Thursday, December 30, 2010
Scholastic Songs of Discovery
Songs that filled her with life,
Music beyond the furious strife,
To set the motions free,
To heal with the wounded knife,
So we may finally see,
The mountains through the mist,
Of histories finest forsaken myth,
That the churning of the soul is real,
To cut forth dimensions in time to kneel,
Kindling the hope of lesser riffs,
Through the lonely world of music,
You’ve cast aside like a gem,
Held tight in a ring
You’ve never given him.
Heart felt music was new to him, the playing of cast iron songs felt over a sea of pure reckoning, of furious balancing—a place to hear the beauty of destruction. The howling of wolves; the playing of space and time, beyond what we know as a reality so caught up in dancing to the tunes of romance—here he sits, remembering eons ago, lonely with a pipe and feeling the creeping lunacy of it all spin its fine web around his head. He can’t sit still. The watermelon has been smashed in front of him; the cars were caught in a catapult of rotten eggs, flower, water and sour kraut. They’d throw with spoons at moving trucks, the owners got out and spread their words of illusion, all coming back to him now, hearing that golden riff playing backwards inside his cortex, like Mozart to his wine, this was the euphoric play with anti-matter’s absent headache. He felt good, once and for all, the bic lighter was his best friend, a cheap set of headphones were his girlfriend now. She was gone, in the distance of making out on a worn-out couch, or in a car, shirt off, in the shallow waters of teenage lust, and ptomaine tastes of flesh and spit and conflagrations of warm deceit. The era was here; he knew he could trust his friends. They would camp in the mountains, where they would be free—he could remember some T.S. Eliot then, and remember that for all time, he was sailing now, listening and listening to the rhymes of nature emitted from a sallow set of earphones; he was hallow and anesthetized. He was hollow; cadences of crickets would bother him until the day he fell from the floor decayed like rotten potatoes, walking around sifting through the rough roads of memory, all the while in love with the thought of amphetamine flowing casually through his thickened blood—that was heard from the gallows of pain and delusion to strike him like a bolt of lightning straight from the skies of hell. Satan smoked his weed with him, hearing his own sounds emitted from the player to play the saddest simple solos cast in a degree of solitude, for he, and he alone was the only fan of all this racket, the sounds of his heart ticking in beat with God’s penurious rays of heat, and ill-reputed rebellion struck him; was he good or bad? Was this right or wrong? The feelings breaking through the doors, while change through the hall, dropped by swans in love with the economical chances of spring—spinning their wings with the roulette table of death, we now hear them sing. So he would camp soon, high in the woods of a hero’s Mind; the place of redemption from schools ugly impression, getting picked on by rich kids and throw to the wolves by the bullies. There he was free; and he was popular, even to Mary, who would wait until he came, and then they would talk and talk, of suicide, of life, of all the states of being in between love and hate. It was a Romantic time in his life, he knew this, and wanted all to fade away for once. Forever. Girlfriend, lost again, another one spiraling into the fading sunset of her little room in her little town with her little family above, singing about beer and cocktail parties they’d been to. She could leave now if she wanted, but did he really want this? Or was he playing a game with himself now? A ‘catch me if you can cataclysm’ that no one could ever untie. Running now, not jogging to the medicine he’d take for life’s rich time.
And Sandra would sit, hands held over a folded book, some Stephen King novel she’d read many times before—just waiting for him to come back to her. She wasn’t sad. Not really. Just mixed up; confused with life. At fourteen the road was simple; now all complex and riveted with tightened romance and bereted incontinence. She felt torn apart, but not really. She felt held together in the arms of another boy. But was that possible? Her seeing herself with someone else, this was so new to her. Her skin and her sexual drives to conquer marriage and have kids and grow old with him, sitting on rocking chairs, feeling the strife of death nearer now. Nearer now than ever before, she saw one day when he was going crazy, driving at speeds he should have been thinking of only in dreams. But, he was speeding towards a tree, at least in her imagination—reality spun a different web, of course. But the End was there, being thrown off the edge of Niagara Falls, being pushed of a cliff—to sink into the ground like those characters of that haunting yet comforting book. Now the sounds would repeat and repeat: “He’ s with another, so why shouldn’t I?” These were not voices, not talking of someone else in her sturdy head. These were simply tones of being, drilling comforting thoughts in her elated head—thinking now of school and Tony, not the same old Gerald, he was camping somewhere now, with his friends now. Yes, he was smoking pot and doing whatever else they did there. “Way ‘up’ in the mountains” he would say, where Joy and Mary used to sing along with the guitar of Bradon, while Gerald and Stan would hide in the trees, spying on the elders smoking their marijuana, which some fat guy called a “weed salad,” cause it had all different types of dope in it: home grown, kind bud, brick, etc. He’d tell her all about that, and the time that Adam’s heart stopped. Playing of course, but real as hell at the time, while he and Brandon and Adam walked through a fern field that looked like an Elf lawn, leading up to a cottage where the “magic points” were. He said they’d sit by the fire and the time would “switch,” for him at least. He would see them all fade away, then come back again, as Doug Stingland walked down to the creek with them and smoked a glass bubbler Kurt had brought along, that had stickers of swastikas, and then they’d listen to Lords of Acid singing Macho Man. Yeah, that all came back to her, as she opened the book again and began reading all about the time that “Captain Trips” gushed around the land—literally gushed, like water from a pump: the “Super Flue” it was called, killing almost all of humanity, aside from some main characters, including Judy and Randal. Judy had a baby on the way. She was Judy, and Gerald was Randal now, only she was sick on being alone, and his brain was sick on drugs.
Sandra decided to pick up the phone and call someone who cared. She decided to call Tony her “best friend,” that is until the last Fair, when she and Gerald got together. Tony and she would do all the things that a couple would do, aside from the physical distractions—that is, go to the movies, and talk and talk and talk, often from the side of the pool he had in his backyard, which was only three houses down from her. He had his friends, too. Just as Gerald did, only younger and more in tune with having fun in reality. Diversion with a twist, that is, for Gerald who was so used to getting into trouble or doing drugs or this year, both. Tony was tall and strong. Probably he could have kicked the crap out of Gerald, and Gerald knew this; he knew this with a passion. He wished he were strong; physically fit—but smoking grass and passing out in an apartment’s bathroom after drinking too much Milwaukee’s Best, didn’t promote a healthy muscle tone. Tony was big too. She didn’t know, but she suspected in all the right places. She could tell this when they would sit on the side of his pool and speak of the time that they went to the movies and held hands. That was great, she thought, as she opened her cell. The number was on her phone still, she had never forgotten it either. Why would she? Gerald and her had only been together for…whoa..six months now, seems like an eternity for a young girl. Seemed like forever for Gerald. Gerald seemed to peer down from the mountain top assuring her that he was being faithful; telling her in a soft tone that he was being good to her. He would never again pick up the couch she was sitting on, with strange strength, and throw it against the wall. She put down the phone, believing this now to be the truth. Her astute sense of credence was in full gear now; she could see him there, Gerald, doing whatever he was doing, just having a good time, maybe with that Adam kid. Boy he was cute.
Adam was cute, in fact, he was so cute that Kurt even thought he was attractive. Damn fine, Kurt would think, as he looked into Adam’s eyes as they walked down to the creek, with the flashlight in his hands. No, no, he was not homo. No way. That was a strange feeling that came over him, especially that night, when the moon was low, and the sounds of the river finding him was placing him in the fearlessness of persuasion—to ask and receive, to bend the rules and descend on the time of primitive faith: the time to cut away the modern beliefs of reason, and an era to sing along to the harmonies of nature’s everlasting systems of belief that held no signs of progress, just continuous sounds of cicadas buzzing away, as he stared again into the eyes of his friend. But now he saw the bond between; so strong, they would be best of friends one day, playing video games at eighteen and singing along to Metalica in his basement Kurt would wreck the place in thought and complaint about some guy he worked with at Denny’s, some guy named Mark Shooter. Kurt was sure that Mark was giving him the “look.” That look that he wanted to bear his child. That homosexual look. Ah! He would scream as he busted another beer can against the washing machine. That is why I took that turkey and rubbed it against the floor drain before putting it in that omelet. That is why I spit on his toast. That is why…
Calm down, Adam would say, sensing something deep within Kurt’s soul, something mean and dangerous, yet calm and pacifying as well. This feeling of belonging, to someone, to something was so gratifying to Adam, who was lost, yes, hidden though prominent in the group already as the New Found Savior, of what? Of shit? Of lies? Of painkillers up his nose, one day, somehow eating all the shrimp he could feast upon with dextromethorphan in his mouth, mixing around like a new testament leper coughing cherry blood from his decaying mouth. Adam really did love them all. He cared more than all they knew, but Kurt was special to him, hiding in their own world of mushrooms and lysergic acid, and speaking to the dead as though the Dark Side of the Moon was their anthem, sung before the cosmic ball game would be played, mixing all of them together, side by side, all these tender fools, holding on to something in between the laughter of hedonism and the coughing of suffering. Adam would watch this all take place, all these shadows upon the beer splattered wall in which Kurt was engaging his act of homo-phobia—tossing and turning inwardly. The money was calling as well. He could feel the coins drop into his hands, someday, all the while Mary was waiting for the magnetic force of her pen to drive the songs she would sell and exchange for happy looks from strangers.
As odd as she was, her shoulders hunching like Richard Nixon, her eyes set on something outside the car, hearing the smoke, actually “hearing it.” This was synesthesia at its finest; she could tell that the misty smoke to play ten years ahead of her, her songs of this lust, of not feelings for anyone aside from the poetry anymore. “The words, the fucking words,” she would mutter underneath her breath as she took the cracker and did some more nitrous. But these chemicals were so simple to her now. She was three years older than these old chaps, almost finding solace within her new group of “friends.” Those she found in Town, where she worked at the Uni-Mart. These simple mind-altering substances were nothing but a sham to her now. She could hear the birds outside. She could taste them now. Delicious. Her delicate palate soaked up their flight patterns when as she sat in the backseat casting her spells on them all, feeling the frightening sense of dying from no air to breathe. But that was all the fun. That clinging to the limb with two fingers, waiting for the subtle wind to deceive her—asking her to carry her upwards, instead of down to the rockets screaming across the barren skies of the moon. The darkened moon, silent moon, goodnight lunacy, only for now, only for now; she thinks as she offers them a suggestion.
“Let’s go outside and listen to Brandon play,” she said, as they all nodded their heads and opened the car doors. They saw not one, but two of him now. Brandon strummed on his guitar, always on the outside, but inside he could feel the gripping sounds of silence, and this always pissed him off. He hated quiet. He wanted it all, to be singing in a four star hotel lobby, to sing on stage in some worn out bar someday. He was a double high fidelity and needed a leer jet to shuffle him off to different directions, both of him, business man and party dog, he knew he had it coming. All of the distress of being known to the world, the world in which Gerald saw his future, as he called out for him to play some Nirvana. Brandon agreed wholeheartedly, since that band had it all one day. Those of the next generation never knew that. Generation X these kids were, high on themselves and change, the Clinton attitude of hearing Brandon play ‘All Apologies’ in perfect tune with Cobain, and then he broke off into Kurt’s favorite REM tune at the time, “Half a World a Way.” He thought that Stipe really bared his soul, that is, if that rich fuck had one in the first place because he was in that gentle place where the highest force would take away Brandon’s soul, leaving him without the only thing he ever wanted: acceptance. But, he played on. Remembering the times when they would all play baseball thinking that they were stars. Now he had that chance. He was good. His father was a great guitarist as well. He even had a studio set up in his room, with a synthesizer and all. A perfect place for a kid to grow up in, alone, in a room of music, scratching his head as to why those fools never let him in. The ordinary place where they all had driven themselves downward into a hole, a place with no cocaine to buy them women, with nothing but downward spirals into normalcy. But Brandon also had another side, a side hidden away from them all, even that of Adam, who knew Brandon since his toddler days when they would pretend that they were circus clowns. Brandon was still a clown. He was still the guy that called out to Jim Thorp when he was on Dextro. Those first days of the drug. Those times when they would all say ‘we all cool’ and stare at Gerald’s patterned shirt. It was all without a say one of the greatest times in their lives. Driving away the demons they’d all carry with them forever, until the love of their soul-mates would carry them into another eon away—a calm day when their babies were first blooming inside of their love’s wombs. They would all throw away the torches they’d set so carefully; back in the time where everyone wants to be. Young and alone and filled with the music of Brandon’s urgency.
The speeding feeling of doing something about this hole in her gut was pulling her to that phone. Just one phone call. He was having some kind of life up there, while I sit here with my friends on facebook—simply dreaming of the times when Gerald and her would spend, the happy days. Those that they were bombarded by that cow when they were staying at their trailer at the Fair. They were inside, thank goodness, but that bovine creature was outside breaking free through the feelings they felt for one another. That memory of Tony fades away into the night of holding Gerald so close that their heads seem to become attached, like conjoined twins, so near, but so far away. Like the Pacific to the Atlantic, both oceans, but the distance between is vast. Sandra would recall the times when they had his birthday party. On New Year’s day. A beautiful time to be alive. Fourteen, he sixteen, not seeing the need of prescience stalking her now. She wanted to know what would ever happen of him; what would ever become of her, that is, if things remained the same—but they never do, the same sad echo always played along with the music, but the song was never the same. It was like a CD played backwards then forwards again, playing the currents of an ocean machine set on high, for her to drift off into sleep. She could hear the waves crashing, but into which irritating beach this time, which confused jetty? She was mixed-up, in a blender of feeling him next to her holding hands at the prom, or maybe she would be off with Tony, spending time in the woods behind their house, kissing, as if for the first time.
It was these days when the first time was always now. Gerald was not playing the same songs over and over as he would in the future of his long life of illness. He was discovering them for the first time. He was seeing through their eyes—and the petrifying power of it all made him stand up next to the smashed watermelon and breathe, just breathe in the thought of freedom to exist underneath in the fallout shelter of a charmed life.
Songs that filled her with life,
Music beyond the furious strife,
To set the motions free,
To heal with the wounded knife,
So we may finally see,
The mountains through the mist,
Of histories finest forsaken myth,
That the churning of the soul is real,
To cut forth dimensions in time to kneel,
Kindling the hope of lesser riffs,
Through the lonely world of music,
You’ve cast aside like a gem,
Held tight in a ring
You’ve never given him.
Heart felt music was new to him, the playing of cast iron songs felt over a sea of pure reckoning, of furious balancing—a place to hear the beauty of destruction. The howling of wolves; the playing of space and time, beyond what we know as a reality so caught up in dancing to the tunes of romance—here he sits, remembering eons ago, lonely with a pipe and feeling the creeping lunacy of it all spin its fine web around his head. He can’t sit still. The watermelon has been smashed in front of him; the cars were caught in a catapult of rotten eggs, flower, water and sour kraut. They’d throw with spoons at moving trucks, the owners got out and spread their words of illusion, all coming back to him now, hearing that golden riff playing backwards inside his cortex, like Mozart to his wine, this was the euphoric play with anti-matter’s absent headache. He felt good, once and for all, the bic lighter was his best friend, a cheap set of headphones were his girlfriend now. She was gone, in the distance of making out on a worn-out couch, or in a car, shirt off, in the shallow waters of teenage lust, and ptomaine tastes of flesh and spit and conflagrations of warm deceit. The era was here; he knew he could trust his friends. They would camp in the mountains, where they would be free—he could remember some T.S. Eliot then, and remember that for all time, he was sailing now, listening and listening to the rhymes of nature emitted from a sallow set of earphones; he was hallow and anesthetized. He was hollow; cadences of crickets would bother him until the day he fell from the floor decayed like rotten potatoes, walking around sifting through the rough roads of memory, all the while in love with the thought of amphetamine flowing casually through his thickened blood—that was heard from the gallows of pain and delusion to strike him like a bolt of lightning straight from the skies of hell. Satan smoked his weed with him, hearing his own sounds emitted from the player to play the saddest simple solos cast in a degree of solitude, for he, and he alone was the only fan of all this racket, the sounds of his heart ticking in beat with God’s penurious rays of heat, and ill-reputed rebellion struck him; was he good or bad? Was this right or wrong? The feelings breaking through the doors, while change through the hall, dropped by swans in love with the economical chances of spring—spinning their wings with the roulette table of death, we now hear them sing. So he would camp soon, high in the woods of a hero’s Mind; the place of redemption from schools ugly impression, getting picked on by rich kids and throw to the wolves by the bullies. There he was free; and he was popular, even to Mary, who would wait until he came, and then they would talk and talk, of suicide, of life, of all the states of being in between love and hate. It was a Romantic time in his life, he knew this, and wanted all to fade away for once. Forever. Girlfriend, lost again, another one spiraling into the fading sunset of her little room in her little town with her little family above, singing about beer and cocktail parties they’d been to. She could leave now if she wanted, but did he really want this? Or was he playing a game with himself now? A ‘catch me if you can cataclysm’ that no one could ever untie. Running now, not jogging to the medicine he’d take for life’s rich time.
