Pinky's New Coloring Book

The Diablo Inc. marketing dept. has sent sample pages to nursing homes, AA meetings, and high level KKK members. Wider distribution is set for 2012.

Diablo Inc.'s Quality Contol Factory

Here all the insect parts and pubic hairs are removed from the pages of freshly printed books. Happy reading.

The Ending of Pinky's Version of Pandora's Box

As she sliced the pods, she imagined them as swollen slimy worms. Each portioned segment seemed to wiggle in its own slime on the cutting board. Dora was disgusted at this hallucination, but was compelled to continue. Now lightning and thunder were shaking the windows and thick drops began to fall on the roof with a not-so-sweet plop. The okra pieces were rolled in cornmeal while the cast iron pot on the stove sizzled with grease. Dora prided herself on clean, fresh lard, but this batch was dark and sour and spattered like the not-so-sweet rain plops. The raindrops were turning into a curtain of water enveloping the house. The grease smoked and bubbled. Dora scooped the okra up with her hands and dropped them in the oil all at once. She was knocked back from the stove by leaping fingers of fire and squeals like piglets drowning. A flaming plague of affliction poured into the air. Charred bits of Envy and Malice and Spite and Revenge filled the kitchen with an unbearable odor as they struggled to escape from the windows now shattering from both Hail and Fire and Hatred. Onto beautiful Dora splattered Gout and Boils and Hemorrhoids. Stress and Rheumatism were Hatred’s filthy handmaidens. Dora was buried with the Evils of the world before they escaped into the garden and of course the county and world beyond. She realized a horror beyond imagination had been unleashed on her fellow citizens—how could so little okra contain such Wrath and Pestilence. How could her small disobedience lead to such Despair and Grief. Suddenly the rain and thunder stopped. Dora tiptoed to the stove, which was now covered in grease and filth and stench, and looked into the pot. The grease was gone. Most of the okra was gone. But at the very bottom, against the side, was one perfectly fried piece of okra—delicately browned, crisp, but with a jewel-toned green shining through the cornmeal. Dora knew that soon her husband would return, followed by the Sumners and the citizens of the county in tow—Angry. Afflicted. Maimed. Destroyed. In that one final moment of private regret, she popped into her mouth the most delicious fried morsel of okra she had ever tasted or tasted since.

From His Memoirs

In his memoir Sleeping with Possums, poet Pinky Diablo reflects that his life "has been full of blunders, misprisions, accidents, losses and sometimes, on a good day, pie."

Pinky's Art is Every Librarian's Nightmare

A Book Ahead of Its Time

PINKY AS DECORATION

BY

EMILY BURBANK

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FOREWORD

Pinky as Decoration is intended as a sequel to The Art of Interior Decoration (Grace Wood and Emily Burbank).

Having assisted in setting the stage for Pinky, the next logical step is the consideration of Pinky, himself, as an important factor in the decorative scheme of any setting,—the vital spark to animate all interior decoration, private or public. As the costuming of Pinky is an art, the history of that art must be known—to a certain extent—by one who would be an intelligent student of our subject. With the assistance of thirty-three illustrations to throw light upon the text, we have tried to tell the beguiling story of decorative Pinky, as he appears in frescoes and bas reliefs of Ancient Egypt, on Greek vases, the Gothic Pinky in tapestry and stained glass, Pinky in painting, stucco and tapestry of the Renaissance, seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth century Pinky in portraits.

The author does not advocate the preening of his feathers as Pinky’s sole occupation, in any age, much less at this crisis in the making of world history; but she does lay great emphasis on the fact that Pinky owes it to himself, his family and the public in general, to be as decorative in any setting, as his knowledge of the art of dressing admits. This knowledge implies an understanding of line, colour, fitness, background, and above all, one's own type. To know one's type, and to have some knowledge of the principles underlying all good dressing, is of serious economic value; it means a saving of time, vitality and money.

The Diablo Ancestral Home

The pink window marks the spot of the unspeakable family tragedy of 1892.

A Life Well Lived

Pinky has amassed great personal wealth and enormous power and international influence in his rise from BBQ server and community college teacher to zoo keeper. A touching autobiography is coming soon.

Delicious Fried Pies

If you think the idea of cutting your husband up into small pieces and serving him to unwitting guests at Thanksgiving dinner is disturbing, read no further. Otherwise meet Doradell. Doradell prided herself on her lovely rolled out pie crust and the use of the freshest, sweetest fruits for her delicious fried pies. She was fond of her own pies and always made a few extra for the cook. Consequently, she was rather plump and perspired constantly in the warm, yeasty kitchen. Sometimes while she let her crust dough set, she stepped out of her loose fitting, nude colored slip and took a quick shower. Freshly powdered and looking like rising bread dough, she returned to the kitchen to finish off the pies. Her thick, strong fingers worked quickly to fill the rounds of flattened dough with a dollop of filling, then gingerly folded and pinched the edges into a pretty ruffled seam. On days when she made her cherry pies, she painted her fingernails a fiery crimson. It made her smile to see those red nails dipping into the deep red fruity. Doradell would close her eyes and lick the cherry red mixture off her fingers, letting her tongue feel the slick red surface of her polished nails. Of course, she always washed her hands afterwards. She kept an impeccably clean kitchen to showcase her fried pies.

