Google Famous

Google Famous

By Mathew SerbackArtsBooks
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Google Famous episodes

  • MUSTH

    MUSTH


    A male elephant

    leaves their family group when they react to puberty.


    Is my trunk long

    enough?


    They may live –

    but will live alone

    or with other males

    because they only interact with the family group when looking for a
    mate. They enter a selfish-

    state of increased

    testosterone and agression, which helps them gain dominance

    over other males.

    The irony of reproductive


    success. An

    evolutional stress

    test. Sometimes, the

    elephants even appear reassured and self-

    aware. Even showing

    concern for the dying


    and the dead

    individuals

    of their family

    groups.


    Silly males were not

    anti-social

    after all. After

    last call, younger men

    were seen tagging

    along,


    lagging behind

    the older males that

    do not waste their time with stopping to notice if the moon
    appreciates

    how needlessly

    complex they are.

    2 min
  • SEASON 3 EPISODE 12

    SEASON 3 EPISODE

    12
    It's a victory (when you call).

    Premeditated

    predators.
    Predetermined inferior.
    Predicting danger.
    Purveyor
    of angry saviors.
    We are not the same. You grew up on
    middle-class privilege. Middle-class parties. Sunday morning prayers
    to absolve you of your fathers and their Saturday night

    affairs.

    We are not the same.

    Take the heat, and take the blame. Carry the shame. You grew up
    wanting to be like your fathers. I grew up wanting to be like Buffy
    the Vampire Slayer.
    Crawl into bed (when you call).
    Pick
    up the pieces (when you call).

    2 min
  • THERE AREN'T ANY FATHER FIGURES AVAILABLE UNTIL EARLY JANUARY

    THERE AREN'T ANY FATHER FIGURES AVAILABLE UNTIL EARLY JANUARY


    I fantasized about

    you

    dying. I did it

    without trying;

    without crying;

    without fighting the

    feeling

    that the worse it

    was for you

    the better it would

    be for me.


    I warned people

    about you. Murder-

    suicide. Murder then

    suicide. We joked about how we would

    be murdered-

    suicided by you in

    our sleep. Barely able to see over

    the sink. Another

    drink. Violence

    in the streets.

    Barely able

    to defend myself.

    Hell,


    helpless. Selfless

    if you

    provoked him. Let

    that sink in. You sink

    or swim. Deep end.

    If someone has to take it,


    might as well fight

    back. Side step. Side

    step. Jab.

    It does not hurt as

    much as you think, and ice helps

    with the welts.


    I fantasized about

    making it to twenty-five,

    alive. Thought I

    would die. Murder

    or suicide. Murder

    or suicide.


    To my surprise,


    there are no male

    therapists available until after the new year.

    I should check back

    then.

    2 min
  • BEFORE SCIENTOLOGY, TOM CRUISE WAS A CATHOLIC, LOSERS

    BEFORE SCIENTOLOGY, TOM CRUISE WAS A CATHOLIC, LOSERS


    “For a better part

    of a decade, a San Francisco Bay Area drug ring sold tons of cocaine
    to the Crips and Bloods street gangs of Los Angeles and funneled
    millions in drugs profits to a Latin American guerilla army run by
    the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, a Mercury News investigation
    has found.”

    - The San Jose

    Mercury News, August 18, 1996


    The only missionary

    I like is the position.


    The only religion

    that matters is capitalism. Pillaged

    and looted. You

    don't have to like it –

    but you will have to

    get used to it. It takes a village

    to burn a bridge and

    keep the secrets.


    Have you come out

    with swords and clubs as if

    I were a criminal?

    Even J Christ understood

    the zeitgeist.

    Prayer and water. Prayer and holy water

    sounds a lot like

    prison. Sleep with snakes

    to learn parcel

    tongue. Prayer and water


    and private jets.

    The person who uses their private jet most on Earth

    does a PSA about

    saving the planet. If it doesn't make you say god dammit, well,


    god dammit. Prayers

    and water

    and hero worship.

    Smooth-brained

    means smooth

    surface. It must be a fairly hollow realization that the only thing
    your parents raised you to be is a consumer,


    loser.

