Hi, I’m Ryan Deerling. I’ve been asked by the AND SOME OF HIS SONS WERE HORSES staff to continue the “eternal navigation” system known as the BONKER BROTHERS saga. I am not one to say no, or one to stand up for myself or my principles, so I said yes. It is the worst piece of writing I have ever written. I have written two pieces of writing. The last piece of writing I wrote 17 years ago. I am 34. The next piece of writing I will write after this piece of writing will be 17 years from now. God only knows how old I’ll be then. Anyway, I realize I am carrying on a bit, so I am going to get on with the story of the New BONKER BROTHERS. But not until after I give instructions as to how to read this- my worst piece of writing. The instructions are as follows (they are more like suggestions):

There are two ways I suggest reading my worst story:

1) To be read alone, out loud.

2) To not be read.

You can try one way or the other, or both at the same time.

Okay. Thanks for bearing with me, folks. Without further ado:





of the


-by Ryan Deerling



“I do believe, Brother Bonker, that parapet is the most English word I can think of off the top of my head”

“But, Brother Bonker, parapet is of French origin”

“No matter, the English say parapet so very…English. They’ve made it their own”

“I disagree. Try another word”

“OK. Hmmmm…I’ve got it! I do believe, Brother Bonker, that balustrade is the second most English word I can think of off the top of my head”

“Wrong again, dear idiot brother of mine. Balustrade is, like parapet, of French origin”

“What the heck? Do the French have a monopoly on balconies or something?”

“Yes. They do in fact. Ever since the Revolution. And there’s no use fighting it”

“Fine. I’ll let it rest, although it gets my blood boiling. ‘Choose your battles,’ as they say”

“As who say?”

“The English!”

“Wrong! Idiot!”

“Oh dear, is it the French again? Are they the ones who do in fact say, ‘Choose your battles?’”

“No. The Americans do. Or, more accurately, an American…Katy Perry. And she didn’t say it, she sung it”

“Alright, quiz whiz. You win”

“Of course I win. I always win”

“What do you want, a medal?”

“No, a badge”

“A badge?”

“Yes, a badge”

“What kind of badge?”

“A ‘genius’ badge”

“I don’t have any geniuses badges, but I do have this one little badge here that might be appropriate”

“What badge do you have there in your hand to give to me?”

“It’s a ‘couch potato’ badge”

“Oooo… ‘why I oughta’”

“Now I Moe that one, you stooge”

“‘It’s about time’”

“‘It’s about time.’ Very English-sounding phrase. How English of you”

“How Moe-ronic of you”

“Hey sorehead, don’t get sore about me getting the ‘oughta’ reference”

“I ain’t sore about it. After all, I knew all the ‘oughta’ answers. And besides, I knew the reference too. I said it, didn’t I?”

“But I called it first. And we all know, ‘you stooge, you lose’”

“And you’re a still born loser, pumpkinhead”

“Is that right? Well, you’re a sore loser”


“Now what’s all this about?”

“Colonel, I’ll tell you what this is all about”

“Yea, Colonel, it’s all about my brother being a dip”

“If I’m a dip, then you’re a drip”

“You’ve both got ice cream for crows for brains. Now give me the scoop”

“The scoop is my brother’s a chicken shit weiner”

“Watch your mouth”

“Ah, you’re vanilla, Denker”

“Boys, boys, don’t you know it is wrong to treat family in such a manner as you treat one another?”

“Colonel Colonic, stick it up your ass”

“Moe-is-me, what a family. I can see we have a rocky road ahead of us”

“Not me, Colonel Colicky. It’s smooth sailing for this champion. I am tip-top. In mint condition”

“You’re a chocolate chip off the old block, is what you are, Dichter. You take after your Father- Pig Bonker. I see that icy look in your eyes; I hear those cold, cynical thoughts churning in your brain. The bad seed does not fall far from the tree. In fact, the bad seed does not fall at all, for you were born fallen”

“Don’t talk about Father, dough boy”

“Oh my. He’s called me dough boy. Such insubordination!”

“More like insu-bore-dination, Colonel Clumper”

“Your mouth is the mouth of a fiend”

“And it took you ’til now to fiend that out, did it?”

“Don’t sass me, young Bonker”

“Then stop butting in on Bonkers’ businesses, whether our business be balustrades, parapets, patios, perambulators, turrets, tourniquets, ramparts, bulwarks, bastions, balconies, or buttresses. Denker and I were getting along just fine without you, you lard lumberer”

“You..you ungrateful, spoiled child. I took you two in when Pig lost his wig in the stink pipe to the SEWER SNAKE [see last month’s special feature, Break-Out -Ed the Editor]. Oh, the sacrifices I’ve made! I’ve tried to raise you two right, and all you Bonkers do day in and day out is argue about trivial facts that neither one of you can get straight. Parapet’s etymological origin lies in Latin, not in French.”

“Never say that word to me again!”

“What word?”


“Boy, what is so wrong with the word Latin?”

“You know damn well, Colonel Puffball!”