And Sandra would sit, hands held over a folded book, some Stephen King novel she’d read many times before—just waiting for him to come back to her. She wasn’t sad. Not really. Just mixed up; confused with life. At fourteen the road was simple; now all complex and riveted with tightened romance and bereted incontinence. She felt torn apart, but not really. She felt held together in the arms of another boy. But was that possible? Her seeing herself with someone else, this was so new to her. Her skin and her sexual drives to conquer marriage and have kids and grow old with him, sitting on rocking chairs, feeling the strife of death nearer now. Nearer now than ever before, she saw one day when he was going crazy, driving at speeds he should have been thinking of only in dreams. But, he was speeding towards a tree, at least in her imagination—reality spun a different web, of course. But the End was there, being thrown off the edge of Niagara Falls, being pushed of a cliff—to sink into the ground like those characters of that haunting yet comforting book. Now the sounds would repeat and repeat: “He’ s with another, so why shouldn’t I?” These were not voices, not talking of someone else in her sturdy head. These were simply tones of being, drilling comforting thoughts in her elated head—thinking now of school and Tony, not the same old Gerald, he was camping somewhere now, with his friends now. Yes, he was smoking pot and doing whatever else they did there. “Way ‘up’ in the mountains” he would say, where Joy and Mary used to sing along with the guitar of Bradon, while Gerald and Stan would hide in the trees, spying on the elders smoking their marijuana, which some fat guy called a “weed salad,” cause it had all different types of dope in it: home grown, kind bud, brick, etc. He’d tell her all about that, and the time that Adam’s heart stopped. Playing of course, but real as hell at the time, while he and Brandon and Adam walked through a fern field that looked like an Elf lawn, leading up to a cottage where the “magic points” were. He said they’d sit by the fire and the time would “switch,” for him at least. He would see them all fade away, then come back again, as Doug Stingland walked down to the creek with them and smoked a glass bubbler Kurt had brought along, that had stickers of swastikas, and then they’d listen to Lords of Acid singing Macho Man. Yeah, that all came back to her, as she opened the book again and began reading all about the time that “Captain Trips” gushed around the land—literally gushed, like water from a pump: the “Super Flue” it was called, killing almost all of humanity, aside from some main characters, including Judy and Randal. Judy had a baby on the way. She was Judy, and Gerald was Randal now, only she was sick on being alone, and his brain was sick on drugs.
Sandra decided to pick up the phone and call someone who cared. She decided to call Tony her “best friend,” that is until the last Fair, when she and Gerald got together. Tony and she would do all the things that a couple would do, aside from the physical distractions—that is, go to the movies, and talk and talk and talk, often from the side of the pool he had in his backyard, which was only three houses down from her. He had his friends, too. Just as Gerald did, only younger and more in tune with having fun in reality. Diversion with a twist, that is, for Gerald who was so used to getting into trouble or doing drugs or this year, both. Tony was tall and strong. Probably he could have kicked the crap out of Gerald, and Gerald knew this; he knew this with a passion. He wished he were strong; physically fit—but smoking grass and passing out in an apartment’s bathroom after drinking too much Milwaukee’s Best, didn’t promote a healthy muscle tone. Tony was big too. She didn’t know, but she suspected in all the right places. She could tell this when they would sit on the side of his pool and speak of the time that they went to the movies and held hands. That was great, she thought, as she opened her cell. The number was on her phone still, she had never forgotten it either. Why would she? Gerald and her had only been together for…whoa..six months now, seems like an eternity for a young girl. Seemed like forever for Gerald. Gerald seemed to peer down from the mountain top assuring her that he was being faithful; telling her in a soft tone that he was being good to her. He would never again pick up the couch she was sitting on, with strange strength, and throw it against the wall. She put down the phone, believing this now to be the truth. Her astute sense of credence was in full gear now; she could see him there, Gerald, doing whatever he was doing, just having a good time, maybe with that Adam kid. Boy he was cute.
Adam was cute, in fact, he was so cute that Kurt even thought he was attractive. Damn fine, Kurt would think, as he looked into Adam’s eyes as they walked down to the creek, with the flashlight in his hands. No, no, he was not homo. No way. That was a strange feeling that came over him, especially that night, when the moon was low, and the sounds of the river finding him was placing him in the fearlessness of persuasion—to ask and receive, to bend the rules and descend on the time of primitive faith: the time to cut away the modern beliefs of reason, and an era to sing along to the harmonies of nature’s everlasting systems of belief that held no signs of progress, just continuous sounds of cicadas buzzing away, as he stared again into the eyes of his friend. But now he saw the bond between; so strong, they would be best of friends one day, playing video games at eighteen and singing along to Metalica in his basement Kurt would wreck the place in thought and complaint about some guy he worked with at Denny’s, some guy named Mark Shooter. Kurt was sure that Mark was giving him the “look.” That look that he wanted to bear his child. That homosexual look. Ah! He would scream as he busted another beer can against the washing machine. That is why I took that turkey and rubbed it against the floor drain before putting it in that omelet. That is why I spit on his toast. That is why…
Calm down, Adam would say, sensing something deep within Kurt’s soul, something mean and dangerous, yet calm and pacifying as well. This feeling of belonging, to someone, to something was so gratifying to Adam, who was lost, yes, hidden though prominent in the group already as the New Found Savior, of what? Of shit? Of lies? Of painkillers up his nose, one day, somehow eating all the shrimp he could feast upon with dextromethorphan in his mouth, mixing around like a new testament leper coughing cherry blood from his decaying mouth. Adam really did love them all. He cared more than all they knew, but Kurt was special to him, hiding in their own world of mushrooms and lysergic acid, and speaking to the dead as though the Dark Side of the Moon was their anthem, sung before the cosmic ball game would be played, mixing all of them together, side by side, all these tender fools, holding on to something in between the laughter of hedonism and the coughing of suffering. Adam would watch this all take place, all these shadows upon the beer splattered wall in which Kurt was engaging his act of homo-phobia—tossing and turning inwardly. The money was calling as well. He could feel the coins drop into his hands, someday, all the while Mary was waiting for the magnetic force of her pen to drive the songs she would sell and exchange for happy looks from strangers.
As odd as she was, her shoulders hunching like Richard Nixon, her eyes set on something outside the car, hearing the smoke, actually “hearing it.” This was synesthesia at its finest; she could tell that the misty smoke to play ten years ahead of her, her songs of this lust, of not feelings for anyone aside from the poetry anymore. “The words, the fucking words,” she would mutter underneath her breath as she took the cracker and did some more nitrous. But these chemicals were so simple to her now. She was three years older than these old chaps, almost finding solace within her new group of “friends.” Those she found in Town, where she worked at the Uni-Mart. These simple mind-altering substances were nothing but a sham to her now. She could hear the birds outside. She could taste them now. Delicious. Her delicate palate soaked up their flight patterns when as she sat in the backseat casting her spells on them all, feeling the frightening sense of dying from no air to breathe. But that was all the fun. That clinging to the limb with two fingers, waiting for the subtle wind to deceive her—asking her to carry her upwards, instead of down to the rockets screaming across the barren skies of the moon. The darkened moon, silent moon, goodnight lunacy, only for now, only for now; she thinks as she offers them a suggestion.
“Let’s go outside and listen to Brandon play,” she said, as they all nodded their heads and opened the car doors. They saw not one, but two of him now. Brandon strummed on his guitar, always on the outside, but inside he could feel the gripping sounds of silence, and this always pissed him off. He hated quiet. He wanted it all, to be singing in a four star hotel lobby, to sing on stage in some worn out bar someday. He was a double high fidelity and needed a leer jet to shuffle him off to different directions, both of him, business man and party dog, he knew he had it coming. All of the distress of being known to the world, the world in which Gerald saw his future, as he called out for him to play some Nirvana. Brandon agreed wholeheartedly, since that band had it all one day. Those of the next generation never knew that. Generation X these kids were, high on themselves and change, the Clinton attitude of hearing Brandon play ‘All Apologies’ in perfect tune with Cobain, and then he broke off into Kurt’s favorite REM tune at the time, “Half a World a Way.” He thought that Stipe really bared his soul, that is, if that rich fuck had one in the first place because he was in that gentle place where the highest force would take away Brandon’s soul, leaving him without the only thing he ever wanted: acceptance. But, he played on. Remembering the times when they would all play baseball thinking that they were stars. Now he had that chance. He was good. His father was a great guitarist as well. He even had a studio set up in his room, with a synthesizer and all. A perfect place for a kid to grow up in, alone, in a room of music, scratching his head as to why those fools never let him in. The ordinary place where they all had driven themselves downward into a hole, a place with no cocaine to buy them women, with nothing but downward spirals into normalcy. But Brandon also had another side, a side hidden away from them all, even that of Adam, who knew Brandon since his toddler days when they would pretend that they were circus clowns. Brandon was still a clown. He was still the guy that called out to Jim Thorp when he was on Dextro. Those first days of the drug. Those times when they would all say ‘we all cool’ and stare at Gerald’s patterned shirt. It was all without a say one of the greatest times in their lives. Driving away the demons they’d all carry with them forever, until the love of their soul-mates would carry them into another eon away—a calm day when their babies were first blooming inside of their love’s wombs. They would all throw away the torches they’d set so carefully; back in the time where everyone wants to be. Young and alone and filled with the music of Brandon’s urgency.
The speeding feeling of doing something about this hole in her gut was pulling her to that phone. Just one phone call. He was having some kind of life up there, while I sit here with my friends on facebook—simply dreaming of the times when Gerald and her would spend, the happy days. Those that they were bombarded by that cow when they were staying at their trailer at the Fair. They were inside, thank goodness, but that bovine creature was outside breaking free through the feelings they felt for one another. That memory of Tony fades away into the night of holding Gerald so close that their heads seem to become attached, like conjoined twins, so near, but so far away. Like the Pacific to the Atlantic, both oceans, but the distance between is vast. Sandra would recall the times when they had his birthday party. On New Year’s day. A beautiful time to be alive. Fourteen, he sixteen, not seeing the need of prescience stalking her now. She wanted to know what would ever happen of him; what would ever become of her, that is, if things remained the same—but they never do, the same sad echo always played along with the music, but the song was never the same. It was like a CD played backwards then forwards again, playing the currents of an ocean machine set on high, for her to drift off into sleep. She could hear the waves crashing, but into which irritating beach this time, which confused jetty? She was mixed-up, in a blender of feeling him next to her holding hands at the prom, or maybe she would be off with Tony, spending time in the woods behind their house, kissing, as if for the first time.
It was these days when the first time was always now. Gerald was not playing the same songs over and over as he would in the future of his long life of illness. He was discovering them for the first time. He was seeing through their eyes—and the petrifying power of it all made him stand up next to the smashed watermelon and breathe, just breathe in the thought of freedom to exist underneath in the fallout shelter of a charmed life.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Before the Time Stan Got Ball Cancer
Before the time that Stan got ball cancer, and Gerald, his long time friend was drinking his life away they were both going to the same school together, and used to smoke pot outside behind the pine trees during lunch, go camping, fishing, and driving way out into the middle of nowhere, turn the music off and listen to the sounds of nature. One time during their senior year, Stan turned to Gerald after they had reached their final destination at the Full Moon Spot, their camping site of the summer, and said, “Hey, why don’t you try some of this shit? I got it from Jerome, it is called crystal methamphetamine.”
Gerald pondered the thought, staring at the bag of white powder, “I dunno man, that sounds rather risky. I heard that shit’ll kill your heart and your mind. Don’t we both want to go to college? Party and shit? Drink beer and screw chicks like you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe?”
“Yeah, man, but what do you really have to lose now? Your girlfriend dumped you the other day—outside of Dean’s old place, where Dean and I had robotussin bottles in our hands, and were throwing them into them into the fire we had set with the gasoline. Oh, you probably don’t remember what we were doing, cause you were too busy crying your ass off like a little baby.”
Gerald punched Stan’s shoulder, “The bitch dumped me, not you. You don’t know how it feels, although you did have that number with that Christine Young girl from the Grove. I remember the time when she “dumped” you, or to be more exact, chose to screw someone else other than your scrawny ass.”
“Don’t remind me,” Stan said.
Gerald smiled nullified, “You said it first, dickhead.”
The birds were chirping away, seemingly in tune with their argument, or what to outsiders would seem to be an argument, but in those days, they both used to call each other nice names like, “asshole” and “mother-fucker”. All in play, but convincing enough to give other kids the impression that they hated one another.
“Naw, man, just let me pack this pipe up and we’ll smoke it. I’ve been smoking it for the past week, have I been acting any differently?”
“Honestly,” Gerald said, “yeah you have been, you’ve talking really fast In class all smart and shit, like you actually were smart or somethin. And you’ve been doin your homework too.”
Stan smiled, “Yeah, that’s because I’m always high on this shit. It’ll do wonders for your self-esteem as well. You know what they say don’t you?”
“No,” Gerald said, curiously.
“Well, I don’t either, but Honku, why don’t you enlighten us!”
They both laughed and laughed at the inside joke. Had to do with the time last month when they were in Dr. Arnold’s science class and Stan was drawing pictures of fish on his notebook and showing them to Gerald; they both wanted to get the hell out of there and go fishin’. School sucked in the late spring. All you did was feel your bones aching for freedom. Advanced Oceanography probably wasn’t the class for either of them, a little too above their IQ range, although recently Stan was doing a good job with the topography maps of the ocean floor, you wonder why. But, that day, when Dr. Arnold asked Stan where the Mariana Trench was located, in the Pacific or the Atlantic, Stan said, “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t, fuzz brain. Enlighten us Honku.” Honku was an Islamic smart kid, who knew everything that had to do with anything, well, academic. Gerald and Stan were pretty sure that he knew nothing about how to down a bottle of Robo without puking by turning on the faucet, holding your nostrils and thinking of the ocean.
“The Pacific!” Honku proclaimed, as though he had just found Dr. Arnold’s G-spot deep within his anus as he screwed him in ass.
“Right you are, Honku
As Stan sat their next to Gerald, he started to imagine he was peeking out of a periscope in their little submarine of seclusion, when he turned to Gerald, pulled out his glass pipe, packed it full of white shit, and handed him the piece. “Here you go Honku, why don’t you en “lighten” us.”
“Yeah, I think ski season is finally here, call that dude,” pointing at Stan, “for your lift tickets.” He said as he lit the pipe after two attempts at flicking his bic.
It tasted kind of like gasoline mixed with rotten eggs. Not entirely a bad taste, in comparison to the crystal Tussin they had bought the other day at CVS thinking that it would taste better than the cherry flavored.
And if you don’t know what I am referring to when I say ‘tussin’. I am speaking of the generic Robotussin, which contains, no kiddies, not alcohol to get you drunk like most moronic straight-edged assholes think, but dextromethorphan, a dissociative that made you feel high, but not high, drunk but not drunk, but a completely new and distinctive feeling, and it made you hallucinate like a madman.
As Gerald took the first hit, he could feel his heart go TICK! DUM! TICK! DUM!, feeling though as it were about to burst through his chest cavity and stick to the plush ceiling of the car. But, it felt gooooooooooooooooood! Too. Oh, yeah, did this shit feel good. He first felt that everything was clear. “Hey, let’s play chess or somethin’!” he said at first, thinking that he would certainly play like Bobby Fischer. And Gerald was a bit smarter than Stan, so who knows, maybe he would kick the shit out of him. That would be fun, since Stan always beat him in Basketball and caught more fish. “I’ve got a chessboard.”
“Let me hit this pipe first, then you hit it, then I hit it again, calm the fuck down dude!”
Gerald grinned a gleaming white grin, having not had the luxury of tobacco stains to scare away the girls on his incisors yet. “Alright then, take your hit.”
Stan did so, and when he let our the smoke he exhaled through his nostrils. “OH, yeah, baby!” Gerald said, “You look like a fuckin’ dragon. No, you really do! Hey, how much did this shit cost you?” Gerald asked, as he could feel his head tingling like there were tiny acupuncture needles pricking his scalp, but it felt good. Ever so good.
“Well, Chef, we call him, Jerome that is, cooks the shit himself. It takes allot of work, I guess, although I have no idea how it is done, but he sells it to me pretty cheap; like fifty for half a gram.”
“That’s not bad, how much do you have with you now?”
“Got an eight ball. Stole some money from my paps.”
“Ah, good job, cause we gonna need all of this shit as possible. I want to go hike down to the stream. Hey, got your cell, let’s call up some of the gang. Karen, and Donnie. Let’s get them up here for a good campout. That would be fun as shit, eh?”
Stan laughed, “Yeah, just take it easy, I’ll think of something to do, just give me a chance. Pass me the pipe, you’ve hit it twice in a row now.”
“Here,”
“Thanks,”
Gerome then got out of the car, and shouted, “I am God!”
“There you go kid, there you go.”
Slowly the camera moves away, and points into the sky, directly at the sun as it shines its waves upon the dry Earth below. This would be the first of a long stretch of days for these two Gents, that is, twirling their fingers around and spitting out Copenhagen in my fiction stories.
Gerald pondered the thought, staring at the bag of white powder, “I dunno man, that sounds rather risky. I heard that shit’ll kill your heart and your mind. Don’t we both want to go to college? Party and shit? Drink beer and screw chicks like you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe?”
“Yeah, man, but what do you really have to lose now? Your girlfriend dumped you the other day—outside of Dean’s old place, where Dean and I had robotussin bottles in our hands, and were throwing them into them into the fire we had set with the gasoline. Oh, you probably don’t remember what we were doing, cause you were too busy crying your ass off like a little baby.”
