the dining room floor.

***

Reprinted from STRANGE FAECES NO. 20- March 1980; edited by Opal Louis Nations

What did you do in the war?

Artists, writers, photographers—it’s time to march! Details at this LINK.

BOA Spring Project

All good Grrls & Beuyscouts should participate in BOA's spring "Personhood" project, which includes a booklet packed with yummy theme merit badges.

Artists interested in joining the activist collective and participating should visit www.beuyscouts.com
for details.

And another lovely book...

by the great Peppo Bianchessi from Italy.

Open publication - Free publishing - More art

Dieu est mort

Sartre's French Phrase Book is one of my early books, published in Los Angeles in 1974 by Transient Press. Over twenty years later I reprinted  it under my own Hob Press imprint—a  limited edition of 126 copies  which,—like the original—quickly sold out.

Now a FREE digital version has just been spewed on the web by BOA and it appears below in all its smutty glory. This spares readers the time & expense of tracking down a copy for  $75 on Abe Books.

Enjoy.

Open publication - Free publishing - More absurd

Art Attack! Beuyscouts Are Back!

The day we've all been waiting for has arrived...the launch of our sister blog,  Letter Bomb, the Official Organ of Beuyscouts of Amerika.

Readers of LSN will definitely want to pay a visit and subscribe, if only to ogle a free copy of The Kama Sutra of Rick Santorum. 


Be prepared for the unexpected and surf on over to beuyscouts.wordpress.com