AUSHERMAN'S MANY CONTRIBUTIONS TO
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| Eyeshot's Hindenburg Complex of Infidels & Crusaders |
| BONUS FOOTAGE ON "THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST" NEW COLLECTOR'S EDITION DVD |
Now on one page! Revised versions
of your eyeshot favorites, including:
MIDLIFE CAREER TRANSITION
HOW TO ASSASSINATE A SLAM POET
ACTION BADGER
of your eyeshot favorites, including:
MIDLIFE CAREER TRANSITION
HOW TO ASSASSINATE A SLAM POET
ACTION BADGER
by Stephen Ausherman
Camera pans along an empty beach at night, finds Jesus
standing on a sand dune. He sheds His garments. A gentle
breeze carries away His tunic. He runs naked into the calm
surf. Slow, ominous music swells as Jesus swims into deeper
water. Suddenly, something pulls Him beneath the surface. He
reemerges, gasping for breath, only to be yanked down again.
severed foot bobs to the surface.
* * *
Jesus takes a beating from Apollo Creed.
* * *
In an animated sequence, Jesus enjoys slippery amusements on
a waterslide. However, a mischievous mouse has replaced a
portion of the slide with a giant cheese grater, which shreds the
Body of Christ down to His spine before dumping Him into the
Dead Sea. The mouse then retrieves the shavings of the Christ
and serves them as communion wafers to Catholic orphans.
* * *
Jesus takes a beating from Clubber Lang.
* * *
Jesus sits down to take a crap, only to discover that His toilet
is wired with explosives. In a brief cameo, Mel Gibson rushes
in to save Him. Examining the ticking bomb, Mel asks (in
Latin): "Do I cut the red wire or the blue wire?" Jesus replies
(in Aramaic): "Cut the blue one!" Mel replies (in Latin): "Did
you say the red one?" Cut to exterior of house engulfed in
flames. Smoke clears to reveal Mel kneeling beside Jesus, who
is writhing and screaming: "I can't feel my legs! I can’t feel my
fuckin' legs!" Mel turns to see that His legs are charred stumps.
Visibly shaken, Mel forces a smile and shouts: "Just hang on,
buddy! We're gonna get you outta here!"
* * *
The Christ takes beatings from both the Alien and the Predator.
* * *
Camera zooms in on Jesus on the cross. The sky behind Him
darkens. The earth violently trembles. Roman soldiers flee in
terror. The camera angle widens to reveal that the darkness is
the shadow of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, the most ferocious of all
dinosaurs. She sniffs at the men on the other two crosses, then
lunges toward Jesus. She clamps her mighty jaws over the
Messiah, uproots the cross, and thrashes it from side to side
before gobbling it down. Cut to T-Rex interior shot: evoking
Andres Serrano's Piss Christ, Jesus remains fastened to the
cross, now submerged in amber digestive acids.
* * *
Jesus wakes bound and ball-gagged in an S&M dungeon. A
man identified as Zed the Philistine says (in Aramaic): "Bring
out the Gimp."
* * *
Johnny Knoxville arrives at Golgotha, tells Jesus He's just been
punk'd. Jesus blushes and laughs. "Oh man, you got me!" He
looks around and shouts: "Ashton! You douche! Where are
you, man?" Johnny tells Him that Ashton wanted to be here,
but got tied up on a shoot with Bernie Mac. Jesus replies:
"Oh." He gazes down at the spike in His feet and says, "Yeah,
that's cool, I guess."
standing on a sand dune. He sheds His garments. A gentle
breeze carries away His tunic. He runs naked into the calm
surf. Slow, ominous music swells as Jesus swims into deeper
water. Suddenly, something pulls Him beneath the surface. He
reemerges, gasping for breath, only to be yanked down again.
severed foot bobs to the surface.
* * *
Jesus takes a beating from Apollo Creed.
* * *
In an animated sequence, Jesus enjoys slippery amusements on
a waterslide. However, a mischievous mouse has replaced a
portion of the slide with a giant cheese grater, which shreds the
Body of Christ down to His spine before dumping Him into the
Dead Sea. The mouse then retrieves the shavings of the Christ
and serves them as communion wafers to Catholic orphans.