“Curb your insults for one second, child, and explain to me what harm there is in saying the word…Latin?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot! Latin was the middle name of my Father! It’s like rubbing salt in the wound every time you say his name. Please stop or I’ll kill myself. Or don’t stop. What does it matter? I’ll kill myself either way. I don’t want to live in this world, filled with words originating from places, a world of conversations laced with penny-dreadful puns, a world of stories going nowhere, a world overflowing with ‘couch potato’ badges and smelly hydras eating fathers. No, I can’t take it anymore Colonel Hatch. The insults I hurl at you are defense mechanisms; I don’t really mean them. Deep down, I am grateful for what you’ve done for me and Denker. But it’s too late for me. I cannot be saved”

“Is this what they mean by ‘white people problems?’”

“Who is they?”

“The English!”

“Pardon me, Colonel Catheter, but the English don’t know anything about what it means to be white”


“When are you two clowns and Colonel going to stop seeing the world in black and white?”

“Stop plucking prejudices”

“Stop strumming segregation”

“Detune your racial tensions”

“And enter the Den of Zen”

“A place where white is blackballed”

“And black is whitewashed”

“Where race is moot”

“And racism is mute”

“A place of ‘calm through cacophony’”

“Where every gesture, grimace, gasp, and belch”

“Is amplified, to deafening levels”

“Where we can judge one another, harshly, by actions, our missteps and mistakes”

“On slight and subtle breaches of etiquette”

“Decibels of digestion”

“Telepathic telephony”

“Every little gesture”

“Every knuckle crack”

“Ill-timed pauses”


“Keep your shoes tied”

“Keep your shirt on”

“That’s right, the Den of Zen is no hole in the wall”

“It’s a home in the wall”

“That’s right, we’re priests”

“Yea, I’m a priest”

“And I’m a priest. And I have a priest within my priest. He can talk too”

“He’s right. I am able to talk from within the priest who houses me”

“I house him, and he cradles me. Together we rock the cradle of love”

“And life”

“And laughter”

“Together, we mix multiple realities”

“Until they resemble Borscht”

“When I awaken, I spit, thinking I spit blood, not Borscht”

“It is blood. Blood…and also Borscht”

“And blood”

“I spit Joanna”

“I spit within the priest. I spit without the priest”

“I am wise. I can say one thing, then turn around and say the opposite. I am righteous in my wrongness”

“I am correct in my incorrectness”

“I can say I am right; then I can say I am correct. There are whales of mountains between the two words. Yet they are the same. Yet they will never understand one another. That is because they are one”

“Our differences are what make us the same. On the other hand, our similarities are what make us the same”

“Knowledge is to know nothing”

“To be reasonable, one must be irrational”

“To attain wisdom, one must wing it”

“The tour guide is led by the tourist”

“The dissenter gifted the officer the shield”

“And his coat of arms. With his hard earned money. Earned through non-working”

“Earned through non-thinking”

“To finally live, we must cease to exist”

“To finally give, we must steal the robes of a thieve”

“It is not a hole in the wall”

“Nor is it a home in the wall”

“It is a hole in the pants after an amateur wrestling match with the Sniffer”


“Speak of the Devil. It’s… the Sniffer”

“That’s right, Bonker boys, Colonel, and Priests with Priests within Priests. It’s me… the Sniffer. Ever since the day I was born, I’ve been sniffing around for trouble. Adam raised a Cain, and I sniffed that sugarfoot out and made rum out of him. Then I shot the rum down straight and started raising some cain of my own. Before I knew it, I was running the whole goddamn show in the Garden of Eden. It was my petting zoo. Some of those incestuous little God monkeys tried to kick me out of the GENESIS CENTER, but I kicked them to the curb. And I’ll put all of you white trash to the curb too, if you keep pushing my buttons. Because the Sniffer doesn’t like what he smells”

“Put a lid on it, Oscar”

“Who said that?”


“Those are bold words for such little men”

“We have aged a bit since you last saw us”

“And I’ve been working out. Waiting for this moment to take on the two of you. Just like my Father, the SEWER SNAKE, did to your Father, PIG LATIN BONKER!”

“Those are fighting words”

“That’s the only language I speak”

“And this is the last time you’ll speak it. Noseman, prepare to get bonked and honked by the New BONKER BROTHERS”




…which will be continued next blue moon.

In the meantime, I, Ryan Deerling, present to you as a little icing on the cake of no return, my first and best piece of writing, ISNT REAL.


the Straits of Loggins

the Straits of Messina

put another Straitjacket on

mama, that’s my smoking gun

honey, that’s my smoking jacket

and here’s my nightcap two


                                          and one make


                                                      a salad s

                                          (s that make my hummingb

                                            birds hum     m

                                                startled   screeching:






                                          a poem is like a shepherd

                                          i  t shall not want

                                          and I am like the sheep

                                          a  citizen

                                         a     genealogy in a bottle


                                          deers for fears

                                          Deerling family tears

                                            when mama loved me it’s true

                                          on knee and shortening tongue

                                           on phantom limb and christian cross

                                          she called me “Angel Darling”

                                          though Ryan was me name.

                                          I called her Santa