Gerald punched Stan’s shoulder, “The bitch dumped me, not you. You don’t know how it feels, although you did have that number with that Christine Young girl from the Grove. I remember the time when she “dumped” you, or to be more exact, chose to screw someone else other than your scrawny ass.”
“Don’t remind me,” Stan said.
Gerald smiled nullified, “You said it first, dickhead.”
The birds were chirping away, seemingly in tune with their argument, or what to outsiders would seem to be an argument, but in those days, they both used to call each other nice names like, “asshole” and “mother-fucker”. All in play, but convincing enough to give other kids the impression that they hated one another.
“Naw, man, just let me pack this pipe up and we’ll smoke it. I’ve been smoking it for the past week, have I been acting any differently?”
“Honestly,” Gerald said, “yeah you have been, you’ve talking really fast In class all smart and shit, like you actually were smart or somethin. And you’ve been doin your homework too.”
Stan smiled, “Yeah, that’s because I’m always high on this shit. It’ll do wonders for your self-esteem as well. You know what they say don’t you?”
“No,” Gerald said, curiously.
“Well, I don’t either, but Honku, why don’t you enlighten us!”
They both laughed and laughed at the inside joke. Had to do with the time last month when they were in Dr. Arnold’s science class and Stan was drawing pictures of fish on his notebook and showing them to Gerald; they both wanted to get the hell out of there and go fishin’. School sucked in the late spring. All you did was feel your bones aching for freedom. Advanced Oceanography probably wasn’t the class for either of them, a little too above their IQ range, although recently Stan was doing a good job with the topography maps of the ocean floor, you wonder why. But, that day, when Dr. Arnold asked Stan where the Mariana Trench was located, in the Pacific or the Atlantic, Stan said, “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t, fuzz brain. Enlighten us Honku.” Honku was an Islamic smart kid, who knew everything that had to do with anything, well, academic. Gerald and Stan were pretty sure that he knew nothing about how to down a bottle of Robo without puking by turning on the faucet, holding your nostrils and thinking of the ocean.
“The Pacific!” Honku proclaimed, as though he had just found Dr. Arnold’s G-spot deep within his anus as he screwed him in ass.
“Right you are, Honku
As Stan sat their next to Gerald, he started to imagine he was peeking out of a periscope in their little submarine of seclusion, when he turned to Gerald, pulled out his glass pipe, packed it full of white shit, and handed him the piece. “Here you go Honku, why don’t you en “lighten” us.”
“Yeah, I think ski season is finally here, call that dude,” pointing at Stan, “for your lift tickets.” He said as he lit the pipe after two attempts at flicking his bic.
It tasted kind of like gasoline mixed with rotten eggs. Not entirely a bad taste, in comparison to the crystal Tussin they had bought the other day at CVS thinking that it would taste better than the cherry flavored.
And if you don’t know what I am referring to when I say ‘tussin’. I am speaking of the generic Robotussin, which contains, no kiddies, not alcohol to get you drunk like most moronic straight-edged assholes think, but dextromethorphan, a dissociative that made you feel high, but not high, drunk but not drunk, but a completely new and distinctive feeling, and it made you hallucinate like a madman.
As Gerald took the first hit, he could feel his heart go TICK! DUM! TICK! DUM!, feeling though as it were about to burst through his chest cavity and stick to the plush ceiling of the car. But, it felt gooooooooooooooooood! Too. Oh, yeah, did this shit feel good. He first felt that everything was clear. “Hey, let’s play chess or somethin’!” he said at first, thinking that he would certainly play like Bobby Fischer. And Gerald was a bit smarter than Stan, so who knows, maybe he would kick the shit out of him. That would be fun, since Stan always beat him in Basketball and caught more fish. “I’ve got a chessboard.”
“Let me hit this pipe first, then you hit it, then I hit it again, calm the fuck down dude!”
Gerald grinned a gleaming white grin, having not had the luxury of tobacco stains to scare away the girls on his incisors yet. “Alright then, take your hit.”
Stan did so, and when he let our the smoke he exhaled through his nostrils. “OH, yeah, baby!” Gerald said, “You look like a fuckin’ dragon. No, you really do! Hey, how much did this shit cost you?” Gerald asked, as he could feel his head tingling like there were tiny acupuncture needles pricking his scalp, but it felt good. Ever so good.
“Well, Chef, we call him, Jerome that is, cooks the shit himself. It takes allot of work, I guess, although I have no idea how it is done, but he sells it to me pretty cheap; like fifty for half a gram.”
“That’s not bad, how much do you have with you now?”
“Got an eight ball. Stole some money from my paps.”
“Ah, good job, cause we gonna need all of this shit as possible. I want to go hike down to the stream. Hey, got your cell, let’s call up some of the gang. Karen, and Donnie. Let’s get them up here for a good campout. That would be fun as shit, eh?”
Stan laughed, “Yeah, just take it easy, I’ll think of something to do, just give me a chance. Pass me the pipe, you’ve hit it twice in a row now.”
“Here,”
“Thanks,”
Gerome then got out of the car, and shouted, “I am God!”
“There you go kid, there you go.”
Slowly the camera moves away, and points into the sky, directly at the sun as it shines its waves upon the dry Earth below. This would be the first of a long stretch of days for these two Gents, that is, twirling their fingers around and spitting out Copenhagen in my fiction stories.
Daddy Gave me a Meth Pipe
Daddy gave me a meth pipe. It was really pretty. The colors, man, the colors were so specially rainbowy, you know like the land of Oz and shit. You know if you listen to Dark Side of the Moon, smoke some dope, and watch the movie The Wizard of Oz, the music seems to, I dunno, flow, baby, flow with the movie? Well, that pipe stayed in my room all the time. I would have friends over and we would get really high on meth, and talk about all kinds of shit. My dad was getting really religious at the time. Everyone called him Mr. Cook. Maybe because he baked a mean bunch of brownies, but I know why really. He cooked up the best meth in the fuckin’ world, dude. That shit, tasted and smelled like rotten potatoes, or some shit. I guess I just can’t explain it really, but when you took that first hit. Man, it fucked you to the ceiling, dude. He would read us some of the Book Of Revelations, talkin all crazy and shit about the angels with four eyes, or ten faces or some shit. Really weird. Mamma had already been dead now for at least, um, maybe like twenty years now. I don’t know, I’m twenty five now. But they all said that Daddy killed her. I don’t blame him; he said that she was all crazy and shit and messin up his life with her blamin’ him for spendin all her money on drugs. Drugs are fun, man. Come on, dude. That pipe would rip your head off, and make your ticker go BEAT BEAT BEAT! And you’d feel so gooood about yourself. Almost so good that I did some homework onetime. Did some report on Martin Sheen. Did you know that he’s one hell of an artist too? He can play the guitar, or maybe that is Willie Nelson. Man, those days are still a blur. Shit, they still are! I want to be a cook like my daddy someday. He’s the best. I want to toot on that pipe some more. Let’s go down to the basement and do some dust. The shit smells so bad. That means it’s good. But it is summer, and Mr. Fordy is out back weedin dem flowers and such. He’ll smell it. He always did whenever Dad used to smoke meth out behind the bushes. Guess he and Mr. Fordy used to do it together, but now, Fordy is in the PTA or some shit, has a young kids, all good and shit. But, let me hear a Praise Jesus! For He is a comin down the road like woody the woodpecker. Speaking of peckers you should see mine! Big as this pipe. That reminds me, I better call up my friend Joe Brigandi, who is probably playin with his Pipe tryin to suck it himself and shit. He gotta get over here and hit this glass piece my Daddy gave me last summer. Then we’ll watch the Wizard of Oz and smoke some dube. Damn, I’m losin weight though. Guess I always have been skinny, but now I don’t weigh more than a hundred and one pounds. And I’m six three. Oh, hell, the world is goin’ up in a plum of smoke…so says the Book that Daddy reads me. Praise the Lord!
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
huh?
This is our time Generation, X’s time; so fuck ‘em and follow the leader into a ptomaine timed—you know: the wicked witch’s switch, the only thing that always gets reminded of the best has no purpose in this experience, nothing does. Welcome to their world. Lost finality and surrendering to a despot that has no significance whatsoever, or at least we think, so take my torch and light yourself on fire, because I no long er give a shit about the right and wrong ways in the repeated empty ones following your car. Let’s all jump into yours, cause I ain’t seen nothing wrong with putting that ham in those omelets. And honestly, I ain’t never seen not tricks up her sleeve, in fact, there is nothing, nothing but Time tickin softly in the distance, beyond the hills of Coprolaliia—sickening stenches of the final song in life, but we are so beyond that now. We’ve died more times than a cat, surrendering our position like Napoleon, but marking our way though the lands of excess like Ghengis Kahn. Remember the shaking truth, that we are not IT, we are simply pawns, you know, in the game and all that shit—but honestly, where does it come from and where does it go? Human thought and talent, which I’ve coined as “the splendid weakness,” for the momentary shin of the moon takes us into the furthest finality—a histrionic loquacious side show of the unreal this is pretending to be. I have no outlook on this writing, in fact, I have no prescience at all. Nothing but forked roads and hellish mountain peaks to contend with. I am you. Fake all you want in your amphetamine high. Nothing but that, you seem to be now. Now hear those birds, they don’t look down from heaven, and they know what they wanted this to be. Go to the water, and drink that—yes, and dream sister, in a cold heaven. Sprouting wings is nothing but a deliverance of the “me” “me” generation beyond us. Born in the ninetees. What have they done? Do they really need this? This contemporary hell—and yeah, it is comin—and you feel the goosebumps all over your skin as you holler the instances of a coming, well you know it, a demagogue. It will be a disaster, but we, we are the ones who are to be free. And I don’t need a heaven. In the place I should be is me, and I am breathing water. Look at that tempting moon? Leave it a Palin artifact. Leave it aside, your drowning along with that gentle fuck over there. What can be said of the subconscious. Lies and distrust and delirium tremors…..a seizure of beauty
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Big Joe and His Bag
Big Joe, assistant manager of Wal-Mart now for the past fourteen years, stood along side Abby, checking to see if she was checking the customers out in an orderly, genteel fashion. He was sent by the store manager, Bill Franks, to see to it that every cashier be “watched” for at least a half an hour by a manager, just to see if “everything was in working order,” in other words, no one was stealing any money, since someone had been recently, just sneaking a hundred every now and then. The cameras were always turned off, just to save Wal-Mart a few extra bucks, they didn’t want to hire any security to watch the tapes anyway, and God forbid if any of the managers—who were busy with their odds and ends—would watch them. For Christ’s sake, they were too busy fondling their own stacks of cash. The store manager got paid about two hundred thousand a year; the assistant managers were paid roughly sixty thousand a year, and the customer service managers got about, well, about twenty thousand a year, while the employees, if they were lucky, just as Stan Flannery was, got a wopping nine twenty five an hour. The money distribution was a bit lop-sided, wouldn’t you say? Maybe that is why people were sneaking a few extra bucks every now and then. A good 99 percent of the cashiers were honest people, having been “scanned” by a six page test for employment, to see if there were any character flaws in their poor ass characters. But there was that one percent, of whom Abby was thought to belong to that “wretched group of greedy bastards,” as Bill Franks would say to the members of the board meeting—just to show that he had a good ol’ common man vocabulary. That is why Big Joe, who weighed in access of three hundred pounds, was standing, a little too close for comfort, next to Abby, who was nervous as hell at the moment he walked up to her.
Poor girl was scared out of her wits. Picture it, this big fat dude, wearing a tie and a tight blue button shirt, with the first three buttons unfastened, just to show a little manly spirit, with a bunch of chest hair protruding rudely out of the open area—and he was staring through his shaded glasses at her dealing out cash. Girl had a hard time counting, it is a wonder why she didn’t get fired her first day at the joint; man, it was easily close to two hundred bucks that she handed out instead of ones. Shit ain’t easy when you are borderline retarded. Well, let’s not say retarded, let’s just call her dim. Yeah, that’s the word for it. Anyway, Jim wasn’t really watching the money at all, but her little money maker, jiggling with just the right amount of baby fat. And those little elbow shaped titties. The girl was nineteen, purely legal material, but Bit Joe didn’t really care about the legal part at all; he hadn’t been laid in at least five years. After his wife ditched his fat ass for a guy that actually had been able to see his dick, he was without a vagina to stick his tiny cock into. No, it is not true what they say about all fat dudes, that they have small cocks, but in Joe’s case, yeah, he certainly had about a thumbs worth of virile flesh to contemplate the innards of a moist pussy.
He was sick and tired of being able to say a word to these fine pieces of ass. Christ man, that Stan Flannery got to talk to all these beauties, and they actually liked it. Like they were flirting or something, something he hadn’t done since college, of which he dropped out after having drunk too much Miller Light and threw a burning couch out of his three story apartment window. He didn’t like Mr. Flannery, and he suspected that he had a thing for little Abby here; he could just see it in his eyes whenever he looked at her, well, gazed at her and her little tits, and fine ass. She probably didn’t know it—she was rather obtuse, but Joe believed that she was probably very wise in the bedroom, after having been in college for a year; and man, she hadn’t even succumbed to the freshman fifteen! Girl was thin, with just the right amount of padding in all the right places. Thing is, Big Joe would have taken just about any of these girls, but Abby was the one that he really wanted. Damn right he did. He wanted to bury his hand up her pussy. It was being spread around that Stan Flannery fist-fucked some girl that worked at Perkins. Stan was the center of allot of rumors. Someone said that he was gay onetime and that one took off like a Greyhound in heat. Another person said that he had a big cock, and then everyone wanted to know, but no one ever did, ever would—Mr. Flannery didn’t want any part of the highschool fun-night crowd. He wouldn’t have minded to fuck one of those fifty year old ladies. Fine bitches knew how to screw, he was sure of that. But, poor Mr. Flannery lived at home. There was a time when he used to fuck the shit out of his girlfriend in his bedroom, but after they broke up and he realized that his parents heard every moan of pleasure, he decided that he should probably resist having any girl in his room for that particular activity.
But, Big Joe had his own place, with a whirlpool. Damn, the dude was a swingin motha fucka, or at least wanted to be. He needed some play, and he needed it bad. So, while he stood their watching Abby, he decided to take a chance and blew in her ear, just softly enough for her to mistake it for a draft. But, then she turned around, and smiled. That was weird, she thought. Then Big Joe whispered softly, “you and me baby, we should take this good thing on back to my place tonight.”
It was a good thing that there weren’t any customers around, since Big Joe was kindly blew off by her ignoring him. “I said, let’s go to my place.” This time with a little more force of the vocal cords.
“No, I don’t think so, J.C. asked me out for dinner tonight.”
“Hmmm…..J.C. Jesus Christ..hahahha!” Big Joe bellowed.
She smiled, turned her head and went back to her work.
“Baby, you know as well as me and all the rest of the “higher ups” that you’ve been sneakin’ a little extra change here and there, right?”
“What?!”
“You’ve been a stealin’ huh, baby?”
“No way, man.”
Big Jim grinned like a Jack-o-Lantern with a candle shining through, revealing his ten teeth he had left from too much chewing tobacco. “You come back to my place and we’ll just forget about the whole thing. And don’t try takin this to Frank, because he’s gonna be there too.”
Thing was, she was guilty, well just a bit, because she had a little thing going. Yeah, she had taken a few hundred here and there, but her big caper was to take the gift cards that she had put money on, and then give the customer one that wasn’t charged. She had made approximately a grand selling them to her friends for half the price of what was on them. She stood and thought about calling the Wal-Mart “high ups” higher than Bill Frank and Big Joe. But then, if they found out about her little heists, she might be put in jail or some shit like that, so what the hell, she thought, it really couldn’t be that bad. Maybe a blow job or something, no big dea.
“Well, alright.”
“And believe me, I know,” he said with a wink. “I’ll tell you what, meet me back here at seven. Deal? Just meet me out in the parking lot, on the other hand, meet me next to Bed Bath and Beyond, there we can leave without any one being suspicious.
Then Big Joe walked away, thinking, damn I love having a little power.
At Seven
When the hour rolled around, Abby grabbed a box of condoms, “just in case” if they wanted to you know. Then she got her purse, made sure that her dress was on right; I mean, she wanted to look really good. They knew, yes they did. This sucked, but it was a way of getting out of getting fired, or even worse, jail time. Poor bitch didn’t want to miss college. She loved her classes, even bio chemistry, a class of which her father made her take. He was one of those science buffs, thinking that perhaps his daughter would turn out like him. But, she thought that English was the way to go, but isn’t that what Stan got his degree in? Yeah, she thought, but he can write like a mother fuck. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here. So she put on her shoes and walked out the door of her house. Luckily her parents were out at the Olive Garden eating pre-made pasta, with canned alfredo sauce.
When she got in her car, she put on some Taylor Swift, and sang along to ‘Love Story’. She sometimes wished she were Taylor Swift, well all the time, the girl had all the money in the world and got to fuck whoever she wanted. As she pulled into the Bed Bath and Beyond parking lot, she immediately saw Big Jims BMW, sitting in the handicapped space in front of the door. Bastard, well, maybe he will be handicapped some day, and have to ride one of those electric motorized carts in the stores. Fat fuck.
She parked next to him, got out of her car, and walked over to his window.
“Get in, babe. We gotta long way to go, but we gotta start somewhere. Do you wanna be startin somethin?”
“I suppose, yeah, I guess I do,” she said.
