rhinoknife.com | home of forest haiss

The following list is comprised of actual keyword searches that directed surfers to rhinoknife.com:

mulholland drive lesbian sex scene
scathing saw reviews
sad drawings
advanced animation
ghetto lexicon
lucy giving advice to charlie brown
worst films of all time
girl in forest
death to the supermodels
vermont maid syrup
mark wahlberg's worst film
mulholland drive + i don't get it
stupid ransom demands
mating mules
john goodman eating himself to death
knife projects
bicycle theft vancouver
mimes blow-up
siskel lives
philthy phil rap
tinfoil projects
robot movie
coffman fire
balsamic vinegar
woman and man
men public shower rooms
open blisters
corporate motto's
debatable material
koa shower
sweetspot feminine hygiene
"bobby starks" and "obsession"
krishna metal band
debatable

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

There's no worse melody to get stuck in your head than the Meow Mix theme song.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

Has anyone seen these new Honeybaked Ham commercials? Am I actually supossed to believe that a mass-produced, nationally advertised ham complete with an "operators are standing by"' 1-800-HAM number is hand-fired in a clay hut?

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

you suck

yes you

you with the little dog

you with the air of class

and your husband's an ass

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

The only antonym for the word "antonym" is "synonym".

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

If one of relaxed demenor is described as being nonchalant, would one who bounces of the walls be considered chalant?

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

You know that it's time to do laundry when you can't find an outfit appropriate to wear to a laundry mat.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

Paul Easterling lay in bed unclothed, exalted by the feeling of his cold flesh on the electric night air. It was a starry Saturday midnight and he was looking for a ship to hitch his thoughts to, something to carry him gently into sleep, the land of pipe dreams and pillow drool. But all was not right that night, something nagged him, haunted him. He tossed and turned, listless and wired. Maybe it was the pair of double rusty nails hed swallowed with dinner, a black cod with acorn squash and peppercorn maple drizzle. His thoughts swaggered, stumbled and swooped all at once, tracing the nights events. A bourgeois meal, dull, obligatory conversation, and inevitable rejection. Her yearning face flickered in the corner of his eye, but when he turned she was not there. He tried TV, schlepped through channels of shameless trash, halted on few tense hands of Texas Holdem before being pulled into a vortex of nutritional blender drinks. Yawn. He clicked it off. He tried reading. A book of poems. The words funneled off the page, into his lap and tampered something deep inside of him. He absorbed a few stanzas then suddenly more than just his thoughts were stimulated. He reached under his mattress and pulled out a crisp magazine, Wet Slot, and thumbed through a few pages. Paul could span the gamut of arousal from Anais Nin-erotica to pseudo-erotic smut and still have a hard time. But what endured after the inevitable exhalation? He felt too much, he convinced himself. That was why tonight he left her where he had found her a week ago, at the restaurant bar. When theyd first spotted each other, across a crowded room (of course) he was compelled to have her. But her vector would run parallel to his for only a moment, just enough to motivate him to pursue her. Or was he pursuing an idea, a notion of what he thought was normal? Guy meets girl, wines girl, dines girl, gets behind girl, right? But as he sat across the table from her tonight clinging to the initial glimmer of attraction that faded with every inane comment that fell flat, he knew he could not suffer her any longer. It was painfully obvious that she held out for hope, her hand curled up on the white linen inviting his, but he pretended not to notice. After the server rushed them the cheque, they traded excuses and parted. She found a girlfriend at the bar, probably drank too much and stumbled home with some bullwhipped consolation prize. Paul drove the speed limit back to his apartment. He hated porn for what it did to him, just as he hated all the woman hed rejected. Wet Slot hallowed him. The vacuous sneer of the oiled, writhing model expressed victimization whether by economics, abuse, or coercion and it inspired an orgasm tainted with the same flavour. She was not modeling sex, but an emotion. And it wasnt pleasure, despite what her poses, however nuanced, conveyed; it was nihilism. On her face was imprinted her emotional reality, and splayed on the page, for your pleasure, was her raw and naked story. He resented his sexual impulse because it made him a victimizer, and he hated himself for being so weak, and he hated his date for reminding him of how dysfunctional his sexuality was. And then he came. And slept. And dreamt not.

Posted by ERIC J. HOGAN | Permalink | Comments (2)

who are you y.k.k?

who are you, and how in the hell did you manage to get the global zipper industry by the balls?  

pun intended. 

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

Name your newly formed rock band today, with Bandilate!