* * *
Jesus takes a beating from Clubber Lang.
* * *
Jesus sits down to take a crap, only to discover that His toilet
is wired with explosives. In a brief cameo, Mel Gibson rushes
in to save Him. Examining the ticking bomb, Mel asks (in
Latin): "Do I cut the red wire or the blue wire?" Jesus replies
(in Aramaic): "Cut the blue one!" Mel replies (in Latin): "Did
you say the red one?" Cut to exterior of house engulfed in
flames. Smoke clears to reveal Mel kneeling beside Jesus, who
is writhing and screaming: "I can't feel my legs! I can’t feel my
fuckin' legs!" Mel turns to see that His legs are charred stumps.
Visibly shaken, Mel forces a smile and shouts: "Just hang on,
buddy! We're gonna get you outta here!"
* * *
The Christ takes beatings from both the Alien and the Predator.
* * *
Camera zooms in on Jesus on the cross. The sky behind Him
darkens. The earth violently trembles. Roman soldiers flee in
terror. The camera angle widens to reveal that the darkness is
the shadow of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, the most ferocious of all
dinosaurs. She sniffs at the men on the other two crosses, then
lunges toward Jesus. She clamps her mighty jaws over the
Messiah, uproots the cross, and thrashes it from side to side
before gobbling it down. Cut to T-Rex interior shot: evoking
Andres Serrano's Piss Christ, Jesus remains fastened to the
cross, now submerged in amber digestive acids.
* * *
Jesus wakes bound and ball-gagged in an S&M dungeon. A
man identified as Zed the Philistine says (in Aramaic): "Bring
out the Gimp."
* * *
Johnny Knoxville arrives at Golgotha, tells Jesus He's just been
punk'd. Jesus blushes and laughs. "Oh man, you got me!" He
looks around and shouts: "Ashton! You douche! Where are
you, man?" Johnny tells Him that Ashton wanted to be here,
but got tied up on a shoot with Bernie Mac. Jesus replies:
"Oh." He gazes down at the spike in His feet and says, "Yeah,
that's cool, I guess."
MIDLIFE CAREER TRANSITION
by Stephen Ausherman
Standing out here in the field like this, people don't notice you, or if they do, they
suspect something's not right with you, that you’re an outcast, that you put yourself far
away from the others for antisocial reasons, perhaps at the advice of your parents,
clergy or therapist
I stand out here and watch the grass give way to weeds. I watch seeds blow in and
take root. Cacti have grown up around me. Cottonwoods now tower over me. They
provide me with shade and something to lean on when my legs grow weary from
standing so long, but I'm afraid they'll obstruct the view when my moment comes.
Standing out here in the field, as an outfielder training for the 'Topes, I'm afraid my
moment will never come. Or if it does, I'll be too old to react. Or I might run into a tree
that wasn't there in the fourth inning. The last guy to hold this position, his bones are still
out here, somewhere under the tumbleweeds and chaparral.
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing out here. Sometimes I don't get this game at all.
It's so horrendously slow. And yet all the great ones stood out here, in the outfield.
Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Ty Cobb.
Outcasts, all of them. But outstanding players as well. I'll never stand out the way they
did, not out in this field.
I'm new to this field. I changed my career late in life. I thought the transition would
come natural to me, the old field being so similar, but so far no one has noticed me.
In my old field, I was a star. I started young with dreams of fame and glory, convinced
that baseball, being such a horrendously slow game, had run its course as our nation's
pastime. I believed the real action was on the kickball field.
Problem is, kickball athletes tend to peak early, while a baseball player can play on
forever. Satchel Paige was pushing 60 the last time he played for the big leagues. And
when he was on the mound, nobody hit the ball or ran anywhere. He really knew how
to slow a game down to nothing. Same as when he was at the plate. He wouldn't hit
more than one ball in ten thrown his way, and still they let him play. In kickball, you
can’t expect to stay on the team with an average like that. You've got to be kicking
somewhere upward of .800 or .810.
In my prime, I averaged .890, maybe better. I was, in baseball parlance, Cracker Jack.