    2 min
  • THERE'S A HOLE IN THE FENCE ON WEST 70th THAT LEADS TO KMART

    THERE'S A HOLE IN THE FENCE ON WEST 70th THAT LEADS TO KMART


    Trash

    bags over shoulders. Mom and me walk them to the recycling plant. You
    see, my father drinks, and my father drinks. All the streets around
    here read no outlet. We are cattle herded and forced to huff it down
    Clark where the blurry figures in passing cars point and gawk.


    If

    you're lucky, in the summer, you can hear the cars laugh at mom and
    me – and our bags of trash.


    Every

    time we pass the laundry mat, I am good to hear the story of the last
    time my mother got into a fistfight. Over a drying machine. Beat the
    bitch's ass.


    Past

    Hope, at the intersection with Mom's Family Restaurant, we cross the
    street and take 65th down past West Side Metals until we hit Aaromet
    Recycling. It is only a handful of change for the bags, but she lets
    me get something from the corner store, and neither of us has
    anything better to do.


    On

    the way back, we walk through the Kmart parking lot until we hit the
    brown fence that is hidden by overgrown shrubs. Been that way for
    decades. There is no point in cutting down the weeds. They just grow
    back.


    There

    is a hole in the fence out there. If you don't mind scraping your
    knees against the rocks as you tunnel beneath the sharp edges of the
    fence, you can climb the sharp edges of the track ballast, and race
    across the train tracks. You'll come to the hole in the fence. It is
    behind the fire hydrant and across the street from Lesha's house. Be
    careful in the backyard. It's like our backyard. There's poison oak.
    No one bothered to destroy it. No one had time to protect us. 'Round
    here, you get one warning, and one warning only.


    Misty

    hung herself on a clothesline in the backyard.


    Phillip

    broke my arm in the living room.


    We

    are the only children outside, and the cops do not let us play
    kickball in the abandoned parking lot. They closed down Halle Middle
    School, and I am forced to bus to school in a different neighborhood.
    The only thing anyone ever feeds us is hotdogs, and no one can
    understand why I don't want to eat. The only thing anyone ever shows
    me is violence, and no one can seem to understand why


    there's

    a hole in the fence on West 70th Street that is quite the shortcut

    if

    you need it.

    3 min
  • PLAYING TENNIS AT THE REC CENTER WHERE THEY MURDERED TAMIR RICE

    PLAYING TENNIS AT THE REC CENTER WHERE THEY MURDERED TAMIR RICE


    It

    went:

    Your

    service. No. Your serve. No. You first.


    Thirsty.


    We're

    all thirsty. You're thirsty? I'm thirsty. Biked here from
    one-thirtieth.

    My

    uncle's family stays in the Boulevard Terrace housing projects down
    the block. Yeah, Mother told me to stop there for water and to let
    someone know I made it here


    alive,

    but

    they're drug addicts who refuse to take their dog out of the
    apartment

    to

    shit. Most people can't imagine the type of shit

    that

    smells and stains your clothes. Plastic bags from the dollar store
    tossed in the corner meant to be

    someone

    else's problem.


    Instead,

    I call from the payphone that used to be across the street. I'm not
    going to make it

    home.

    I'm going to be someone else's


    problem.


    The

    guy that teaches us tennis just graduated college. They were either
    volunteer hours

    or

    something to look good on the resume.


    We

    were those kinds of kids. The kind of kids everyone wants to help.
    The kind of kids you brag about helping on your resume. The kind of
    kids you swear you made an impact on;


    you

    didn't. The kind of kids you swear will end up different; we don't
    want to. The coded language sometimes needs explaining to those not
    versed in it. They say the right things, but it is surface-level at
    best.


    One

    summer you spent an hour a day, three days a week in the ghetto and
    survived. You make a rich liberal blush with pride. You make a rich
    liberal mother cry. You proved that high school lacrosse and apple
    pie can turn you into the right kind of guy.


    It

    went:

    No

    one teaches me anything about tennis. They were either volunteer
    hours or just something to look good on a resume. I wake up early on
    Saturdays and watch the tennis match on channel 03. I try to learn
    the rules. I mimic their movements in the living room behind our
    couch.