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

I flew across the country today. I've always attributed N.W.A. to inner-city gangsters, not smiling hospitality and hot towels.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

Four Brothers... isn't that a pasta sauce? The thought of Mark Wahlberg drizzled over rigatoni makes me lose my appetite. So did this movie.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

Tonight I watched as Access Hollywood declared Ryan Seacrest "King of All Media". I'll break that down for you:

n. king

1. A male sovereign.
2. One that is supreme or preeminent in a particular group, category, or sphere.
3. King
   1. The perfect, omniscient, omnipotent being; God.
   2. Christianity. Jesus.

adj. all

1. Being or representing the entire or total number, amount, or quantity.
2. Constituting, being, or representing the total extent or the whole.
3. Being the utmost possible of.
4. Every.
5. Any whatsoever.

n. pl. me·di·a or me·di·ums

1. Something, such as an intermediate course of action, that occupies a position or represents a condition midway between extremes.
2. An intervening substance through which something else is transmitted or carried on.
3. An agency by which something is accomplished, conveyed, or transferred.
4. pl. media
   1. A means of mass communication, such as newspapers, magazines, radio, or television.
   2. media (used with a sing. or pl. verb) The group of journalists and others who constitute the communications industry and profession.
5. pl. media An object or device, such as a disk, on which data is stored.
6. pl. mediums A person thought to have the power to communicate with the spirits of the dead or with agents of another world or dimension. Also called psychic.
7. pl. media
   1. A surrounding environment in which something functions and thrives.
   2. The substance in which a specific organism lives and thrives.
   3. A culture medium.
8. 1. A specific kind of artistic technique or means of expression as determined by the materials used or the creative methods involved.
   2. The materials used in a specific artistic technique.
9. A solvent with which paint is thinned to the proper consistency.

the seacrestator

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

I'm eating pistachios. I'm fucking shoveling them into my mouth. I'm shelling them with my left hand, popping them with my right, hucking the remains into a Walgreen's bag. I'm watching Stargate and it's the worse show I've ever seen. I can’t bring myself to reach for the remote. It’s like a dance, the way I eat these nuts. Magical. They smile at me as I eat them, these beige little lemming Pacmen. I think that the shells are beginning to cut my thumb, but I don't care. These nuts are that good. I get one that is sealed, almost completely shut. It breaks my rhythm so I crack that fucker open with both thumbnails at the same time. Spectacular. Its carcass is soon amid the others as move on to my next victim. I reflect that my left thumb is actually sustaining damage. I welcome the pain, a mere trifle in comparison to the utter satisfaction of consumption. Crack! Chew, swallow. Crack! Chew, swallow... and then it happens. I get a bad pistachio. Nothing in life is worse than a bad pistachio. Nothing. I imagine looking up to say hello to a friend in an above apartment window, and, coincidently, having a passing bird shit into my open mouth to be comparably offensive.

I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

There is no better place to whiff the musky essence of society than on a city bus. You can actually see the stink lines waft out as the doors open to greet you. Stepping in you realize the old ‘sardines in a tin’ analogy is especially apt here; not only does it reflect the patron compaction but the mass of not-so-fresh fish that seems to stand before you.

You find your slot, near the front, pressed against a wall of mothballs, cheap perfume, and… oh god, what is that tang? Ass? You search the crowd accusingly for the source of such a vile evocation. Everyone here wears a smell, stamped to the dark crevices of pasty flesh – untouched by sunshine or cool breeze.

The bus bumbles along, stopping every four blocks or so to invite a new smell on board and let others off. You've found the source of ass, and though it lingers temporarily, it must have stepped off at the last stop. Phew! Only mothballs and perfume left. Not so bad. A seat opens near the back. Dare you venture into the wastelands, the nether-realms of reek? Oh, but for the comfort of sitting you would wager against all odds of new and impossible odors. Shuffling passed onions, patchouli, and bong-water, you take your seat and bury your nose in the fresh, comforting spice of fresh newsprint.

Then it hits you: behind a mask of cigarette butts and body odor, a bouquet of malt liquors and stale beer. You try to ignore it but like an upended gourd of rot it tips and spills over into your nasal passages as the bus rocks and bumps up the street. You open a window. A carbon monoxide wave washes through the bus, neutralizing the smelly stew, but only temporarily – the musk persists.

This is the battlefield of fetor-warfare, where the faceless specter of stench always triumphs.

Posted by ERIC J. HOGAN | Permalink | Comments (1)

When you drive through the neighborhood on Christmas Eve, isn't every house just bustling with people? Every single one. The driveways are full of cars, kids are in the yard, silhouettes float behind drapes, you know what I'm talking about.

So, if every house is full of people, where are all the empty, dark houses?

