Lazy Fascist Press
Poetry Foundation Review
PRAISE FOR GIL THE NIHILIST: A SITCOM
“Blurring the boundary between screenplay and poem, Gil The Nihilist one-ups Pound’s modernist dictum (“make it new”) by additionally making it “now.” Right now. Right this instant. More timely, relevant, and compelling than anything else on the market. In no uncertain terms, Kilpatrick has produced the first truly radiant nightmare of the 21st century. To put it in movie-speak, it’s Clark Coolidge meets Andrzej Zulawski meets Kathy Acker’s Blood and Guts in High School meets Richard Kern’s Fingered meets Death Grips meets John Waters. Moreover, this book pulses with the word porn of word stylists meshed with the intoxicating visuals of our everyday hyper-reality.” -Christopher Higgs, author of The Complete Works of Marvin K. Mooney
“Sean Kilpatrick, like some godlike producer, must’ve got Joyce, Sade, Jarry, and Trecartin together in a Star Waggon. This book’s a sick channel for all our channels, a gnarly and hilarious script of the human animal’s entertainment… Kilpatrick presents a new zone in American fiction. Who must I destroy to get this show made?” -Ken Baumann, author of Solip
“Sean Kilpatrick is a lunatic and an instigator. This book is a restraining order. Stray from summary. Please don’t have opinions. Try to enjoy it and see yourself trying to weigh in. Then, laugh at yourself for that. Then, give him a hug.” -Elizabeth Mikesch, author of Niceties
EPISODE 1 – CHEW THE SCALES OFF WHAT PASSED US
Gil is tutoring a child.
Oops. (Flicking lighter) Outlasts anyone. Whatever scourged us best be universe-length and terribly following through on its lingerie. Little Aigner, why are we so far less than our groceries? (Claps him against the wall) The
twentieth century quit our wallowing in because. See the batch that
sagged its bowel? Everyone’s ten ton sacrifice contributed the bidet.
Bang, I was thronging the squad, scooting falderal, finicky up my clay.
Ready a mass shooter. Our vicar draped in news. Got your cum-caught
hosanna for munitions. (Whaps forehead) This is America. We’re
especially asleep through our corpse. I pick my wet dreams over
anybody’s peace. The squabble whupped by carts. Who will count their
flab to know? The shush and clop. How coochies rile. Rile, coochies. We
do the bank’s nostalgia. Procreate them stamps, bitch. Proud about the
bible. Open just the same. Terminal chamber pots for laundry. Or working
class chroma. Loutish wiggard diner fiendings. No handouts for anyone
this disguised. Impute left or right prepuce? Goons in the coma of our
daughter. No, rather, college-drill the stroller about proletariat
whatnot. Marx-fetish, crawling the umpteenth sphincter for lawyerly
academic boiler plate argument intellectual hunky-dory snark
professorships. Ah, spiffy. Ah, shone best for last. Yuppie entitlement.
Marathon winners. Clout of Whole Foods enema gassing uppity. You
survived a million proms. So crowded with baby wipe compassion the piety
there could outdo any blue ribbon sadist. I hate you all and am no more
than you. Except my hate scores bottommost. Disgorge all faculties,
sexy. Analysis is the shutout scratch we poll like a Möbius
strip. Let’s keep getting pregnant, kid. Beg your clot replenished from
every status, every swole roid hydroplaning its apparel. No fucking
success starts by breathing.
Edmund enters, oil-slicked, holding a dipstick for trucks. Pries Gil off.
Little Aigner cares little for your points
about the stank outside. But looky hence. No nonsense separates oneself.
True how breath stereotypes its user. Wrong from every angle: thus
human, thus okay. Why not live as a cinder in it? From what height
you’re not deeper in the assist: be evil, not deep. All actions reverb,
petrified? Sure, look in my doomed pants without thinking. You lie down
to protest planetary rotation. Most of what happens here gives motion a
bad name? If people still prance, your hate’s paltry. Cheer up. I
suggest pussy. So it can flee. Interpret for its needs, then flee. We’ll
hump the best purpose without. I’ll help you sad the right way.
Love the girl who leaves till you’re tinier
than she, the scissors turning in her voice, depressed a lot. Mauled
yourself a god for petty others’ petty takings. You can’t even spit
because this girl.
(Sweating) Edmund, check his fucking oil, please.
EXT. FIELD – NIGHT
(Wiping blood off dipstick) The future might have less plaque on it. Pinkie swear.
Gil’s a misanthropic titillation free of
brains, copulating in unpaid rent, obsessed with rubbing yogurt on gals’
riblets, hindered by too much earth, its hostile armchair sociologists,
bitching word salads, no contingent advancement, and philanthropy: the
most fungal pretention. People initiate petty discord to the tune of
instinct, opinion, their own stank procreations, and are not worth
saving. We’re banning any development or insight. The three mains are
the loveable scoundrels typical of some sitcoms, played here to the full
extent of implication for actor and viewer. They avalanche their
speech, fight without provocation, process no manners or personal space,
detest their shit jobs or shit college, cross-societal haters afflicted
by irreverent tantrums, clumped verbal retardation, congested asides,
monologic Tourette’s, clumsy dialects, language garage sale, a perpetual
static reinstated line to line, the worst wrong the better. Lines spasm
through clenched teeth, between bouts of self-harm. Everyone is jounced
with Zulawski-level manias. Birth is the enemy, theirs or anyone’s.
Always in the background extras riot without explanation. Characters can
interchange race to spit on race. Gil and Edmund engage in brief,
unplanned physical assaults and dancing mid-sentence. Maybe someone runs
up, fellates one of them, decides not to finish. People find Gil, have
reasons to read a book against his head. The call to prayer is constant
and wetly malfunctioning. Everyone jerks through their blocking. Gil is
blank, ugly, abhorrent, a regrettable human quotation mark. Starr’s
deadpan attitude is an effected fashion. Even her name promotes irony in
its contemporary definition. She’s your petite and self-denying
hipster, a goddamn people person. But she can sing. Edmund is a
full-blown sociopathic auto mechanic who likes to fuck. Hereby
indifferent to their caste, dealt the petted tribes we’re jammed into
somehow proud, a status yuppies dearly pet - everyone functional is a
yuppie by now – this is a backwards lecture, pissing its pants.
Ideal theme song: Death Grips – World of Dogs. Shot [adult swim] length, YouTube backdrops, cardboard budget.
Covers - Matthew Revert / Art - Sam Pink
Labels: amazon, book, Christopher Higgs, Elizabeth Mikesch, Gil the Nihilist: a Sitcom, Ken Baumann, Lazy Fascist Press, poetry, Poetry Foundation, Sean Kilpatrick