But then I fractured my first metatarsal on a power kick against an illegal bouncy. After
that, my whole kicking foot went, and with it my dreams of kickball greatness.
I still dream of kickball. I can still hear the percussive punt of that crimson ball and the
playground going wild as it sailed over the swingsets. I remember lying awake nights,
imagining the glory of leading the first USA kickball team to Olympic victory. I
envisioned a clash with the Soviets, a death match reminiscent of our bloody battle for
water polo gold in 1980.
And I still dream of kickball greatness and a day when kickball athletes enjoy the status
we deserve. But I look at the kickball leagues today, and I see it's all about steroid
abuse and hazing rookies. And I look at the baseball players today, and I see it's all
about sucking up to the fans. And I'm still standing out here in right field, alone and
poor and lost in a forest, and I'm thinking maybe I'd be better off in a sport that's pure
and incorruptible. A sport where stardom comes not with phony showmanship, but
with a genuine Zen-like mastery of the game. I'm thinking my moment will come with
cockfighting, or lawn darts, or maybe Scandinavian Rules Roller Derby.
Scandinavia, yeah, I could rule that country. They worship Thor - an American comic
book character. Think of how they'd treat a real American athlete. I'd be bigger than
God. I'd be like a rockstar to them. I'd be like- whoa, was that a grounder that just
rolled between my feet?
suspect something's not right with you, that you’re an outcast, that you put yourself far
away from the others for antisocial reasons, perhaps at the advice of your parents,
clergy or therapist
I stand out here and watch the grass give way to weeds. I watch seeds blow in and
take root. Cacti have grown up around me. Cottonwoods now tower over me. They
provide me with shade and something to lean on when my legs grow weary from
standing so long, but I'm afraid they'll obstruct the view when my moment comes.
Standing out here in the field, as an outfielder training for the 'Topes, I'm afraid my
moment will never come. Or if it does, I'll be too old to react. Or I might run into a tree
that wasn't there in the fourth inning. The last guy to hold this position, his bones are still
out here, somewhere under the tumbleweeds and chaparral.
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing out here. Sometimes I don't get this game at all.
It's so horrendously slow. And yet all the great ones stood out here, in the outfield.
Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Ty Cobb.
Outcasts, all of them. But outstanding players as well. I'll never stand out the way they
did, not out in this field.
I'm new to this field. I changed my career late in life. I thought the transition would
come natural to me, the old field being so similar, but so far no one has noticed me.
In my old field, I was a star. I started young with dreams of fame and glory, convinced
that baseball, being such a horrendously slow game, had run its course as our nation's
pastime. I believed the real action was on the kickball field.
Problem is, kickball athletes tend to peak early, while a baseball player can play on
forever. Satchel Paige was pushing 60 the last time he played for the big leagues. And
when he was on the mound, nobody hit the ball or ran anywhere. He really knew how
to slow a game down to nothing. Same as when he was at the plate. He wouldn't hit
more than one ball in ten thrown his way, and still they let him play. In kickball, you
can’t expect to stay on the team with an average like that. You've got to be kicking
somewhere upward of .800 or .810.
In my prime, I averaged .890, maybe better. I was, in baseball parlance, Cracker Jack.
But then I fractured my first metatarsal on a power kick against an illegal bouncy. After
that, my whole kicking foot went, and with it my dreams of kickball greatness.
I still dream of kickball. I can still hear the percussive punt of that crimson ball and the
playground going wild as it sailed over the swingsets. I remember lying awake nights,
imagining the glory of leading the first USA kickball team to Olympic victory. I
envisioned a clash with the Soviets, a death match reminiscent of our bloody battle for
water polo gold in 1980.
And I still dream of kickball greatness and a day when kickball athletes enjoy the status
we deserve. But I look at the kickball leagues today, and I see it's all about steroid
abuse and hazing rookies. And I look at the baseball players today, and I see it's all
about sucking up to the fans. And I'm still standing out here in right field, alone and
poor and lost in a forest, and I'm thinking maybe I'd be better off in a sport that's pure
and incorruptible. A sport where stardom comes not with phony showmanship, but
with a genuine Zen-like mastery of the game. I'm thinking my moment will come with
cockfighting, or lawn darts, or maybe Scandinavian Rules Roller Derby.
