‘Twas the Night Before Christmas in Brooklyn

‘Twas the Night before Christmas, when all through the building,

There was only the sound of silence and an empty feeling,

The homemade leather stockings were hung with love and care,

You could also find them on Etsy for a price that was both reasonable and fair,

The hipsters were fast asleep in their ironic race car beds,

While visions of mustache-bikes and bands no one has heard of yet, break danced  and twerked in their heads,

The foodies tried to sleep but of course they were wide awake,

so they YELPED about a shitty breakfast and Instagrammed red velvet cupcakes,

The professionals were long gone, away on a vacation,

Spending what you and I pay in rent, just to arrive at the destination,

They tried to sleep but insomnia was the trend,

Especially when they forgot to pack a week’s supply of their sleep-crutch I mean Ambien,

No DJ’s were mixing, no punks were garbage-sifting,

‘Twas just me in my apartment, drinking eggnog and think-a-linking,

All the people were gone, and that was more than alright,

For the first time since I moved to New York, I might just have my first silent night.




Usually to escape the raging Demon screams that haunt my brain jar (head) every morning, I’ll start my day off with some Chex Mix, yogurt, a little bit of nitrous, and catch up on the news. As I was reading the New York Times today I came across this article:

“Couples Accused as Spies Were the Suburbs Personified”

I hate stories like this. It’s always the same song and dance: the neighbors never suspected a thing.. they thought all of these couples were just normal people who “would talk about gardening and dogs and kids.”

Look, I’m not saying we should all be paranoid, I’m just saying you really can’t trust anybody, especially your neighbors… and you should probably be a little paranoid.

So, I decided to help out…

Unsure if your neighbors are double-agents working for an Eastern Government? Here are some simple things to ask yourself:

At dinner parties and social functions do they make more than eight references to ‘The Motherland’ in an hour?

Instead of nicknames like Babycakes, Mustache MacDougal or Dollface, do they call each other comrade, Boris, #714, or Franky “Nice Niekvlyette” Johnson?

Do they ask to borrow sugar or microfilm?

If you offer them nightvision goggles and blueprints, do they readily accept them?

Have you ever accidentally mixed up one of your recording devices with theirs?

Do they own more than one Black Eyed Peas CD?

Do either of them have more than three visible facial scars that look to be from barbed wire?

Do they often reek of cheap vodka, soup lines, or a sadness that can’t be named?

Have they ever asked you for directions to C.I.A. headquarters and then say ‘Just kidding we meant Dominoe’s!’ ???

If you answered yes to one or more of the questions the odds are you are dealing with a sophisticated double agent. Best bet: citizen’s arrest with blowdart.


By the age of twenty-one Jackie “His Hiveness” Rivens controlled over sixty-two percent of America’s beekeeping colonies. He was a millionaire tens of twenty of times over. He was a philanthropist, a Libertarian, a table-tennis enthusiast, a freemason, a recluse, and a reformed Jehovah’s Witness.Now at the age of thirty-three, Jackie reveals it all in his memoir: “Bee-Fore I Knew It: The Truth Stings”  From his addictions to Bolivian cocaine and Latvian spongecake to his addictions to Latvian supermodel’s and Bolivian keno, nothing is held back. All the rumors are finally put to rest: Why did he fake his step-brother’s death over forty times? How did he escape from Guadalajara with just a tablecloth, chives, and an Uno card? Does he really sting it before sex to make it bigger?? Here now, is an excerpt from Jackie Rivens: “Bee-Fore I Knew It: The Truth Stings”


I wanted to be a beekeeper as far back as I can remember… beekeepers are a different type of breed. In Arizona, where I grew up, they were the absolute coolest man. They lived life on the fucking edge. They got pussy 24/7… I’m talking sixty-two hours a week man. They got tattoos of birds, threw bags of dog shit at the police, over-tipped at Chinese restaurants…  they did whatever the FUCK they wanted.  They kept bees for christsakes.

Drug-fueled orgies. Candy dishes full of ecstasy, viagra and prilosec. Piles of money. Drunken motorcycle races through Tuscon. Gallons, I mean GALLONS of fresh honey everywhere…. those were the good old days. But that’s all beehind me now….

Chapter 1: Here We Bee Again

I got my first beekeepers outfit the day before my ninth birthday. My old man got it at a garage sale for three bucks. It was the best day of my life. That’s a pretty big deal coming from a guy that’s bungee-jumped off the Space Needle, free-based in the Louvre, and had sex with a woman that looked like Wolverine (not Hugh Jackman… Wolverine).

That outfit. I wore it fucking everywhere: School, the zoo, old man Carruther’s house… EVERYWHERE. I slept in it. I showered in it. I even tricked it out: laser beams stitched into the elbows, scratch-n-sniff zippers, and two custom-made badass patches. The one in the front said: “Who’s in Charge Here?” and the one in the back said “I Bee!”

My parents didn’t want me to have anything to do with beekeeping. In fact, they were dead-set opposed to it. Mostly because their parents died from bee attacks and they knew how dangerous a job it was… and a little because they had hoped I’d follow in my father’s footsteps and sell homemade meth to rodeo clowns. But I had a talent. That much was obvious. By the age of thirteen I was taking care of over 80 colonies in my parent’s backyard. I was harvesting twenty pounds of liquid gold by eighteen. That’s when the money started rolling in… and that’s when things really started to get sweet…



My name is Tyllet Skellar. I was born the fifth of thirty-two children one fateful day in the sweltering Summer of 1932 in Sakamasoo, Missouri.

I’m told I came out cross-eyed with webbed-feet and a peciluar fondness for carrots… later, I got the typhoid and my eyes went back to normal. To this day, my parents still say it’s a miracle that I have those webbed-feet.

I wont sugarcoat shit for you, it was hard growing up. We only had three pair of pants to share among the thirty-two of us. Food was scarce, we all suffered from a lack of education, and Ultimate Frisbee hadn’t been invented yet…. Hard times did indeed abound.

My brothers and I all shared a bunkbed that was twelve feet high and shook like my Pa’s hand before he had his morning coffee.

Well, we were supposed to share it but most nights I fell asleep outside, dreaming about what it’d be like to be a Space Cowboy drinking Space Whiskey on a comet with Moonbeams and other kids with webbed-feet would be there too. But those was just dreams.

My parents were Tobacco farmers. Had been since FDR’s twin brother (Flobberton Delanor Roosevelt) lost the farm to my Pa on account of a bad hand of Gin Rummy. To this day FrDR still claims he was swindled out of the land (which he most defintely was as my Pa loved to recount the story about how he cheated the shit out of him).

We lived a simple life. Most of us kids just talked to the frogs and sat staring at the Sun.

Ma and Pa tried there best to put supper on the table when they could, but it was hard (especially since we had to sell the table to pay for my Pa’s fancy subdries addiction).

It all came to a head one night when…