He smiled that infamous pumpkin grin, and said, “Yeah, babe, let’s just ride, and ride and ride.”
“Ok, let’s do it.”
“Good attitude. I’ll even add to that money that you’ve taken ever so kindly, and a couple of gift cards, wink, wink.”
“Right, let’s do it, you sure look good tonight.” Now she was trying, good girl.
“Get in or I’m gonna whoop some ass,” Jim said, smiling even wider, his penis starting to grow its maximum length of three inches.
She walked around to the passenger side of his car, got in and Jim hit the peddle, speeding all the way to his house. On the way there, a couple of cops saw him, but when they realized who it was, they just gave him the ‘ok’ sign and paid no attention to his radical speeding.
They pulled into his drive way, and she noticed that a Mercedes was parked near the door. They got out of the car, well, she did, he took a little time, then he flopped on the ground. “Shit!” He said, embarrassed.
“Oh, I’ll help you up!” She said, still hung up on the fact that this dude and probably allot of other guys knew about the money.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, as he brushed off the grass.
“No, problem,” she said, “I really want to see the inside of your house.”
“Yeah, and I want to see the inside of you.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He grabbed her ass, putting one finger up her ass crack. “That’s the spirit!”
And so they walked inside to see an eager Bill Franks sitting on the couch, masturbating. “Hey, I thought you’d never get here. Take a look at this shit.” He said, pointing to his cock. “That shit actually works, Extends is the real deal.” He was speaking of the penis enlargement drug you can buy off of the television; Ron Jeremy was the spokesman.
“Whoa! That’s big as shit. I feel like a mouse.” Joe said as he pulled his own rock hard, well, pelvic thumb out of his pants and started to stroke it and down. Simultaneously, Abby walked over to Bill, knelt down and sucked his cock as best she could. He didn’t cum, even after she made it extra sloppy, with saliva dripping down her neck. She ripped her shirt off, revealing beautiful teenage tits, wearing no bra, of course. Then her pants came off. Before Joe could say “fuck me!” she was riding Bill like a bucking swordfish. “OH YEAH!” she screamed, a little too loud to be a representation of what she was really feeling. But it worked anyway, as Bill pulled out of her tight little cunt and blasted a good Extends load all over her sweet little face.
“My turn now, baby.” Joe said, as he was already naked, he grabbed the little hooker and made her suck his tits. “Yeah, suck my titties. Yeah baby, suck em good. Now bite my nipples. Oh yeah, now down to my belly button. Stick your tongue all the way in there…….oh! yeah! Now lick my cock….”
And so she followed his command. “MMMM……are you going to cum soon?” She politely asked him, “I want to taste your sperm, Joey.”
“You got it,” and so Joe shot a big load of white spunk down her throat.
“Oh, yeah, that tastes like……boy….” She said.
“Baby, let me just lick your pussy a little bit..”
“Well, ok, but I think Bill shot a little cum in there, so just be careful not to taste that…”
“Oh, never mind that, Bill and I get together every couple of weeks and do the same thing. I know what he tastes like already. He tastes ok, but not as good at J.C.?
“What??!”
“Yeah, hasn’t he told you, he’s bi. And he loves fat dudes. Well, honey, I’d let you stay longer, but ski season is finally here.”
“Whatever that meant.”
“Here’s ten “more” bucks,” Bill said, putting on his pants. “Call a cab.”
And so she did, wiping her brow to get the dripping sweat off, not from doing these dudes, but from getting out of a very sticky situation. She got into the cab and told the dude to take her to Bed Bath and Beyond. In the meantime, Bill and Joe got out their big bag of powder cocaine and snorted away until their dicks had shriveled up and they couldn’t stop talking about getting their hands on that Wendy girl, and they all knew that she was taking more money than Abby. She was going to get painted white. But first, they were determined to finish off Big Joe’s big bag.
Big Joe, assistant manager of Wal-Mart now for the past fourteen years, stood along side Abby, checking to see if she was checking the customers out in an orderly, genteel fashion. He was sent by the store manager, Bill Franks, to see to it that every cashier be “watched” for at least a half an hour by a manager, just to see if “everything was in working order,” in other words, no one was stealing any money, since someone had been recently, just sneaking a hundred every now and then. The cameras were always turned off, just to save Wal-Mart a few extra bucks, they didn’t want to hire any security to watch the tapes anyway, and God forbid if any of the managers—who were busy with their odds and ends—would watch them. For Christ’s sake, they were too busy fondling their own stacks of cash. The store manager got paid about two hundred thousand a year; the assistant managers were paid roughly sixty thousand a year, and the customer service managers got about, well, about twenty thousand a year, while the employees, if they were lucky, just as Stan Flannery was, got a wopping nine twenty five an hour. The money distribution was a bit lop-sided, wouldn’t you say? Maybe that is why people were sneaking a few extra bucks every now and then. A good 99 percent of the cashiers were honest people, having been “scanned” by a six page test for employment, to see if there were any character flaws in their poor ass characters. But there was that one percent, of whom Abby was thought to belong to that “wretched group of greedy bastards,” as Bill Franks would say to the members of the board meeting—just to show that he had a good ol’ common man vocabulary. That is why Big Joe, who weighed in access of three hundred pounds, was standing, a little too close for comfort, next to Abby, who was nervous as hell at the moment he walked up to her.
Poor girl was scared out of her wits. Picture it, this big fat dude, wearing a tie and a tight blue button shirt, with the first three buttons unfastened, just to show a little manly spirit, with a bunch of chest hair protruding rudely out of the open area—and he was staring through his shaded glasses at her dealing out cash. Girl had a hard time counting, it is a wonder why she didn’t get fired her first day at the joint; man, it was easily close to two hundred bucks that she handed out instead of ones. Shit ain’t easy when you are borderline retarded. Well, let’s not say retarded, let’s just call her dim. Yeah, that’s the word for it. Anyway, Jim wasn’t really watching the money at all, but her little money maker, jiggling with just the right amount of baby fat. And those little elbow shaped titties. The girl was nineteen, purely legal material, but Bit Joe didn’t really care about the legal part at all; he hadn’t been laid in at least five years. After his wife ditched his fat ass for a guy that actually had been able to see his dick, he was without a vagina to stick his tiny cock into. No, it is not true what they say about all fat dudes, that they have small cocks, but in Joe’s case, yeah, he certainly had about a thumbs worth of virile flesh to contemplate the innards of a moist pussy.
He was sick and tired of being able to say a word to these fine pieces of ass. Christ man, that Stan Flannery got to talk to all these beauties, and they actually liked it. Like they were flirting or something, something he hadn’t done since college, of which he dropped out after having drunk too much Miller Light and threw a burning couch out of his three story apartment window. He didn’t like Mr. Flannery, and he suspected that he had a thing for little Abby here; he could just see it in his eyes whenever he looked at her, well, gazed at her and her little tits, and fine ass. She probably didn’t know it—she was rather obtuse, but Joe believed that she was probably very wise in the bedroom, after having been in college for a year; and man, she hadn’t even succumbed to the freshman fifteen! Girl was thin, with just the right amount of padding in all the right places. Thing is, Big Joe would have taken just about any of these girls, but Abby was the one that he really wanted. Damn right he did. He wanted to bury his hand up her pussy. It was being spread around that Stan Flannery fist-fucked some girl that worked at Perkins. Stan was the center of allot of rumors. Someone said that he was gay onetime and that one took off like a Greyhound in heat. Another person said that he had a big cock, and then everyone wanted to know, but no one ever did, ever would—Mr. Flannery didn’t want any part of the highschool fun-night crowd. He wouldn’t have minded to fuck one of those fifty year old ladies. Fine bitches knew how to screw, he was sure of that. But, poor Mr. Flannery lived at home. There was a time when he used to fuck the shit out of his girlfriend in his bedroom, but after they broke up and he realized that his parents heard every moan of pleasure, he decided that he should probably resist having any girl in his room for that particular activity.
But, Big Joe had his own place, with a whirlpool. Damn, the dude was a swingin motha fucka, or at least wanted to be. He needed some play, and he needed it bad. So, while he stood their watching Abby, he decided to take a chance and blew in her ear, just softly enough for her to mistake it for a draft. But, then she turned around, and smiled. That was weird, she thought. Then Big Joe whispered softly, “you and me baby, we should take this good thing on back to my place tonight.”
It was a good thing that there weren’t any customers around, since Big Joe was kindly blew off by her ignoring him. “I said, let’s go to my place.” This time with a little more force of the vocal cords.
“No, I don’t think so, J.C. asked me out for dinner tonight.”
“Hmmm…..J.C. Jesus Christ..hahahha!” Big Joe bellowed.
She smiled, turned her head and went back to her work.
“Baby, you know as well as me and all the rest of the “higher ups” that you’ve been sneakin’ a little extra change here and there, right?”
“What?!”
“You’ve been a stealin’ huh, baby?”
“No way, man.”
Big Jim grinned like a Jack-o-Lantern with a candle shining through, revealing his ten teeth he had left from too much chewing tobacco. “You come back to my place and we’ll just forget about the whole thing. And don’t try takin this to Frank, because he’s gonna be there too.”
Thing was, she was guilty, well just a bit, because she had a little thing going. Yeah, she had taken a few hundred here and there, but her big caper was to take the gift cards that she had put money on, and then give the customer one that wasn’t charged. She had made approximately a grand selling them to her friends for half the price of what was on them. She stood and thought about calling the Wal-Mart “high ups” higher than Bill Frank and Big Joe. But then, if they found out about her little heists, she might be put in jail or some shit like that, so what the hell, she thought, it really couldn’t be that bad. Maybe a blow job or something, no big dea.
“Well, alright.”
“And believe me, I know,” he said with a wink. “I’ll tell you what, meet me back here at seven. Deal? Just meet me out in the parking lot, on the other hand, meet me next to Bed Bath and Beyond, there we can leave without any one being suspicious.
Then Big Joe walked away, thinking, damn I love having a little power.
At Seven
When the hour rolled around, Abby grabbed a box of condoms, “just in case” if they wanted to you know. Then she got her purse, made sure that her dress was on right; I mean, she wanted to look really good. They knew, yes they did. This sucked, but it was a way of getting out of getting fired, or even worse, jail time. Poor bitch didn’t want to miss college. She loved her classes, even bio chemistry, a class of which her father made her take. He was one of those science buffs, thinking that perhaps his daughter would turn out like him. But, she thought that English was the way to go, but isn’t that what Stan got his degree in? Yeah, she thought, but he can write like a mother fuck. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here. So she put on her shoes and walked out the door of her house. Luckily her parents were out at the Olive Garden eating pre-made pasta, with canned alfredo sauce.
When she got in her car, she put on some Taylor Swift, and sang along to ‘Love Story’. She sometimes wished she were Taylor Swift, well all the time, the girl had all the money in the world and got to fuck whoever she wanted. As she pulled into the Bed Bath and Beyond parking lot, she immediately saw Big Jims BMW, sitting in the handicapped space in front of the door. Bastard, well, maybe he will be handicapped some day, and have to ride one of those electric motorized carts in the stores. Fat fuck.
She parked next to him, got out of her car, and walked over to his window.
“Get in, babe. We gotta long way to go, but we gotta start somewhere. Do you wanna be startin somethin?”
“I suppose, yeah, I guess I do,” she said.
He smiled that infamous pumpkin grin, and said, “Yeah, babe, let’s just ride, and ride and ride.”
“Ok, let’s do it.”
“Good attitude. I’ll even add to that money that you’ve taken ever so kindly, and a couple of gift cards, wink, wink.”
“Right, let’s do it, you sure look good tonight.” Now she was trying, good girl.
“Get in or I’m gonna whoop some ass,” Jim said, smiling even wider, his penis starting to grow its maximum length of three inches.
She walked around to the passenger side of his car, got in and Jim hit the peddle, speeding all the way to his house. On the way there, a couple of cops saw him, but when they realized who it was, they just gave him the ‘ok’ sign and paid no attention to his radical speeding.
They pulled into his drive way, and she noticed that a Mercedes was parked near the door. They got out of the car, well, she did, he took a little time, then he flopped on the ground. “Shit!” He said, embarrassed.
“Oh, I’ll help you up!” She said, still hung up on the fact that this dude and probably allot of other guys knew about the money.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, as he brushed off the grass.
“No, problem,” she said, “I really want to see the inside of your house.”
“Yeah, and I want to see the inside of you.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He grabbed her ass, putting one finger up her ass crack. “That’s the spirit!”
And so they walked inside to see an eager Bill Franks sitting on the couch, masturbating. “Hey, I thought you’d never get here. Take a look at this shit.” He said, pointing to his cock. “That shit actually works, Extends is the real deal.” He was speaking of the penis enlargement drug you can buy off of the television; Ron Jeremy was the spokesman.
“Whoa! That’s big as shit. I feel like a mouse.” Joe said as he pulled his own rock hard, well, pelvic thumb out of his pants and started to stroke it and down. Simultaneously, Abby walked over to Bill, knelt down and sucked his cock as best she could. He didn’t cum, even after she made it extra sloppy, with saliva dripping down her neck. She ripped her shirt off, revealing beautiful teenage tits, wearing no bra, of course. Then her pants came off. Before Joe could say “fuck me!” she was riding Bill like a bucking swordfish. “OH YEAH!” she screamed, a little too loud to be a representation of what she was really feeling. But it worked anyway, as Bill pulled out of her tight little cunt and blasted a good Extends load all over her sweet little face.
“My turn now, baby.” Joe said, as he was already naked, he grabbed the little hooker and made her suck his tits. “Yeah, suck my titties. Yeah baby, suck em good. Now bite my nipples. Oh yeah, now down to my belly button. Stick your tongue all the way in there…….oh! yeah! Now lick my cock….”
And so she followed his command. “MMMM……are you going to cum soon?” She politely asked him, “I want to taste your sperm, Joey.”
“You got it,” and so Joe shot a big load of white spunk down her throat.
“Oh, yeah, that tastes like……boy….” She said.
“Baby, let me just lick your pussy a little bit..”
“Well, ok, but I think Bill shot a little cum in there, so just be careful not to taste that…”
“Oh, never mind that, Bill and I get together every couple of weeks and do the same thing. I know what he tastes like already. He tastes ok, but not as good at J.C.?
“What??!”
“Yeah, hasn’t he told you, he’s bi. And he loves fat dudes. Well, honey, I’d let you stay longer, but ski season is finally here.”
“Whatever that meant.”
“Here’s ten “more” bucks,” Bill said, putting on his pants. “Call a cab.”
And so she did, wiping her brow to get the dripping sweat off, not from doing these dudes, but from getting out of a very sticky situation. She got into the cab and told the dude to take her to Bed Bath and Beyond. In the meantime, Bill and Joe got out their big bag of powder cocaine and snorted away until their dicks had shriveled up and they couldn’t stop talking about getting their hands on that Wendy girl, and they all knew that she was taking more money than Abby. She was going to get painted white. But first, they were determined to finish off Big Joe’s big bag.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Vlad the Erector was born on April 1, 1973, which is subject for argument. There is little known about this obscure porn star, the reasons being that he killed numerous porn queens, of which was hidden from public by the adult porn companies, including Jill Kelly and her amorous ways of revealing the truth behind the life of the porn star.
Vlad the Erector was born a poor man, we know this. There are no birth records, all that remains are the whispers heard from Peter North and other well- built porn stars who admired this evil sinful bastard.
The visible features in film are ephemerally escaping from availability. Partly due to the tremendous size of his penis being virtually unaccepted by natural man as being “fake” with “no material proof” that a man could---a white dude at that---have a four foot cock. But, oh, yes, he did.
Vlad would fuck a girl until she was unconscious and then slowly insert the entirety of his huge member through her intestines, in through her rib cage, and finally watch with salivating tongue dripping, ready for the Pavlovian bell to ring so that he could taste his victim’s blood mixed with vaginal fluids, as it exited her mouth. He especially loved fucking a girl in the asshole, because he could taste her ass residue along with the sweet taste of fresh blood.
It is said that he was so well built sexually, that he made women faint, and dudes too. He was a murderous bastard. It is also said that he would fuck six women at a time, by fastening a pointed blade at the end of his cock and inserting it through the abdomens of several women standing side by side.
Vlad died, eventually, from having too much blood loss to the brain. It is often said that he is one of the most evil men to ever exist. But, it is this evil that has kept him from entering the lives of couples eager to screw because they are too fucking fat to get it up. And that is what the porn company is for, eh? For ugly people and masturbation. And, who the fuck wants to think about such a huge cock? Possibly you, because you have read this entire load of shit!!!!!!
Fuck you,
Stan Flannery
Vlad the Erector was born a poor man, we know this. There are no birth records, all that remains are the whispers heard from Peter North and other well- built porn stars who admired this evil sinful bastard.
The visible features in film are ephemerally escaping from availability. Partly due to the tremendous size of his penis being virtually unaccepted by natural man as being “fake” with “no material proof” that a man could---a white dude at that---have a four foot cock. But, oh, yes, he did.
Vlad would fuck a girl until she was unconscious and then slowly insert the entirety of his huge member through her intestines, in through her rib cage, and finally watch with salivating tongue dripping, ready for the Pavlovian bell to ring so that he could taste his victim’s blood mixed with vaginal fluids, as it exited her mouth. He especially loved fucking a girl in the asshole, because he could taste her ass residue along with the sweet taste of fresh blood.