Scandinavia, yeah, I could rule that country. They worship Thor - an American comic
book character. Think of how they'd treat a real American athlete. I'd be bigger than
God. I'd be like a rockstar to them. I'd be like- whoa, was that a grounder that just
rolled between my feet?
HOW TO ASSASSINATE A SLAM POET
by Stephen Ausherman
Ignore him.
This will cause the poet to read in a louder more frantic manner, at which point you may
rightfully fill his skull with bullets, preferably uranium tipped and high caliber.
Take him out fast. A slow death is a poetic death and thus may enhance his performance.
To be sure, follow up with a well-slung arrow to the windpipe. This will prevent the inevitable
dying soliloquy, which may likely include strained metaphors on death as twilight, whereupon
the cruel darkness of life sizzles and shrinks away like bacon burning in a skillet. And this may
cause him to reflect upon the time he set fire to his sleeping father,
who, soaked in rum / also sizzled like bacon
And he'll go on like that, believe me, so be quick with the arrow.
Do not strike the heart. An arrow piercing his blood pump may evoke romantic images.
However cliché, the poet will pounce on them, even sexualize them. He may respond with a
forlorn verse on the night he lost his virginity to a prostitute named Lenore.
She was a lean and oily desert fox whose ribbed torso / like an ergonomically-designed
sports drink bottle / kept her / from slipping from my grip
And he'll go on like that, drenched in sexual references:
Her sweet, burning-sugar breath / Her washbasin pelvic bone / The briny smell of her sex
Trust me, you do not want to sexualize either his death or your hand in it. Poets are easily
aroused. So refrain from offering a murderer’s embrace, a kiss of death, a farewell fuck.
It will only encourage him.
Instead you'll want to employ a long sword. A cutlass, perhaps. Or a Ginsu 2000, if you're on a
budget. Something light and manageable to efficiently slice off his arms, which may otherwise
may continue to flail and gesticulate in that expressive manner so popular with slam poets.
At the very least his hands should be rendered unfit for holding up his little notebook of poems.
This notebook contains his very soul, so chop it up into fine ribbons using either your cutlass or
Ginsu 2000. While you're at it, you might as well lop off his head, being careful not to let it land
near his shredded notebook, which may very well reassemble itself under his gaze, or he might
extend his tongue to lap it up and spit back out more verse on Lenore the whore. He'll recall
the night -
when snow smothered the Sonora / and she confessed her eternal love /
through jaws that rattled like castanets / as she shivered her life away
He'll go on like that, ruing the day he abducted her to the epicenter of desert wasteland in the
dead of winter -
where a solitary grackle / witnessed my passionate crime and cackled / at me /
forevermore
Before he gets to the part about the pale frost on Lenore's varnished complexion, release the
hawks. Or the badgers, or whatever animal you've trained to tear out his eyes and tongue.
You might think this was the solution all along, snatching his tongue away. It's not.
A slam poet rendered mute is basically a mime, and that's just as bad, if not worse.
This happens sometimes. He might proceed with a wordless poem, a gutsy performance
completely lacking in soul and substance and vocabulary. A skilled slam poet, though mortally
wounded, may still twitch and bleed with enough emotion to sway the audience and end up with
the winning score.
At this point, you may rightfully assassinate the judges.
Again, take them out fast.
This will cause the poet to read in a louder more frantic manner, at which point you may
rightfully fill his skull with bullets, preferably uranium tipped and high caliber.
Take him out fast. A slow death is a poetic death and thus may enhance his performance.
To be sure, follow up with a well-slung arrow to the windpipe. This will prevent the inevitable
dying soliloquy, which may likely include strained metaphors on death as twilight, whereupon
the cruel darkness of life sizzles and shrinks away like bacon burning in a skillet. And this may
cause him to reflect upon the time he set fire to his sleeping father,
who, soaked in rum / also sizzled like bacon
And he'll go on like that, believe me, so be quick with the arrow.
Do not strike the heart. An arrow piercing his blood pump may evoke romantic images.