    I

    can't make noise. Not too much noise; any noise. If I wake up my
    father, I might as well daydream


    about

    being one of those kids who gets to visit my neighborhood three hours
    a week for one summer and then call it quits. When he hits me, I
    imagine I toss the tennis racket into the trunk of my blue Nissan
    before heading for the highway.


    For

    the rest of his life, he gets to tell people he taught tennis at the
    rec center where they killed Tamir Rice. He is not going to help us
    destroy the system, and he is not going to help us bury the bodies it
    took.


    After

    fighting my father, I lay on the floor and stared at the popcorn
    ceiling, waiting for the blood to dry and listening to the tennis pro
    on the television argue with an unnamed authority about the
    importance of


    consistency.


    I

    never learned how to play tennis. My cousins in the housing projects
    overdosed on opiates while my uncle did twenty years in prison. They
    got the bunk heroin from my aunt.


    I

    can't describe all the shit I had to do just to be able to tell you

    I

    survived

    the

    rec center, the housing projects,

    and

    another summer in the city they're always trying to improve.

    4 min
  • PROOF OF ABORTION

    PROOF OF ABORTION


    Dopehead
    decomposes while his uncle plays dominoes. Neither can contain their
    giggles

    when
    I bring skittles and soda

    to
    the game. Bunch of dudes in a dungeon. Prison fools prisoners to
    prison rules. As obvious as the poorly carved


    tattoos.
    Stained with shitty symbols

    and
    statements. The Aryan nation

    insignia
    along his tibia exposed

    when
    he reaches for his drug paraphernalia.

    Faded.
    Hate it. Can't say shit.


    Crack
    has a distinct smell – especially when the foil's burnt.


    Eyes
    on me. I was more of an All
    Eyes on Me.
    As obvious as the marijuana plant 

    in
    the corner. Dying. Solo. Dolo.

    I
    won't let them try to play me. Nobody puts baby

    in
    the figure four or ankle lock. Muted, Smackdown plays as the smack-

    down
    glazes over their eyes.

    No
    surprise. Screwed faces

    on
    screwed-up racists. Wasted.


    Heroin
    can make a mother fucker nod off in the middle of a conversation.


    Hope
    that's sterilized.

    Hope
    you're sterile.

    As
    oblivious as a sentient clogged toilet.

    Full
    of shit. Being full of shit can be a symptom

    of
    opiate abuse. Obtuse if you think there's nothing worse

    you
    can call a man than bastard.

    Master.

    There's
    more to life than stone-faced selfies, cocaine,

    and
    candy.


    If
    I have to make an argument for abortion,

    you
    are my plan b.

    2 min
  • YOU SLEPT WITH SOMEONE IN FALL OUT BOY, AND ALL YOU GOT WAS THIS STUPID POEM ABOUT IT

    YOU SLEPT WITH SOMEONE IN FALL OUT BOY, AND ALL YOU GOT WAS THIS STUPID POEM ABOUT IT
    Horse rides with friends,

    and horseplay. A

    glass of oak-barrel aged

    chardonnay. Childish

    charades give way as the facade fades.
    One can not simply shrink
    into nothing.
    Will we step on the grapes today? Tonight,

    do we spin the

    revolver's chamber

    of secrets, tongue

    the gun, and see if we can worm our way out
    of the dirt that
    buries our bruises up to the neck?
    One can not simply shrink.


    Just because you

    speak does not mean you were spoken to. Swearing does not make you a
    sailor any more than the moon tattoo, sewed through skin, stitched
    and stretched over a canvas before being flattened


    under the guise of

    repuropsing yourself.

    If

    you are to treat me the way you treat you, you must know

    that

    one can not shrink. In the interests of arguments,

    one

    can shrink. Warm water

    in

    the washing machine. Extra high temps

    on

    the dryer. Curling into the fetal position

    at

    the foot of the bed

    like

    a god-damned, dog.

    2 min

About Google Famous

From the publisher's feed

Mathew Serback reads some short stories he's published and talks about how they were written. If you're a writer who is looking to learn, Mathew does a brilliant job of breaking down the tools in your workshop.