It is said that he was so well built sexually, that he made women faint, and dudes too. He was a murderous bastard. It is also said that he would fuck six women at a time, by fastening a pointed blade at the end of his cock and inserting it through the abdomens of several women standing side by side.
Vlad died, eventually, from having too much blood loss to the brain. It is often said that he is one of the most evil men to ever exist. But, it is this evil that has kept him from entering the lives of couples eager to screw because they are too fucking fat to get it up. And that is what the porn company is for, eh? For ugly people and masturbation. And, who the fuck wants to think about such a huge cock? Possibly you, because you have read this entire load of shit!!!!!!
Fuck you,
Stan Flannery
The Conversation Fear
A loquacious day, talking for hours
Bends the hands forward,
By the clock’s lonely tower;
So we unsheathed our verbal sword,
Following the words slowly poured,
Into our minds, into our heart,
Falling for nothing now,
Cupidity’s poison dart.
Not speaking of anything,
Hands all aside,
Our mouths nearly frothing
The bantering tide,
Was all we have now,
Just fear, the less jarred,
Falling for ages,
Handed to us addled
The unctuous life paddled,
Through the searing talking page
Bends the hands forward,
By the clock’s lonely tower;
So we unsheathed our verbal sword,
Following the words slowly poured,
Into our minds, into our heart,
Falling for nothing now,
Cupidity’s poison dart.
Not speaking of anything,
Hands all aside,
Our mouths nearly frothing
The bantering tide,
Was all we have now,
Just fear, the less jarred,
Falling for ages,
Handed to us addled
The unctuous life paddled,
Through the searing talking page
notes from the hypo manic
One positive note of having an affective disorder is the seemingly unbounded creative powers that you develop during a manic phase. I feel as though I could write and write, all through the night and all through the day (a habit of which I still practice during hypomanic episodes). I refer the word hypomanic to mean “mild” or “short-lived.” “Hyper” manic sometimes denotes a psychosis, but not always. Sometimes someone in this state of mind feels no boundaries and can create so much material—and often, quite good—that it seems uncanny witnessed by someone in a balanced state of mind. If the manic episode is controlled, it can be beneficial. Many writers had bi-polar disorder or even schizoaffective, but they created such fine works it is strange that there wasn’t “something else” producing them. The human mind remains mysterious, the great unknown. Why are there people ruined by mental illness, but some benefit from it? God works in clandestine ways. I feel that I have benefited from the illness in terms of creativity, and bending my perceptions so that I can write from a slightly different angle, but there is also the problematic truth that the disorder ruined my social life, my vocational, and stole my motivation—however, luckily not my education. Amazingly, and I thank God for this, who else is there? But my intellect has been preserved almost one hundred percent. After what my brain has been through, and what I’ve put in it, I’m surprised that I can even think. But I can, so life is a beautiful thing, I’m just taking a different route to wherever it is I’m going. In fact, I would even give you all the opportunity to experience the manic phase one time, and you would see, that there is a reason that no one wants to take their lithium; it feels great.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
I'm numb, baby
‘If consciousness can be compared to a searchlight beam, we might all say that manic consciousness tends to pivot rapidly as it shifts focus from one object to another, whereas schizophrenic consciousness actually slips out of any anchor point, floating about unstably among vary points of view.’
--Unknown Author
“I feel so numb, so numb. I almost feel sentimental. No you don’t understand.” Charles said, seeking nothing but the unknown feeling to be conveyed in some way, in some how.
“I know what you are thinking, at least man. And I know that schizoid personality disorder is being eliminated from the DSM IV. Not a bad decision considering that the schizoid personality does not always denote a pre-morbid state into schizophrenia. Man, I’m with you, dude.” Big Joe said in comparison to his usual inward thinking strategies, when he himself became schizophrenic, but just for the voluntary instance. That is, when approaching that “dreadful chamber of hell”, he called, well, Danville State Psychiatric Hospital.
He walked in to talk to his friend, who was all wrapped up in thinking about himself. Poor Charles didn’t know why his friend was coming to see him; man, was he disturbed; man was he enlightened. But Big Joe was here anyway. Thankfully, being a friend, a confidant—yeah, like the Golden Girls song. Blanch was ringing the bells and Dorothy was playing clarinet.
“Hey man, can you go out side?” He asked in pleasant urgency.
“I guess so, I have to get a pass. I’ve been pretty good lately. Been up to my heals in working with people. You know, trying to make them feel as though they have a right to speak to the world in an unworldly fashion. Make sense of themselves, instead of fools.”
Charles tapped his fingers on the steel pipe next to him. The place, however, was not all steel piped. It was glorious as it was built, glorious. The place had beautiful towers and beautiful fountains, and great windows to see out into the world. But it never had the sense of caring. Back in the early 1900’s they were still building mental asylums as though they were beautiful castles of light. That they were the place to go if you were in a savage struggle against the world, and the place, yes, the place itself was to take you out of this world of hell. It was to deliver you from evil and set you on your two feet. It was supposed to be Heaven. But instead, inside, it smelled like a barnyard. A disgusting pig-pen of mud and shit. And the patients used to roll around in their own piss and feces. Reality was the worst horror.
Eventually Charles came back with a pass. Thank goodness. Big Joe could get out of this mess. It was killing him.
“Well?” Big Joe asked.
“Well, what? I’m cool dude. I’m as fine as when we were two years ago, drinking at the parties. Doing DXM. Holding our stamps in our hands. Kissing and touching and yeah, fucking those hot chicks. Now you’re are what, married or some shit? You should be ashamed of yourself, those golden monkeys have no place on your aluminum shelf of distress. They don’t make any sense on the language filter you’ve used with me. The band of silent frogs of remorse. You know. the ones who understood ‘Kiss of the Spider Woman.’ Yeah you know. All them faggots and shit. That is real, man, that is real.”
“I know, dude, I know.”
“You do, huh? How come that stupid grin comes over your face when I talk about inward material? You probably don’t have any idea what it is really like, right? You should never. This place is hell. Check out the boogie man behind you!” Charles proclaimed to the earthly walls.
“What the fuck, who are you!”
“Oh, dude, that’s Brett, he’s a sociopath, he won’t hurt you. I mean , damn the kid went nuts when he was eighteen. So did I, but never so severe—that is, if that is possible.”
“Hey, man!” Brett announced his presence.
“Hey.” Charles said. “We are about to go outside man.”
“Really, that’s cool.”
“Later, we have to go.”
And so, Charles grabbed big Joe by the arm, who was mesmerized by the guy that he saw, somewhat similar to himself when he was younger. But now at twenty six, those days had passed. It was a bit traumatic. Made him numb as though he never wanted to see that—in real life, not a movie. But real life, where the personal savior came to play as though they governed all. As though the spirit holding them all together came to him a flash. He felt them. He knew them. He walked the halls with them, smelling shit, tasting urine, but did not care. This was his time to feel them. To feel nothing. To realize that Madness was but a fork in a salad. A gem in the brimstone. A lie among truth of fiction’s warm embrace. The sun without the son of man. Everything, the boy felt for him now.
Charles had to drag him outside, as though he was trying to be welcomed to the motel.
“Hey man, what do you feel now?”
“I don’t know; I just kind of feel….well, nothing at all,” Big Joe said, examining his growing gut.
--Unknown Author
“I feel so numb, so numb. I almost feel sentimental. No you don’t understand.” Charles said, seeking nothing but the unknown feeling to be conveyed in some way, in some how.
“I know what you are thinking, at least man. And I know that schizoid personality disorder is being eliminated from the DSM IV. Not a bad decision considering that the schizoid personality does not always denote a pre-morbid state into schizophrenia. Man, I’m with you, dude.” Big Joe said in comparison to his usual inward thinking strategies, when he himself became schizophrenic, but just for the voluntary instance. That is, when approaching that “dreadful chamber of hell”, he called, well, Danville State Psychiatric Hospital.
He walked in to talk to his friend, who was all wrapped up in thinking about himself. Poor Charles didn’t know why his friend was coming to see him; man, was he disturbed; man was he enlightened. But Big Joe was here anyway. Thankfully, being a friend, a confidant—yeah, like the Golden Girls song. Blanch was ringing the bells and Dorothy was playing clarinet.
“Hey man, can you go out side?” He asked in pleasant urgency.
“I guess so, I have to get a pass. I’ve been pretty good lately. Been up to my heals in working with people. You know, trying to make them feel as though they have a right to speak to the world in an unworldly fashion. Make sense of themselves, instead of fools.”
Charles tapped his fingers on the steel pipe next to him. The place, however, was not all steel piped. It was glorious as it was built, glorious. The place had beautiful towers and beautiful fountains, and great windows to see out into the world. But it never had the sense of caring. Back in the early 1900’s they were still building mental asylums as though they were beautiful castles of light. That they were the place to go if you were in a savage struggle against the world, and the place, yes, the place itself was to take you out of this world of hell. It was to deliver you from evil and set you on your two feet. It was supposed to be Heaven. But instead, inside, it smelled like a barnyard. A disgusting pig-pen of mud and shit. And the patients used to roll around in their own piss and feces. Reality was the worst horror.
Eventually Charles came back with a pass. Thank goodness. Big Joe could get out of this mess. It was killing him.
“Well?” Big Joe asked.
“Well, what? I’m cool dude. I’m as fine as when we were two years ago, drinking at the parties. Doing DXM. Holding our stamps in our hands. Kissing and touching and yeah, fucking those hot chicks. Now you’re are what, married or some shit? You should be ashamed of yourself, those golden monkeys have no place on your aluminum shelf of distress. They don’t make any sense on the language filter you’ve used with me. The band of silent frogs of remorse. You know. the ones who understood ‘Kiss of the Spider Woman.’ Yeah you know. All them faggots and shit. That is real, man, that is real.”
“I know, dude, I know.”
“You do, huh? How come that stupid grin comes over your face when I talk about inward material? You probably don’t have any idea what it is really like, right? You should never. This place is hell. Check out the boogie man behind you!” Charles proclaimed to the earthly walls.
“What the fuck, who are you!”
“Oh, dude, that’s Brett, he’s a sociopath, he won’t hurt you. I mean , damn the kid went nuts when he was eighteen. So did I, but never so severe—that is, if that is possible.”
“Hey, man!” Brett announced his presence.
“Hey.” Charles said. “We are about to go outside man.”
“Really, that’s cool.”
“Later, we have to go.”
And so, Charles grabbed big Joe by the arm, who was mesmerized by the guy that he saw, somewhat similar to himself when he was younger. But now at twenty six, those days had passed. It was a bit traumatic. Made him numb as though he never wanted to see that—in real life, not a movie. But real life, where the personal savior came to play as though they governed all. As though the spirit holding them all together came to him a flash. He felt them. He knew them. He walked the halls with them, smelling shit, tasting urine, but did not care. This was his time to feel them. To feel nothing. To realize that Madness was but a fork in a salad. A gem in the brimstone. A lie among truth of fiction’s warm embrace. The sun without the son of man. Everything, the boy felt for him now.
Charles had to drag him outside, as though he was trying to be welcomed to the motel.
“Hey man, what do you feel now?”
“I don’t know; I just kind of feel….well, nothing at all,” Big Joe said, examining his growing gut.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
A Shitty Retrospect
Yet another morning came and Gerald woke up in a mesmerized panic with another young girl next to him, breathing low, as if sleeping on a raft, softly floating underneath a placid sun. He was her entire cosmos last night, and he was well aware that he fucked her better than anyone else had ever had, ever will—that is, unless he chose to keep this one close to him for all time; alright, for just a little while.
He’d better get dress and ready for work at I.V. Lumber, where he hated to work, but always imagined himself becoming manager there and somehow sleeping in a pile of his own shit in the office. Fuck the women; feces was his cock’s destination, but of course he couldn’t tell, who was this one, um…Lilly? Lisa? He couldn’t tell her this, she would think that he’s a freak. Well, maybe she already did, he had asked to suck on her asshole, and she happily returned a smile, turning around from the doggy position and said, “Yeah, baby, I want you to taste my shit. Suck it good.” He thought for a minute as he put his pants on, that this must have been a dream, but no, there was a little glob of fresh shit between her exposed little tits. Wow, he thought, maybe this is the one.
“I think I have found the girl that would do as Suzie used to do, and suck the shit out of my asshole.” He said to the room, smiling at his Dali poster. Them melting clocks never experienced the taste of dung, I bet, he thought in clever silence.
“What was that?” she said, her head rising first, her naked torso second. “You sound like you are going crazy. And why am I naked. You put something in my drink last night, huh? You freak. And what is this, shit? Oh, my God! Get me out of here!”
“Relax, it was just a little bit of GHB, baby.”
“GHB, Christ that shit fucks you up; you don’t remember anything. In fact, I bet you don’t even remember my name, huh? I bet you don’t even remember how old I am. I’m Lindy, and I’m only 18. My parents are probably having a fit right now. Get me out of here. Where am I anyway?”
“Eighteen, huh?” Gerald said, “Not bad, not bad at all, Gerry.”
“You are a self-centered prick, you know that? A fucking bastard. And I want to know how I can get back home,” she pleaded.
Gerald shook his head, and put on his I.V. lumber shirt, remarking silently on his nicely formed pecks and nice abdominal muscles. “Bitch, I met you down at the party in Fairbanks, brought you back here because you said that you wanted to, and even asked to be given something to….relax you a bit. That’s all.”
“Ok,” she said, “Just take me home. I live in Cederspoint. But first, I got to wash off this…..oh my God…shit off of my chest.”
“Hey, at least it is your own shit, ya know?”
“Fuck you,” she said as she walked over to the sink and washed off the dab of crap from between her perky tits. Her nipples were hard, and Gerald wanted to suck on them, even getting to taste some more of her shit. Then he wanted to ask her to suck the shit out of his ass. There was still time, and he had more of that nice drug in his dresser. Hmm…give her some orange juice?
“Sorry, let’s go, here’s your bra.”
So she got her shit together, and they left his apartment. “You know, you really weren’t that bad.” She said.
“I thought you couldn’t remember anything.”
“Well, I could a little. Not the shit part, but the rest of it. You’ve got a big cock, that’s for sure. It still hurts a little, but not that much since I was so relaxed. You know.”
“Thanks, now get in the fucking car.”
“Fine then, don’t take a compliment. I bet you don’t even remember when you met me.”
“No, not exactly. I remember you standing there with a beer in your hand and whispering to your friends about me and giggling—you know that typical young girl shit. Then you walked over to me, yes you walked over to me and asked me to take you somewhere, that is after we talked a bit about rabbits or something. I don’t know, I was stoned.”
“Damn right you were, Gerald, you were, and the scenario went something like this:…………..” she began as he started the car and pulled out of his parking spot, took a left on the Albert street and headed down that agonizing four mile stretch of road, with more stoplights than he could count.
“Well,” she continued, “first of all, you were smoking joint, so I knew that you were all fucked up, and you were holding a beer in your left hand. Standing around with a few friends, and you were talking about us. I could hear you laughing at us saying how “trapped in youthful naiveté” we were. Then you slapped your pal’s hand and whispered something in his ear. He gave you the thumbs up, and you headed over to me, that is, after you smoked some more of that pot or whatever it was you were smoking. I don’t like that stuff never had, it makes me sick and shit. Anyway, you came over to us, and we were just standing there all innocent and shit, just talking about the boys on the hockey team and how hot they were, and you came over to me and handed me a note. I opened it and read it and it said something about you should consider coming a back to my place tonight because I’ve got better beer and a whole lot of cool music and shit like that. It went on and on. Strange thing was it seemed like it was photo copied, yeah like there were multiple copies of the shit being passed around. Then you pulled out of a wad of cash. That made my mouth water, of course. Then you grabbed my ass. I liked and how you stuck your finger up my ass crack. It felt strange, but good. I asked my friends if they would mind going up. And then you said that it was only a one person invitation. I asked why’s that, you said because you only had a few spaces in your car, and one of your buddies wanted to come back to the place so it was “safe” and all. Whatever that meant, because it wasn’t, not at all. The shit that you did to me. Then you gave me that drink after kissing me for an hour. Well a few minutes because you had my shirt off in a few seconds. You are good. I’ll give you that. Then you smiled walked into the bedroom and got something, put in a drink and gave it to me. I drank it because I was stupid and shit. Speaking of shit. Christ, man, you ate MY CRAP! You are disgusting, and then you seemed so disappointed when I told you that I already had had my period. Like you wanted to taste that or something. Man how old are you?”
“Thirty four.” He said, eyes cringing as if in torture.
“Well, you are old, and I’ve only been with six guys.”
“Making you a slut.”
“Fuck you, Gerald, no you are the slut. You must have had sloppy, dirty sex with many girls, haven’t you? You are gross, and then you ate my crap. I wasn’t that fucked up and no I didn’t ask for the drugs, I was given them and accepted them because I’m dumb and young and wanted some cum. I guess I fell asleep after you humiliated me by fucking me by every position, and you thought it was funny when my pussy farted, and I hate that when that happens, but you think that it is funny and made me want to cry. You asked me to orgasm in your mouth. That was gross, but it was kind of fun, too. For some reason. And you had me taste my juices, I loved doing that, but I didn’t love tasting my anal snot. It was just disgusting. Gross. EWE! Take me home! Then again, ok, you are a pretty good kisser, and I love your cock, and I like your eyes, and I like the way you were kind of gentle with me. You are a nice guy, I guess. What am I saying? I don’t like you do I?”