However cliché, the poet will pounce on them, even sexualize them. He may respond with a
forlorn verse on the night he lost his virginity to a prostitute named Lenore.
She was a lean and oily desert fox whose ribbed torso / like an ergonomically-designed
sports drink bottle / kept her / from slipping from my grip
And he'll go on like that, drenched in sexual references:
Her sweet, burning-sugar breath / Her washbasin pelvic bone / The briny smell of her sex
Trust me, you do not want to sexualize either his death or your hand in it. Poets are easily
aroused. So refrain from offering a murderer’s embrace, a kiss of death, a farewell fuck.
It will only encourage him.
Instead you'll want to employ a long sword. A cutlass, perhaps. Or a Ginsu 2000, if you're on a
budget. Something light and manageable to efficiently slice off his arms, which may otherwise
may continue to flail and gesticulate in that expressive manner so popular with slam poets.
At the very least his hands should be rendered unfit for holding up his little notebook of poems.
This notebook contains his very soul, so chop it up into fine ribbons using either your cutlass or
Ginsu 2000. While you're at it, you might as well lop off his head, being careful not to let it land
near his shredded notebook, which may very well reassemble itself under his gaze, or he might
extend his tongue to lap it up and spit back out more verse on Lenore the whore. He'll recall
the night -
when snow smothered the Sonora / and she confessed her eternal love /
through jaws that rattled like castanets / as she shivered her life away
He'll go on like that, ruing the day he abducted her to the epicenter of desert wasteland in the
dead of winter -
where a solitary grackle / witnessed my passionate crime and cackled / at me /
forevermore
Before he gets to the part about the pale frost on Lenore's varnished complexion, release the
hawks. Or the badgers, or whatever animal you've trained to tear out his eyes and tongue.
You might think this was the solution all along, snatching his tongue away. It's not.
A slam poet rendered mute is basically a mime, and that's just as bad, if not worse.
This happens sometimes. He might proceed with a wordless poem, a gutsy performance
completely lacking in soul and substance and vocabulary. A skilled slam poet, though mortally
wounded, may still twitch and bleed with enough emotion to sway the audience and end up with
the winning score.
At this point, you may rightfully assassinate the judges.
Again, take them out fast.
ACTION BADGER
by Stephen Ausherman
Action badger, a thousand bee stings in your honey-caked muzzle, villainous ears
throbbing with pain, nose still wiggling, sniffling, twitching in addiction, be still a moment,
rest your black daggers, and step away from your reputation, your relentless energy.
Badger, badger, so full of action, your name is a verb, like hawk and rat, dog and weasel.
Action badger, no hero of mine, for all your action is your namesake.
You cannot write a play, for your scripts are hearsay. You cannot translate Japanese
without destroying its subtlety. Nor are you a mystic, like the owl outside my window
who makes all too human sounds. Nor are you angelic, like the ghostly toads in the hall
with their suggestive whispers.
Action badger, the one thing you can do is bad. The one thing you do well is badger. You
are a greedy conquistador, your quest for gold veiled as a holy inquisition. But we know
your motives, action badger. Seen them a thousand times before. So crawl back into
your badger hole, choke down the remains of your badger babies, and drown yourself in
the murky blue hatred that is your badger soul.
throbbing with pain, nose still wiggling, sniffling, twitching in addiction, be still a moment,
rest your black daggers, and step away from your reputation, your relentless energy.
Badger, badger, so full of action, your name is a verb, like hawk and rat, dog and weasel.
Action badger, no hero of mine, for all your action is your namesake.
You cannot write a play, for your scripts are hearsay. You cannot translate Japanese
without destroying its subtlety. Nor are you a mystic, like the owl outside my window
who makes all too human sounds. Nor are you angelic, like the ghostly toads in the hall
with their suggestive whispers.
Action badger, the one thing you can do is bad. The one thing you do well is badger. You
are a greedy conquistador, your quest for gold veiled as a holy inquisition. But we know
your motives, action badger. Seen them a thousand times before. So crawl back into
your badger hole, choke down the remains of your badger babies, and drown yourself in
the murky blue hatred that is your badger soul.