To Doradell there was nothing else in the whole wide world except fried pies. And pie related errands. And Beryl. Big, fat, greasy Beryl. And Beryl loved those pies! He also loved beer, fried chicken, and smutty magazines. He hated baths and Doradell. To everyone else, Doradell seemed resigned to Beryl’s unthoughtful, smelly, and downright cruel habits. He always complained about the pies with filling dripping off his unshaven, piggish chin, “If you ever learn to cook, I might buy you a new dress!” He would wipe his greasy hands on his once white Fruit of the Loom undershirt.

At Thanksgiving dinner Doradell surprised the crowd with a new meat pie filling. She proudly minced in on new high heeled pumps and sported a fashionably cut dress with tiny cherry clusters printed all over. She was carrying a white china platter of huge fried half-moon shaped fried pies. Everyone was equally surprised that Beryl was gone. Doradell ate meat pie after meat pie and almost forgot to serve the turkey, who, if he were alive, would have been mad that he had to play second fiddle to the popular meat pies. She licked every bit of the crumbs off her blood red nails and proclaimed the secret to such flaky crust was in the lard. She tentatively whispered, "ass" under her breath and felt a flood of freedom course through her rotund body.

I know you are thinking of the Butcher of Fleet Street and Sweeney Todd and the owner of the Barbeque Hamlet in Springtown. But this is a different story. There are no more murders. No more butchering bodies in the green tiled kitchen. No more bathtubs of blood or buckets of gore. There is only sadness.

Outwardly, Doradell looked better than everyone could remember. On her pie errands, she wore new fruit patterned dresses that made her look fresh and young. Her pies were as delicious as ever. And Beryl stayed gone! She even took to matching every pie filling with a new Sally Sweet nail color. Peach Pie filling day was Sunrise Delite. Coconut filling was Frosty Morn. Elderberry was Midnite Dreamz. But inwardly, Doradell felt she could never get clean. Beryl’s filthy ghost seemed to haunt her every thought. Stirring the stewing fruits, she could see through the steam his pudgy chin dripping with strawberries. Cleaning out the kitchen cabinets she would find one of the smutty magazines Beryl had probably hidden when she came home early and surprised him pie-handed. Secretly burning his stained undershirts in the backyard, she would catch a memory of his sickening BO. She couldn’t escape him. When he got too near for too long, she would scrub her white skin until it peeled like a cranberry popping open in simmering sugar syrup. When she used the Sally Sweet nail polish remover, she wiped both her nails and her fingertips, trying to erase the memory fried into her mind of cutting him open with the kitchen knife. However, her daydream nightmares, instead of entrails and blood, she saw piles of filthy underwear and magazine clippings of big breasted women spill from his opened gut.

She fried more pies. She scrubbed Beryl’s degradation off of her only to have it settle back on her. She filled her empty life with fruit filling, but the hole in her soul was bottomless. When Beryl was around, maybe he was bloated and sticky enough to have clogged it like a wet soapy hairball in the shower. But now her never-ending hole drained all the life from poor Doradell. She could think of only one solution. She made a plan.

The night before her plan was to be executed, she ever so carefully painted her nails with two coats of cherry red. Her hands looked perfect, like kneaded dough with ruby colored raisins. The next morning she scrubbed and powdered herself and her pastry board. Effortlessly she rolled out eight perfect circles of dough and carefully centered a mound of cherry filling on each. With a clean mind and clean fingers, she pressed the ruffled seams. The pies lay swelling and white on the floured board. Doradell thought of little chubby babies diapered and waiting for burping.

She lit the gas jets under the two black iron skillets full of clean, white shortening. The cool icebergs of white fat slowly melted into a clear black sea of popping hot grease. Doradell carefully let each baby slide under the blanket of the rolling ocean and watched as they sizzled, sank, then rose to the surface browning and expanding. When they were almost perfectly fried, Doradell washed her hands in the cold good water from the tap and dried them thoroughly on a clean white dish towel. Then without expression plunged her thumb and forefinger into the pan.

The skin around her nails separated from the layer beneath, but Doradell took no notice. She fished around and plucked a pie from the bubbling skillet. She bit into the lava hot crust, the burning filling searing her tongue. She closed her eyes and imagined the cherry magma, red and glowing, as it traveled down her throat into the hole in her soul. She imagined a trickle of orange hot light flowing miles down her esophagus until it finally reached the bottom. Opening her eyes, she saw the remaining pies, now dancing black-brown in the smoking pans. Hungrily, she grasped a skillet handle with her hands, fusing the skin onto the black iron. She lifted the pan to her lips and began to drink the liquid fire. Hotter and redder. Now whiter. Now blinding. It filled her throat—her soul pit—with sensation. CHERRY. LOVE. BLISS. The second skillet burst into flames. Kitchen.

Pies. Doradell. Beryl’s ghost. House. All afire. Flaking, charred lips grimacing either from the force of the flames shooting from her throat or the satisfaction of a searing, blackened, cherry filling.

Signage is Everything

Do You Love Ruskin Like Pinky Loves Ruskin

Pinky Like to Explain Things With Charts

Diablo Inc.'s New Board Game

Thank You, Jesus for Not Letting Pinky Write This Book

When the Cat's Away....

Miss Love left her prize poodle in the care of Pinky this week-end. He dressed her up and whored her picture out to Russian mafia thugs hungry for hot American bitches.

Printing Error

Subtitle should read: ...and all men were his prawns