“Seems like you do, we should go back to my place and have some more fun. Maybe take a bath together, wouldn’t that be fun?” Now Gerald was smiling as big as hell. His cock was swelling.”
“No, I don’t, and what are my parents going to think?”
“Well, you’d better call them and tell them where you are; I mean, no, you’re not with me, you’re at a friend’s house.”
“Ok, one of those girls I was with at the party? I don’t….well, ok, I do like you. Now please don’t ever tell anyone about this alright? I want to suck you dick. I’m horny again. You have never seen me when I’m really horny have you? I bet you haven’t.”
“Oh, man, this is going to be fun. We got to take a bath first. It will be nice and relaxing ok?” He said, as he turned the car around and headed back to the apartment. When he arrived at his apartment, he noticed that he had left the door open. Or maybe someone pried it open or some shit, because that is bizarre for him to completely forget to lock the door. Well, that must be what was going on, that he forgot to lock the door, because when he went inside, everything was normal, that is, normalcy pervaded in the manner of what Gerald knew as the usual. Oh well, let’s just get this bitch inside and show her my world, he thought.
“Come on in, baby,” he said as she nervously stood outside, staring up to the sky, as if in, what Gerald took to be prayer, but soon found out that she was noticing that it was starting to rain.
“It is raining.”
“Well, then get in here.”
“Ok, ok.”
“Think I’ll put on some music. Do you like the Velvet Underground?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Gerald walked over to his computer and searched for the desired music out of his extensive collection. The first song was, oddly, ‘herion’.
“You’ve never done a drug like that before?” he asked her with a solemn look on his usually grinning face.
“Nah, why would I.”
“Good answer.”
“So, let’s take a look inside my closet. And first, let me prepare you, it is some hard-core shit. Ok?”
“Sure, I’m ready.”
“For the real shit?”
“Yeah,” she said, hopping up and down like a bunny.
He took her hand and walked over to the closet, opened it, revealing strings of beads to conceal the inside treasure. He took his arm, and slowly opened the draping beads, and then turned on a light. What they both saw was glorious. It was the real shit. In fact it was shit. Shit spanning the arcane ages of the early nineties up till the two thousands. There were categories of shit: hard, semi-solid, wet, diarrhea type 1, diarrhea type 2, diarrhea type 3, medium thickness, thick, short and stumpy, long and loose. And several others. His eyes opened wide as he saw his collection up close and personal.
Lindy, of course was appalled, of course the bitch thought it was disgusting. Fuck it, he thought, we’ll get this bitch to like it.
“That’s…..woah…beyond gross….but..hmm…you know me..I’m up to trying anything, now what do you want me to do? Smell it. Tell me that is it. Smell it right?”
Gerald laughed, “No we gonna bathe in that shit.”
“Great, that sounds fun,” sardonically as hell she said.
“Now pick a few of the bags and we’ll mix them together and swim in ‘em. Ok?”
“Well, let me see. How about this one. This one. And um….this one….Now give them to me I want to break them over your head.”
“You know that I would enjoy that way too much, baby. Let’s get real, we can throw shit all around when we are submerged in it. Now why don’t you go and put some water in the bathtub, but first there is some vodka and orange juice on the table, have some please.”
“Don’t mind if I do, then maybe I’ll be a bit more relaxed to do this shit.”
Gerald took the requested bags of crap and walked over to the microwave where he heated them up, all the while Lindy drank a few shots of vodka and orange juice, with just a touch of GHB.
“Don’t drink too much of that.”
“But I need to be really drunk.”
“Well, ok,” he said with a smile.
She then walked over to the bathtub, humming ‘heroin’, turned on the faucet, and tested the water to see if it was warm enough. “Is this hot enough?” she asked Gerald.
“Hold on, cause that does matter quite a bit in this situation. The shit must be just the right temperature and the water must be just in a range which won’t make the shit evaporate too quickly. But it has to be just so hot that the steam made from the shit will smell with the perfect amount of shitty scent.”
“Ok, here.”
“Just right, me darling!”
“Great, now let me get naked……yeah….yeah!” and within seconds her shirt and bra were off, her little teenie titties bobbing up and down as she jumped like a bunny across the bathroom. Then her pants came off, revealing a nice shaven pussy. One of the pink kind, not like the Asian girls, you know, brown down there. Good ol’ Caucasian pussy.
“Yeah, you look really nice. Watch it now, you are getting um…drunk…”
“Feels like it!” she said, almost falling into the bathtub head first.
Gerald caught her, what a nice guy. Then, he walked over to the microwave and grabbed the bags of shit. He walked over to the tub, turned off the faucet and opened the sealed bags of shit, poured them gently into the tub, and giggled more like a school girl than the one laying on the floor.
“Ok, baby, let’s get in!”
“Yeah let’s do that!” she said, slurring her words.
“Ok, I’ll get in first.” And so Gerald took off his clothes, and dipped his foot into the water, before getting in the tub, then he took Lindy by the arms and lifted her up, placing her on top of his lap.
“Oh, this smells goooood!” she said.
“Damn right, especially when you are on so much…..never mind.”
“I don’t care what I’m on, but I should tell you that when we were driving back, I texted my parents saying where I was going.”
“You what!?”
“Yeah, so they should maybe come here and get me this afternoon.”
“Oh, Christ!” and with that mention of our Heavenly Savior, there was a knock upon the door.
“It is Lindy’s father. Open the fuck up. I want my daughter here. Fuck it, I’m going to open this damn door myself.” And he turned the knob, opened the already unlocked door, revealing his daughter sitting on top of some middle-aged dude, bathing in what appeared to be shit. Shit! “Are you serious?”
“Listen, I can explain,” Gerald said, even though he knew damn well he couldn’t ever explain this fetish, and doing it to someone’s daughter. Oh, man. He was really fucked.
Her father walked over to the bathtub, took a good whiff of the smell of the shit, and threw up in the toilet. “My daughter is all messed up. You are going to jail! You bastard!”
Just then, the other closet opened, and who came out but Officer Spicer. He had one hand on his gun, and the other stroking his nicely endowed naked cock. “He is already under arrest. I’ve got pictures. Oh man do I ever. He’s going to have to do some pretty interesting things to get out of incarceration. You, papa, on the other hand better just get the fuck out of here now! I have pictures of you fucking that old stripper, and I can show it to your wife, very, very easily. And I’ve even got your underwear, disgusting as that might sound, as evidence. Your daughter is coming with me as well.”
“The hell shit is! Fuck you, Spicer!”
That was when Officer Spicer pulled out his gun and directed Lindy’s father out the door where he was greeted by three other “officers of the law.” “You’re coming with me, daddy.”
“This is outrageous.”
Spicer looked out the door and said, “This world is outrageous.”
Lindy’s father was screaming and kicking as he was put into the cop car. All the while Gerald was hosing off and getting dressed.
Spicer walked back inside and went into the bathroom, “Now guys, don’t I get a turn? Why you always let the cops out of the fun?”
“I don’t like pigs, that’s why?”
“But you love shit, you know pigs roll around in their own shit. Maybe you are more of a pig than I am. Hey, dude, that bitch is still out cold, isn’t she? Let me have some access to that pussy.”
“First,” Gerald said, coughing to clear his throat, “Will you suck the shit out of my asshole?”
Spicer twirled the ends of his mustache, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Yet another morning came and Gerald woke up in a mesmerized panic with another young girl next to him, breathing low, as if sleeping on a raft, softly floating underneath a placid sun. He was her entire cosmos last night, and he was well aware that he fucked her better than anyone else had ever had, ever will—that is, unless he chose to keep this one close to him for all time; alright, for just a little while.
He’d better get dress and ready for work at I.V. Lumber, where he hated to work, but always imagined himself becoming manager there and somehow sleeping in a pile of his own shit in the office. Fuck the women; feces was his cock’s destination, but of course he couldn’t tell, who was this one, um…Lilly? Lisa? He couldn’t tell her this, she would think that he’s a freak. Well, maybe she already did, he had asked to suck on her asshole, and she happily returned a smile, turning around from the doggy position and said, “Yeah, baby, I want you to taste my shit. Suck it good.” He thought for a minute as he put his pants on, that this must have been a dream, but no, there was a little glob of fresh shit between her exposed little tits. Wow, he thought, maybe this is the one.
“I think I have found the girl that would do as Suzie used to do, and suck the shit out of my asshole.” He said to the room, smiling at his Dali poster. Them melting clocks never experienced the taste of dung, I bet, he thought in clever silence.
“What was that?” she said, her head rising first, her naked torso second. “You sound like you are going crazy. And why am I naked. You put something in my drink last night, huh? You freak. And what is this, shit? Oh, my God! Get me out of here!”
“Relax, it was just a little bit of GHB, baby.”
“GHB, Christ that shit fucks you up; you don’t remember anything. In fact, I bet you don’t even remember my name, huh? I bet you don’t even remember how old I am. I’m Lindy, and I’m only 18. My parents are probably having a fit right now. Get me out of here. Where am I anyway?”
“Eighteen, huh?” Gerald said, “Not bad, not bad at all, Gerry.”
“You are a self-centered prick, you know that? A fucking bastard. And I want to know how I can get back home,” she pleaded.
Gerald shook his head, and put on his I.V. lumber shirt, remarking silently on his nicely formed pecks and nice abdominal muscles. “Bitch, I met you down at the party in Fairbanks, brought you back here because you said that you wanted to, and even asked to be given something to….relax you a bit. That’s all.”
“Ok,” she said, “Just take me home. I live in Cederspoint. But first, I got to wash off this…..oh my God…shit off of my chest.”
“Hey, at least it is your own shit, ya know?”
“Fuck you,” she said as she walked over to the sink and washed off the dab of crap from between her perky tits. Her nipples were hard, and Gerald wanted to suck on them, even getting to taste some more of her shit. Then he wanted to ask her to suck the shit out of his ass. There was still time, and he had more of that nice drug in his dresser. Hmm…give her some orange juice?
“Sorry, let’s go, here’s your bra.”
So she got her shit together, and they left his apartment. “You know, you really weren’t that bad.” She said.
“I thought you couldn’t remember anything.”
“Well, I could a little. Not the shit part, but the rest of it. You’ve got a big cock, that’s for sure. It still hurts a little, but not that much since I was so relaxed. You know.”
“Thanks, now get in the fucking car.”
“Fine then, don’t take a compliment. I bet you don’t even remember when you met me.”
“No, not exactly. I remember you standing there with a beer in your hand and whispering to your friends about me and giggling—you know that typical young girl shit. Then you walked over to me, yes you walked over to me and asked me to take you somewhere, that is after we talked a bit about rabbits or something. I don’t know, I was stoned.”
“Damn right you were, Gerald, you were, and the scenario went something like this:…………..” she began as he started the car and pulled out of his parking spot, took a left on the Albert street and headed down that agonizing four mile stretch of road, with more stoplights than he could count.
“Well,” she continued, “first of all, you were smoking joint, so I knew that you were all fucked up, and you were holding a beer in your left hand. Standing around with a few friends, and you were talking about us. I could hear you laughing at us saying how “trapped in youthful naiveté” we were. Then you slapped your pal’s hand and whispered something in his ear. He gave you the thumbs up, and you headed over to me, that is, after you smoked some more of that pot or whatever it was you were smoking. I don’t like that stuff never had, it makes me sick and shit. Anyway, you came over to us, and we were just standing there all innocent and shit, just talking about the boys on the hockey team and how hot they were, and you came over to me and handed me a note. I opened it and read it and it said something about you should consider coming a back to my place tonight because I’ve got better beer and a whole lot of cool music and shit like that. It went on and on. Strange thing was it seemed like it was photo copied, yeah like there were multiple copies of the shit being passed around. Then you pulled out of a wad of cash. That made my mouth water, of course. Then you grabbed my ass. I liked and how you stuck your finger up my ass crack. It felt strange, but good. I asked my friends if they would mind going up. And then you said that it was only a one person invitation. I asked why’s that, you said because you only had a few spaces in your car, and one of your buddies wanted to come back to the place so it was “safe” and all. Whatever that meant, because it wasn’t, not at all. The shit that you did to me. Then you gave me that drink after kissing me for an hour. Well a few minutes because you had my shirt off in a few seconds. You are good. I’ll give you that. Then you smiled walked into the bedroom and got something, put in a drink and gave it to me. I drank it because I was stupid and shit. Speaking of shit. Christ, man, you ate MY CRAP! You are disgusting, and then you seemed so disappointed when I told you that I already had had my period. Like you wanted to taste that or something. Man how old are you?”
“Thirty four.” He said, eyes cringing as if in torture.
“Well, you are old, and I’ve only been with six guys.”
“Making you a slut.”
“Fuck you, Gerald, no you are the slut. You must have had sloppy, dirty sex with many girls, haven’t you? You are gross, and then you ate my crap. I wasn’t that fucked up and no I didn’t ask for the drugs, I was given them and accepted them because I’m dumb and young and wanted some cum. I guess I fell asleep after you humiliated me by fucking me by every position, and you thought it was funny when my pussy farted, and I hate that when that happens, but you think that it is funny and made me want to cry. You asked me to orgasm in your mouth. That was gross, but it was kind of fun, too. For some reason. And you had me taste my juices, I loved doing that, but I didn’t love tasting my anal snot. It was just disgusting. Gross. EWE! Take me home! Then again, ok, you are a pretty good kisser, and I love your cock, and I like your eyes, and I like the way you were kind of gentle with me. You are a nice guy, I guess. What am I saying? I don’t like you do I?”
“Seems like you do, we should go back to my place and have some more fun. Maybe take a bath together, wouldn’t that be fun?” Now Gerald was smiling as big as hell. His cock was swelling.”
“No, I don’t, and what are my parents going to think?”
“Well, you’d better call them and tell them where you are; I mean, no, you’re not with me, you’re at a friend’s house.”
“Ok, one of those girls I was with at the party? I don’t….well, ok, I do like you. Now please don’t ever tell anyone about this alright? I want to suck you dick. I’m horny again. You have never seen me when I’m really horny have you? I bet you haven’t.”
“Oh, man, this is going to be fun. We got to take a bath first. It will be nice and relaxing ok?” He said, as he turned the car around and headed back to the apartment. When he arrived at his apartment, he noticed that he had left the door open. Or maybe someone pried it open or some shit, because that is bizarre for him to completely forget to lock the door. Well, that must be what was going on, that he forgot to lock the door, because when he went inside, everything was normal, that is, normalcy pervaded in the manner of what Gerald knew as the usual. Oh well, let’s just get this bitch inside and show her my world, he thought.
“Come on in, baby,” he said as she nervously stood outside, staring up to the sky, as if in, what Gerald took to be prayer, but soon found out that she was noticing that it was starting to rain.
“It is raining.”
“Well, then get in here.”
“Ok, ok.”
“Think I’ll put on some music. Do you like the Velvet Underground?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Gerald walked over to his computer and searched for the desired music out of his extensive collection. The first song was, oddly, ‘herion’.
“You’ve never done a drug like that before?” he asked her with a solemn look on his usually grinning face.
“Nah, why would I.”
“Good answer.”
“So, let’s take a look inside my closet. And first, let me prepare you, it is some hard-core shit. Ok?”
“Sure, I’m ready.”
“For the real shit?”
“Yeah,” she said, hopping up and down like a bunny.
He took her hand and walked over to the closet, opened it, revealing strings of beads to conceal the inside treasure. He took his arm, and slowly opened the draping beads, and then turned on a light. What they both saw was glorious. It was the real shit. In fact it was shit. Shit spanning the arcane ages of the early nineties up till the two thousands. There were categories of shit: hard, semi-solid, wet, diarrhea type 1, diarrhea type 2, diarrhea type 3, medium thickness, thick, short and stumpy, long and loose. And several others. His eyes opened wide as he saw his collection up close and personal.
Lindy, of course was appalled, of course the bitch thought it was disgusting. Fuck it, he thought, we’ll get this bitch to like it.
“That’s…..woah…beyond gross….but..hmm…you know me..I’m up to trying anything, now what do you want me to do? Smell it. Tell me that is it. Smell it right?”
Gerald laughed, “No we gonna bathe in that shit.”
“Great, that sounds fun,” sardonically as hell she said.
“Now pick a few of the bags and we’ll mix them together and swim in ‘em. Ok?”
“Well, let me see. How about this one. This one. And um….this one….Now give them to me I want to break them over your head.”
“You know that I would enjoy that way too much, baby. Let’s get real, we can throw shit all around when we are submerged in it. Now why don’t you go and put some water in the bathtub, but first there is some vodka and orange juice on the table, have some please.”
“Don’t mind if I do, then maybe I’ll be a bit more relaxed to do this shit.”
Gerald took the requested bags of crap and walked over to the microwave where he heated them up, all the while Lindy drank a few shots of vodka and orange juice, with just a touch of GHB.
“Don’t drink too much of that.”
“But I need to be really drunk.”
“Well, ok,” he said with a smile.
She then walked over to the bathtub, humming ‘heroin’, turned on the faucet, and tested the water to see if it was warm enough. “Is this hot enough?” she asked Gerald.
“Hold on, cause that does matter quite a bit in this situation. The shit must be just the right temperature and the water must be just in a range which won’t make the shit evaporate too quickly. But it has to be just so hot that the steam made from the shit will smell with the perfect amount of shitty scent.”