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

Posted by ORION BREEN | Permalink | Comments (8)

If one is seeking to succumb to all the needs of a (most voracious) sweet tooth while ingesting the liquid equivalent of Thanksgiving dinner, look no further.  Just stop by your local McDonalds.  Coming home from work and in need of a quick pick-me-up I ducked into one.  I was about to order the Filet-O-Fish, when the kind employee asked me if I’d like to try the new milkshake.

I did, in fact.

“What constitutes a large?”  I asked.

“What constitutes colossal abdominal unrest?” She should have answered, rhetorically.

Evidently my query entailed an order.  Spinning around, she produced a caldron from behind the counter and grasped the lever of a slot machine-esque refrigerator.  After a pause, the appliance groaned to life.  Dollops of off-white mire oozed into the cup as a thin nozzle pissed pink milk atop it.

“Will that be all?”

In hindsight this was an insane question.

I myself would have been pleased had it simply been a thick shake.  Greatly impressed had it been a double thick.  But the franchise blew straight past those options, right up to third tier:  Triple Thick™, and they’ve packed more then just three times the flavor in this two pint badboy.  Try 1140 calories, 25% of which are fat calories, coupled with an adequate 135mg of cholesterol.  On top of that, the Triple Thick™ houses an inconceivable 810mg of sodium.  As I walked down the street my arm quickly grew weary as I wielded this icy beast to and from my lips.

Truth be told, I hardly made it home.  When I did, I literally crawled across the carpet, my head reeling from five Cokes worth of sugar (152g).  My body, fundamentally, was shutting down.  Thank God for the 187g of carbohydrates, or I may not have had the strength to move on.  This and caloric curiosity drove me forward.  What the hell had I just ingested?  Though my hands shook, I hunted and pecked “McDonalds Triple Thick” into Google Search and hit “I’m Feeling Lucky”.  As I gazed at a food pyramid and read the latter nutritional information, I felt a wave of pride sweep over me. 

I’d done it.  I’d sucked down the world’s unhealthiest non-alcoholic beverage, and survived to tell the tale.

Triple Thick™.  I highly recommend it.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

"Here, use my box cutters."

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink | Comments (1)

Dear Wooly Boots,
I've seen you around. I’ve seen you at the mall, in front of Starbucks and at the movies. I've seen you in the bars and buses. You’re always underneath a mini-skirt, or surrounding a pair of ill-fitting pants. Sometimes you have a leather exterior, other times the wool expands from the inside of you through your seams. Occasionally, you have a thick mammoth-like shell of white wisps, yeah, you know exactly what I‘m talking about. So, now you know, I've seen you, and I've observed enough to comfortably make this statement to you:

This arctic-urban thing just isn't working.

I must say, you've given it a good run. Right up there with your predecessors, Big Socks, Bell Bottoms or Jams with the Neon Siberian Tiger Print. But honestly, just how naïve are you Boots? Have you been listening to the women that walk around in you? “Ugs.” That’s what they call you.

This name wasn't prearranged for you coincidently.

Until that time,
Forest Haiss

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink

Well, I've got a new place. 

I’m living in the basement of a three bedroom apartment. My room isn't actually the basement, believe me, that’d be sweet. It’s, by definition, a room one must enter through an unlockable hobbit door adjacent to the basement. One might call it a "root cellar with heat".

The room features, among other choice appliances, a furnace and a hot water heater, which is right next to my bed. I don't know if you've ever seen those warning stickers on lawn mowers that show the silhouette of a hand with a piece cut out of it, in reference to what may happen if one touches the moving blade. Well, the hot water heater has a sticker on it that is quite similar, except it's of a stick man, completely engulfed in flames with his arms flailing above his head.

Should this sticker raise concern?

Over the course of the last week, I have begun to question the move. Was it a sound decision? Why did I move from Southern California to rural Maine again? I left gainful employment and an air-conditioned bedroom for a cot on concrete in a jobless region of the Northeast. Why?

Being in the basement, I am assaulted by the constant shuffle of five roommates as they meander about the common areas above, at all hours. If I wish to use the single facility, I must ascend not one, but two flights of stairs. Once the some odd thirty-five stairs have been conquered, I typically find a housemate locked inside, one of which, is habitually shitting.

To make matters worse, my friend, (who has his own place mind you,) recently utilized my bed as an ingredient in one of his sexual endeavors while I was skiing, only to tell me upon my return, “Dude, I’d wash that comforter.” Well, that’s easy to do, considering that my room houses a washer and dryer.

So, I’ve been thinking, as I lay here in my basement oasis.

It’s time to move.

Posted by FOREST HAISS | Permalink