“Ok, here.”
“Just right, me darling!”
“Great, now let me get naked……yeah….yeah!” and within seconds her shirt and bra were off, her little teenie titties bobbing up and down as she jumped like a bunny across the bathroom. Then her pants came off, revealing a nice shaven pussy. One of the pink kind, not like the Asian girls, you know, brown down there. Good ol’ Caucasian pussy.
“Yeah, you look really nice. Watch it now, you are getting um…drunk…”
“Feels like it!” she said, almost falling into the bathtub head first.
Gerald caught her, what a nice guy. Then, he walked over to the microwave and grabbed the bags of shit. He walked over to the tub, turned off the faucet and opened the sealed bags of shit, poured them gently into the tub, and giggled more like a school girl than the one laying on the floor.
“Ok, baby, let’s get in!”
“Yeah let’s do that!” she said, slurring her words.
“Ok, I’ll get in first.” And so Gerald took off his clothes, and dipped his foot into the water, before getting in the tub, then he took Lindy by the arms and lifted her up, placing her on top of his lap.
“Oh, this smells goooood!” she said.
“Damn right, especially when you are on so much…..never mind.”
“I don’t care what I’m on, but I should tell you that when we were driving back, I texted my parents saying where I was going.”
“You what!?”
“Yeah, so they should maybe come here and get me this afternoon.”
“Oh, Christ!” and with that mention of our Heavenly Savior, there was a knock upon the door.
“It is Lindy’s father. Open the fuck up. I want my daughter here. Fuck it, I’m going to open this damn door myself.” And he turned the knob, opened the already unlocked door, revealing his daughter sitting on top of some middle-aged dude, bathing in what appeared to be shit. Shit! “Are you serious?”
“Listen, I can explain,” Gerald said, even though he knew damn well he couldn’t ever explain this fetish, and doing it to someone’s daughter. Oh, man. He was really fucked.
Her father walked over to the bathtub, took a good whiff of the smell of the shit, and threw up in the toilet. “My daughter is all messed up. You are going to jail! You bastard!”
Just then, the other closet opened, and who came out but Officer Spicer. He had one hand on his gun, and the other stroking his nicely endowed naked cock. “He is already under arrest. I’ve got pictures. Oh man do I ever. He’s going to have to do some pretty interesting things to get out of incarceration. You, papa, on the other hand better just get the fuck out of here now! I have pictures of you fucking that old stripper, and I can show it to your wife, very, very easily. And I’ve even got your underwear, disgusting as that might sound, as evidence. Your daughter is coming with me as well.”
“The hell shit is! Fuck you, Spicer!”
That was when Officer Spicer pulled out his gun and directed Lindy’s father out the door where he was greeted by three other “officers of the law.” “You’re coming with me, daddy.”
“This is outrageous.”
Spicer looked out the door and said, “This world is outrageous.”
Lindy’s father was screaming and kicking as he was put into the cop car. All the while Gerald was hosing off and getting dressed.
Spicer walked back inside and went into the bathroom, “Now guys, don’t I get a turn? Why you always let the cops out of the fun?”
“I don’t like pigs, that’s why?”
“But you love shit, you know pigs roll around in their own shit. Maybe you are more of a pig than I am. Hey, dude, that bitch is still out cold, isn’t she? Let me have some access to that pussy.”
“First,” Gerald said, coughing to clear his throat, “Will you suck the shit out of my asshole?”
Spicer twirled the ends of his mustache, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Monday, November 15, 2010
Coprolalia
---by Stan Flannery
Gerald S. loved to bathe in his own shit. Absolutely loved it. Couldn’t wait to get home from working at I.V. Lumber and soak in his own feces. It was the greatest feeling in the world, for Gerald, as he took pride in not only enjoying the feeling, but spreading the word that this element of pleasure should and will be taken into modern fashion by the year 2020, when the world would generally be filled with the crap anyway; why not soak your mortal remains in what the world was to become? Some kind of synesthesia, he presumed. Yet it was more than mere fashion. Gerald S. used to fantasize about the shit coming out of his teacher’s assholes in gradeschool. He could actually see the crap coming out of Ms. Lewinskie’s butt. It was that kind of shit, not too solid, but not too soft, just the right amount of density to create perfect cylindrical globs of dung, which would—in his imagination—dribble down her long Polish legs, collecting at her feet where it would collect dust particles from the chalk board, all the while, she would be going over the lesson plan in routine fashion: writing, asking questions, and sometimes pointing to Gerald, who usually knew the right answer to the questions. These fantasies of shit didn’t always keep him off his toes. But the shit collecting at Ms. Lewinskie’s feet smelled, actually reeked of some form of salmon she’d eaten for early lunch alongside with some ice-cream. Perfect imaginary world for Gerald, and he wasn’t about to let anyone know about his fantasies, although sometimes when he was five he had nice experiences with his sister; a good example being after he came home from school one day
It was around the year 1984, and Gerald had already started first-grade. He came home from school one day, and headed to the toilet because he had to take a major shit. He threw down his heavy bookbag and headed towards the pot. As he opened the door, he found his little sister, Maggie, of the tender age of 4, taking a dump.
“Hey, big brother, whacha doin? Do you want to see what a big turd I’ve just poopied?”
He studied his environment, knowing, in someway, somehow, this was a day of Change; the day of transformation as to what he was to become in life. He looked at his mirror reflecting back a boy of average height, and of average build. He looked at his bathtub. Somehow a perfect place to play, somehow, but he just didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he was attracted to his bathtub in such a way. One of those ways like a dog, he wished to go to the side of it and start to rub his cock against the side of the porcelain. And then he turned his curious eyes towards his sister. She was squatted. He could see the little bun shape of her vulva, and the way it was spread just a bit so that he could see pink—beautiful shade of pink. He loved it, just loved looking at her pussy. Always had, and it isn’t like he didn’t have other opportunities, it was just now, this instant that he was starting to feel very sexual. But it wasn’t really her body that he was interested in primarily; it was what was coming out of it. Shit. Brown shit.
“Yes!” He said enthusiastically. “I want to see your poop!”
“Here you go…..lookie, big this time, huh?”
“Wow!”
“I still got some more, here we go….rrrrr.rr.r….plop!” Yet another log of dung came out of her asshole.
“Ok, I want to smell it.”
“Smells good, huh?” she asked curiously, as if awaiting a judgment.
Gerald S. smelled the crap. He actually had to blow his nose so that he could smell the full spectrum of aromas from the fecal matter. Kind of like a coke head. Just want all of that white shit way up there, no blockage. So he sniffed, and he sniffed, and he smelled some more. Damn, did it smell good.
“Mags, your poopie smells GREAT!”
“Aw, thanks bro. Maybe I can smell your’s now?”
“Well, first,” he said, “I’d just like to um…..don’t tell anyone, not mom, not dad, not Amy, Brian or the busdriver…I’d like to taste it. Just have a few licks. I’ve tasted my own before, but never a girl’s.”
“Well…hmmm…give me somethin.”
“What do you want, to play that game we played last week where I tickle your ‘you know’.”
“Sure, sounds good, but first let me smell your shit.”
Gerald said, “fine, “and quickly grabbed a log of shit, which was turning into a wet blob of corn and gum she’d swallowed. Then he took a big bite of it. It went all over his face. Inside his nostrils; between his teeth, all around his cheeks. “MMMMmmmmm” he moaned. Then he realized like what a pervert he was acting like, although there was no word for that in his vocabulary, it was akin to touching a grown ups thingy.
“Taste good!?” she exclaimed with confidence knowing that of course her crap tasted good, she was a princess after all.
“Oh yeah.”
“My turn.”
“Ok, let me take off my pants and poop.”
“K.”
So Gerald S. took off his short pants and took a crap an adult scatologist would be proud of. “There you go Sis, do you want to taste it.”
“Nah, I just want to lookie. Looks like mine. Yeah, bet Dad don’t shit like that.”
“’Doesn’t’” he corrected her. “I doubt it as well. Now let me take a taste of my own poop.”
“Ok.”
And so Gerald ate some of his own shit and then he said to his sister, “Ok, ready for us to play vachinacology?”
“Yeah! Yeah! I love getter “her” played with,” her of course being her vagina which she named Gabby, just because she thought she could talk out of her cunt.
“Ok, then,” Gerald said, pulling her out of the bathroom and shutting the door, locking it, and then went over to the toilet an took one more bite of his crap. “MMMM…..Wow! Be right there Mags!”
“Are you eating MORE poop?”
“Just a bit, now I got to wash my hands.”
“Forget it. I like it dirty,” learning so quickly at such a young age to be a slut.
“Well, ok then,” and out he came, shit hanging from his lip and his hair. “Let’s perform surgery, now get on the bed and lay down.”
“Yes doc.”
“Now spread your legs.”
“Yes doc.”
“Now let me stick my finger right up here…yeah…like this….you are wet, you know, like the toilet.”
She smiled and patted his head, thinking that was a compliment. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Now tell me if you feel this,” he said, as he moved his fingers around in a counter-clockwise fashion, pressed them in as deep as they would go, then slowly, with the juice produced by the inner “cave” he called it, massaged the outside pieces, quickly flicking the ‘little man sailing in his boat, ‘ with his thumb. She moaned and moaned, until, with a violent shock, it seemed, she convulsed a few times, her eyes going back inside her head so that you could only see the whites, and then relaxed, and sighed, “AAAAAAAAAAhhhh….you are so good at that doctor, so good at that….and we can do this any time of the week.”
“Yes, we can, but I think that dad and mom are coming back from getting groceries.”
She played with his hair and licked his fingers. “Wow, I taste so good. Next time, I want to suck your pee-pee.”
“I wish you would NOW, but we should wait until tomorrow, or how about tonight? That would be fun, just sneak over to my room around um….midnight, and don’t fall asleep, then you can suck my pee-pee, and you can play with my ball sack.”
“Ok, let’s go watch TV.”
“Alright, but first, Sis, I think you are bleeding?”
“Where?”
“Down there,” Gerald said pointing towards her pants. “In the crotch area, maybe you should change your pants and soak that up. I’m sorry, I think I played with Ginna too roughly.”
“Oh, no problem, happens all the time. I lost my virginity on a jungle gym you know?”
Gerald was perplexed, “What is that?”
“You’ll find out…hee..heee..just what mom told me. Said no to tell anyone, that it is a secret only for girls to know.”
“But please, I’m your brother.”
“Ok, there is this part in Gabby, which protects the back part of her, and when she gets broken, or something like that, um..she bleeds. So I’ve bleeded down there before.”
“Oh, ok.”
Then she took off her pants to reveal panties that were soaked with blood. “What should I tell them?”
“Well, first shouldn’t you soak up that blood?”
“It’ll stop by itself. Maybe you’d like to taste it?” she asked nicely offering her vaginal blood to her brother.
“Sure, “ so he tasted it, “MM…good, but not as good as your poop. Not as good as your poop………………………….
Yes it was these experiences that gave Gerald a boost into the underworld of scatology. His childhood had been far from “normal,” although it wasn’t as fucked up as you would think. There are some very, very fucked up families out there, much more so than shit eating Gerald and his sister. But, anyway, Gerald S. got back from I.V. Lumber, threw down his jacket, put his wallet on the nightstand of his one room apartment, turned on the stereo and played some Michael Macdonald. He sat down on his recliner and sat there for fifteen minutes almost falling asleep, and then, “You Keep Forgetin” came out of the stereo, and he almost forgot, it was time to get deep in shit. Not the place he had sunk into at work, as he was soon to get fired for carrying around flyers of horrible coprolalia-influenced material, promoting drinking urine, eating shit, and all of a sexual nature, with obscene pictures and all sorts of visual unnatural acts, alongside descriptions of how to “get the job done,” as Gerald described it, and yes, now he was about to do just that.
So, he got up off his ass and walked over to the closet where there were plastic bag upon bag of different varieties of shit. Even ages, as if it were like wine. The soft variety was catalogued on the left side of the closet, and the right side was filled with solid matter. He had to eat just the right thing to produce solid shit, allot of fiber, since he was on medication that didn’t allow that.
He grabbed, softly now, the bags marked January 1999, the old shit. There were some that were of watery variety, but mostly hard. He deserved it. So he walked over to the microwave and carefully heated each bag just a bit. Then over to the bathtub he went, he turned on the faucet to hot, and drew just a small amount of water. Tonight he was going to be taking an 80% pure shit soak. Then he poured the shit into the tub, took off his clothes, revealing a rather decent looking 33 year old’s body, from liftin’ wood, he supposed. Then he stepped into the tub. It was hot. “Damn! That shit is hot!” He yelled.
So he removed is foot, noticing that it was covered in ancient corn and what appeared to be ground beef, but who knows by now, it was also covered in bacteria. The bags were sealed and a preservative was added, but that never kept the bacteria from slowly seeping in. Damn. But, he scrapped some off of his foot, and, “mmmmmm, that’s good!” He exclaimed.
He waited a while, and decided to go to the computer and watch some porno. He chose to watch an obscure porn star from Hungry, named Jo, or Monica Sweetheart . She was nice looking. Kind of over par, not as much as some of the pre-teen porno he found the other day, on sites with no Trojans at all. After he sprayed his load all over himself, he went to the water, got in laid down, closed his eyes, and day dreamed of a time when he would find another girl like his little sister way back when, who still shared the same desire to play, eat, and suck the shit out of his asshole.
---by Stan Flannery
Gerald S. loved to bathe in his own shit. Absolutely loved it. Couldn’t wait to get home from working at I.V. Lumber and soak in his own feces. It was the greatest feeling in the world, for Gerald, as he took pride in not only enjoying the feeling, but spreading the word that this element of pleasure should and will be taken into modern fashion by the year 2020, when the world would generally be filled with the crap anyway; why not soak your mortal remains in what the world was to become? Some kind of synesthesia, he presumed. Yet it was more than mere fashion. Gerald S. used to fantasize about the shit coming out of his teacher’s assholes in gradeschool. He could actually see the crap coming out of Ms. Lewinskie’s butt. It was that kind of shit, not too solid, but not too soft, just the right amount of density to create perfect cylindrical globs of dung, which would—in his imagination—dribble down her long Polish legs, collecting at her feet where it would collect dust particles from the chalk board, all the while, she would be going over the lesson plan in routine fashion: writing, asking questions, and sometimes pointing to Gerald, who usually knew the right answer to the questions. These fantasies of shit didn’t always keep him off his toes. But the shit collecting at Ms. Lewinskie’s feet smelled, actually reeked of some form of salmon she’d eaten for early lunch alongside with some ice-cream. Perfect imaginary world for Gerald, and he wasn’t about to let anyone know about his fantasies, although sometimes when he was five he had nice experiences with his sister; a good example being after he came home from school one day
It was around the year 1984, and Gerald had already started first-grade. He came home from school one day, and headed to the toilet because he had to take a major shit. He threw down his heavy bookbag and headed towards the pot. As he opened the door, he found his little sister, Maggie, of the tender age of 4, taking a dump.
“Hey, big brother, whacha doin? Do you want to see what a big turd I’ve just poopied?”
He studied his environment, knowing, in someway, somehow, this was a day of Change; the day of transformation as to what he was to become in life. He looked at his mirror reflecting back a boy of average height, and of average build. He looked at his bathtub. Somehow a perfect place to play, somehow, but he just didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he was attracted to his bathtub in such a way. One of those ways like a dog, he wished to go to the side of it and start to rub his cock against the side of the porcelain. And then he turned his curious eyes towards his sister. She was squatted. He could see the little bun shape of her vulva, and the way it was spread just a bit so that he could see pink—beautiful shade of pink. He loved it, just loved looking at her pussy. Always had, and it isn’t like he didn’t have other opportunities, it was just now, this instant that he was starting to feel very sexual. But it wasn’t really her body that he was interested in primarily; it was what was coming out of it. Shit. Brown shit.
“Yes!” He said enthusiastically. “I want to see your poop!”
“Here you go…..lookie, big this time, huh?”
“Wow!”
“I still got some more, here we go….rrrrr.rr.r….plop!” Yet another log of dung came out of her asshole.
“Ok, I want to smell it.”
“Smells good, huh?” she asked curiously, as if awaiting a judgment.
Gerald S. smelled the crap. He actually had to blow his nose so that he could smell the full spectrum of aromas from the fecal matter. Kind of like a coke head. Just want all of that white shit way up there, no blockage. So he sniffed, and he sniffed, and he smelled some more. Damn, did it smell good.
“Mags, your poopie smells GREAT!”
“Aw, thanks bro. Maybe I can smell your’s now?”
“Well, first,” he said, “I’d just like to um…..don’t tell anyone, not mom, not dad, not Amy, Brian or the busdriver…I’d like to taste it. Just have a few licks. I’ve tasted my own before, but never a girl’s.”
“Well…hmmm…give me somethin.”
“What do you want, to play that game we played last week where I tickle your ‘you know’.”
“Sure, sounds good, but first let me smell your shit.”
Gerald said, “fine, “and quickly grabbed a log of shit, which was turning into a wet blob of corn and gum she’d swallowed. Then he took a big bite of it. It went all over his face. Inside his nostrils; between his teeth, all around his cheeks. “MMMMmmmmm” he moaned. Then he realized like what a pervert he was acting like, although there was no word for that in his vocabulary, it was akin to touching a grown ups thingy.
“Taste good!?” she exclaimed with confidence knowing that of course her crap tasted good, she was a princess after all.
“Oh yeah.”
“My turn.”
“Ok, let me take off my pants and poop.”
“K.”
So Gerald S. took off his short pants and took a crap an adult scatologist would be proud of. “There you go Sis, do you want to taste it.”
“Nah, I just want to lookie. Looks like mine. Yeah, bet Dad don’t shit like that.”
“’Doesn’t’” he corrected her. “I doubt it as well. Now let me take a taste of my own poop.”
“Ok.”
And so Gerald ate some of his own shit and then he said to his sister, “Ok, ready for us to play vachinacology?”
“Yeah! Yeah! I love getter “her” played with,” her of course being her vagina which she named Gabby, just because she thought she could talk out of her cunt.
“Ok, then,” Gerald said, pulling her out of the bathroom and shutting the door, locking it, and then went over to the toilet an took one more bite of his crap. “MMMM…..Wow! Be right there Mags!”
“Are you eating MORE poop?”
“Just a bit, now I got to wash my hands.”
“Forget it. I like it dirty,” learning so quickly at such a young age to be a slut.
“Well, ok then,” and out he came, shit hanging from his lip and his hair. “Let’s perform surgery, now get on the bed and lay down.”
“Yes doc.”
“Now spread your legs.”
“Yes doc.”
“Now let me stick my finger right up here…yeah…like this….you are wet, you know, like the toilet.”
She smiled and patted his head, thinking that was a compliment. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Now tell me if you feel this,” he said, as he moved his fingers around in a counter-clockwise fashion, pressed them in as deep as they would go, then slowly, with the juice produced by the inner “cave” he called it, massaged the outside pieces, quickly flicking the ‘little man sailing in his boat, ‘ with his thumb. She moaned and moaned, until, with a violent shock, it seemed, she convulsed a few times, her eyes going back inside her head so that you could only see the whites, and then relaxed, and sighed, “AAAAAAAAAAhhhh….you are so good at that doctor, so good at that….and we can do this any time of the week.”
“Yes, we can, but I think that dad and mom are coming back from getting groceries.”
She played with his hair and licked his fingers. “Wow, I taste so good. Next time, I want to suck your pee-pee.”
“I wish you would NOW, but we should wait until tomorrow, or how about tonight? That would be fun, just sneak over to my room around um….midnight, and don’t fall asleep, then you can suck my pee-pee, and you can play with my ball sack.”
“Ok, let’s go watch TV.”
“Alright, but first, Sis, I think you are bleeding?”
“Where?”
“Down there,” Gerald said pointing towards her pants. “In the crotch area, maybe you should change your pants and soak that up. I’m sorry, I think I played with Ginna too roughly.”
“Oh, no problem, happens all the time. I lost my virginity on a jungle gym you know?”
Gerald was perplexed, “What is that?”
“You’ll find out…hee..heee..just what mom told me. Said no to tell anyone, that it is a secret only for girls to know.”
“But please, I’m your brother.”
“Ok, there is this part in Gabby, which protects the back part of her, and when she gets broken, or something like that, um..she bleeds. So I’ve bleeded down there before.”
“Oh, ok.”
Then she took off her pants to reveal panties that were soaked with blood. “What should I tell them?”
“Well, first shouldn’t you soak up that blood?”
“It’ll stop by itself. Maybe you’d like to taste it?” she asked nicely offering her vaginal blood to her brother.
“Sure, “ so he tasted it, “MM…good, but not as good as your poop. Not as good as your poop………………………….
Yes it was these experiences that gave Gerald a boost into the underworld of scatology. His childhood had been far from “normal,” although it wasn’t as fucked up as you would think. There are some very, very fucked up families out there, much more so than shit eating Gerald and his sister. But, anyway, Gerald S. got back from I.V. Lumber, threw down his jacket, put his wallet on the nightstand of his one room apartment, turned on the stereo and played some Michael Macdonald. He sat down on his recliner and sat there for fifteen minutes almost falling asleep, and then, “You Keep Forgetin” came out of the stereo, and he almost forgot, it was time to get deep in shit. Not the place he had sunk into at work, as he was soon to get fired for carrying around flyers of horrible coprolalia-influenced material, promoting drinking urine, eating shit, and all of a sexual nature, with obscene pictures and all sorts of visual unnatural acts, alongside descriptions of how to “get the job done,” as Gerald described it, and yes, now he was about to do just that.
So, he got up off his ass and walked over to the closet where there were plastic bag upon bag of different varieties of shit. Even ages, as if it were like wine. The soft variety was catalogued on the left side of the closet, and the right side was filled with solid matter. He had to eat just the right thing to produce solid shit, allot of fiber, since he was on medication that didn’t allow that.
He grabbed, softly now, the bags marked January 1999, the old shit. There were some that were of watery variety, but mostly hard. He deserved it. So he walked over to the microwave and carefully heated each bag just a bit. Then over to the bathtub he went, he turned on the faucet to hot, and drew just a small amount of water. Tonight he was going to be taking an 80% pure shit soak. Then he poured the shit into the tub, took off his clothes, revealing a rather decent looking 33 year old’s body, from liftin’ wood, he supposed. Then he stepped into the tub. It was hot. “Damn! That shit is hot!” He yelled.
So he removed is foot, noticing that it was covered in ancient corn and what appeared to be ground beef, but who knows by now, it was also covered in bacteria. The bags were sealed and a preservative was added, but that never kept the bacteria from slowly seeping in. Damn. But, he scrapped some off of his foot, and, “mmmmmm, that’s good!” He exclaimed.
He waited a while, and decided to go to the computer and watch some porno. He chose to watch an obscure porn star from Hungry, named Jo, or Monica Sweetheart . She was nice looking. Kind of over par, not as much as some of the pre-teen porno he found the other day, on sites with no Trojans at all. After he sprayed his load all over himself, he went to the water, got in laid down, closed his eyes, and day dreamed of a time when he would find another girl like his little sister way back when, who still shared the same desire to play, eat, and suck the shit out of his asshole.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Following
“What’s new,” she said, walking casually down the sidewalk to greet him. Smiling, of course, but her eyes seemed different.
“Hello there, lady,” he said with valiant esteem, after having told her of the new situation that he’d found himself in. “Um, well….”
“Yeah, well, I think we have some things to talk about.”
He knew that there was something else that she wanted to talk about; it wasn’t the latest gossip at work, nor books or drugs. It was her.
“I know that’s why you called me in the first place, right?” He asked, head down in guilt.
“No, not exactly, let’s walk.”
“Let’s walk where?”
“Somewhere else.”
Gerald had known Gina for a long time. A very long time, in fact he knew her from his freshman year of college. They both decided to major in English, and he met her at the liberal arts building to sign up for and declare a major. They had been really good friends. Not best friends. Good friends.
She liked to party more than he did. Gerald was one of those guys who wasn’t all that brilliant, but liked to read difficult material. In fact, he “got into” the major more than she, who was getting better grades than he, but she didn’t have to work on it, as she read much faster than he did and wrote faster, generally understood things rapidly, that is, aside from morals and ethics, which Gerald had a good grip on, at least he thought—give the dude something to be better at. It was for these reasons that he told himself that he didn’t want to “go out” with her, although she was so hot, but she probably wouldn’t want to go out with him anyway. He would really like to fuck her. But the chance of this happening, with her and all of her boyfriends was an outlandish idea to even mentally conceive. So, he stayed in his apartment and read and read. He had a few girlfriends, and they all were very nice girls, many of them younger, and this seemed to always be the problem, to Gina. Gina hated him dating younger girls, in fact she hated him dating anybody. It was a bizarre situation, their friendship. And it pretty much remained this way, a sexually tense acquaintanceship.
The years passed, and now, they were both thirty. Thirty, wow, he never would have dreamed that he would ever make it to this age, and if he did, he would have accomplished some more things in life, but he had some problems involving drugs and mental illness, which retarded his growth. But he was growing, slowly but surely; however, Gina was not pleased with the “direction” of his growth. He was falling into the same pattern again. Dating another young girl.
They arrived at the coffee shop, sat down, and each ordered a latte of some variety. He liked them plain, she enjoyed them with vanilla. There was a few nervous beginnings of conversations, the “um so…”s and “Yeah well,”s until finally Gerald said, “Ok, why is it that you always have a problem with me dating girls, younger ones at that?”
“Because you are too old. Come on. And you know you know that you are smarter than they are. Is it that? Dominance? T-Rex Gerald.”
“No, I just generally like the young ones. They are not necessarily innocent. I’ve dated a sixteen year old who knew more about sex that I do now.”
She sipped her latte, “Maybe because you only date the young ones.”
“That’s not true. There have been several that were above my age. Over twenty six, I believe at the time.” Gerald was beginning to get defensive, as he stared into the Gina’s green eyes.
“Those were only one night stands, or well three night stands. And that girl who worked at the uni-mart. She was older than you, right? Wow, what an accomplishment there.”
“Give me a break; it was after a crazy break up….”
“Yeah, with a young girl.” She said, “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing, how bout we look at the guys that you dated?”
“Off limits, I’m not in a crisis situation.” She said, now getting a bit nervous.
Gerald smiled, being soft-hearted, “Ok, we’ll focus on me. You know that they say now at the good ol’ psych clinic that I have narcissistic personality disorder? Cool huh? So yeah, let’s talk about my self-centered ass.”
She put her hand on his, touching his fingertips gently, “I don’t believe in any of that crap. You are fine now, and I lov….”
“What’s that?” He laughed, “What did you say?”
“I meant l really enjoy your company and I care about you. I only say that word to guys that I’m in love with. And I’m not….in…..” Her voice became softer until she became silent, staring at her napkin. “Ok,” she began again, “I just wanted to talk to you about this new girl you are dating, but I don’t know if I should bother. All we do is argue, that is ALL WE DO. Maybe…well, ok, how old is she.”
And right away she was fiercely attacking the sensitive areas of his new relationship. “20, Now please don’t……”
She cut him off and her voice became louder, “That is bullshit! Why are you doing this,that is fucking pedophilia, Mr. Jackson.” he started to laugh softly. She continued, “I’m not kidding. The girl could be your daughter, for Christ sakes. Don’t you have any sense of decency? I bet she doesn’t even bleed every month. I bet she’s got those “perfect breasts,” you always talk about. You know why they are perfect? Because they just grew, you fuck. And they never even know how to kiss…so you show them, huh? So you show them. Fuck you and fuck your life.
“I don’t understand why……”
“You don’t understand ANYTHING, that’s why you had to work so hard in college while I went out and had a good time.”
And while she was so angry, he kept staring into her eyes, noticing things---worlds that he’d never seen before…anywhere. Her dirty blond hair pulled back tight, her skin so fair, so white. If……she…were….only….mine
“No,I mean why do you care so much,” and as he said this, I noticed that we were disturbing the other students and professors studying their papers.
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said, but I really wanted to think because she cared about him..romantically.
“Because I care about you,” she said, tears streaming down her overly emotional face.
“Ok then,” he took a chance, here we go…”How about you come over to my apartment tonight. Kelly is gone.”
“That’s her name?” Gina asked, “And to do What?”
“I don’t know, sit down.”
“To do what?”
“I just thought that since we have been friends for so long, and I am going to agree that I’ll not date this girl anymore, then you can stay the night?”
“You want to fuck me?”
He grinned, “Yeah, like that.”
“Isn’t that sweet you asshole,” and she threw the rest of her vanilla latte on his face. “You know, I really thought you were on my side, but your hedonistic ways want to make me puke..fuck you…” and she walked out of the coffee shop with her head held high, never looking back, never caring again. To think it was so crazy what he could have had, a partner for life, but instead, he would bounce from one young romance to the other, all for the sake of trying to understand why the human race is one of jealousy, of greed, of diseased colored death of love. Black against white, innocence versus evil. All of this was coming his way.
“What’s new,” she said, walking casually down the sidewalk to greet him. Smiling, of course, but her eyes seemed different.
“Hello there, lady,” he said with valiant esteem, after having told her of the new situation that he’d found himself in. “Um, well….”
“Yeah, well, I think we have some things to talk about.”
He knew that there was something else that she wanted to talk about; it wasn’t the latest gossip at work, nor books or drugs. It was her.
“I know that’s why you called me in the first place, right?” He asked, head down in guilt.
“No, not exactly, let’s walk.”
“Let’s walk where?”
“Somewhere else.”
Gerald had known Gina for a long time. A very long time, in fact he knew her from his freshman year of college. They both decided to major in English, and he met her at the liberal arts building to sign up for and declare a major. They had been really good friends. Not best friends. Good friends.
She liked to party more than he did. Gerald was one of those guys who wasn’t all that brilliant, but liked to read difficult material. In fact, he “got into” the major more than she, who was getting better grades than he, but she didn’t have to work on it, as she read much faster than he did and wrote faster, generally understood things rapidly, that is, aside from morals and ethics, which Gerald had a good grip on, at least he thought—give the dude something to be better at. It was for these reasons that he told himself that he didn’t want to “go out” with her, although she was so hot, but she probably wouldn’t want to go out with him anyway. He would really like to fuck her. But the chance of this happening, with her and all of her boyfriends was an outlandish idea to even mentally conceive. So, he stayed in his apartment and read and read. He had a few girlfriends, and they all were very nice girls, many of them younger, and this seemed to always be the problem, to Gina. Gina hated him dating younger girls, in fact she hated him dating anybody. It was a bizarre situation, their friendship. And it pretty much remained this way, a sexually tense acquaintanceship.
The years passed, and now, they were both thirty. Thirty, wow, he never would have dreamed that he would ever make it to this age, and if he did, he would have accomplished some more things in life, but he had some problems involving drugs and mental illness, which retarded his growth. But he was growing, slowly but surely; however, Gina was not pleased with the “direction” of his growth. He was falling into the same pattern again. Dating another young girl.
They arrived at the coffee shop, sat down, and each ordered a latte of some variety. He liked them plain, she enjoyed them with vanilla. There was a few nervous beginnings of conversations, the “um so…”s and “Yeah well,”s until finally Gerald said, “Ok, why is it that you always have a problem with me dating girls, younger ones at that?”
“Because you are too old. Come on. And you know you know that you are smarter than they are. Is it that? Dominance? T-Rex Gerald.”
“No, I just generally like the young ones. They are not necessarily innocent. I’ve dated a sixteen year old who knew more about sex that I do now.”
She sipped her latte, “Maybe because you only date the young ones.”
“That’s not true. There have been several that were above my age. Over twenty six, I believe at the time.” Gerald was beginning to get defensive, as he stared into the Gina’s green eyes.
“Those were only one night stands, or well three night stands. And that girl who worked at the uni-mart. She was older than you, right? Wow, what an accomplishment there.”
“Give me a break; it was after a crazy break up….”
“Yeah, with a young girl.” She said, “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing, how bout we look at the guys that you dated?”
“Off limits, I’m not in a crisis situation.” She said, now getting a bit nervous.
Gerald smiled, being soft-hearted, “Ok, we’ll focus on me. You know that they say now at the good ol’ psych clinic that I have narcissistic personality disorder? Cool huh? So yeah, let’s talk about my self-centered ass.”
She put her hand on his, touching his fingertips gently, “I don’t believe in any of that crap. You are fine now, and I lov….”
“What’s that?” He laughed, “What did you say?”
“I meant l really enjoy your company and I care about you. I only say that word to guys that I’m in love with. And I’m not….in…..” Her voice became softer until she became silent, staring at her napkin. “Ok,” she began again, “I just wanted to talk to you about this new girl you are dating, but I don’t know if I should bother. All we do is argue, that is ALL WE DO. Maybe…well, ok, how old is she.”
And right away she was fiercely attacking the sensitive areas of his new relationship. “20, Now please don’t……”
She cut him off and her voice became louder, “That is bullshit! Why are you doing this,that is fucking pedophilia, Mr. Jackson.” he started to laugh softly. She continued, “I’m not kidding. The girl could be your daughter, for Christ sakes. Don’t you have any sense of decency? I bet she doesn’t even bleed every month. I bet she’s got those “perfect breasts,” you always talk about. You know why they are perfect? Because they just grew, you fuck. And they never even know how to kiss…so you show them, huh? So you show them. Fuck you and fuck your life.
“I don’t understand why……”
“You don’t understand ANYTHING, that’s why you had to work so hard in college while I went out and had a good time.”
And while she was so angry, he kept staring into her eyes, noticing things---worlds that he’d never seen before…anywhere. Her dirty blond hair pulled back tight, her skin so fair, so white. If……she…were….only….mine
“No,I mean why do you care so much,” and as he said this, I noticed that we were disturbing the other students and professors studying their papers.
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said, but I really wanted to think because she cared about him..romantically.
“Because I care about you,” she said, tears streaming down her overly emotional face.
“Ok then,” he took a chance, here we go…”How about you come over to my apartment tonight. Kelly is gone.”
“That’s her name?” Gina asked, “And to do What?”
“I don’t know, sit down.”
“To do what?”
“I just thought that since we have been friends for so long, and I am going to agree that I’ll not date this girl anymore, then you can stay the night?”
“You want to fuck me?”
He grinned, “Yeah, like that.”
“Isn’t that sweet you asshole,” and she threw the rest of her vanilla latte on his face. “You know, I really thought you were on my side, but your hedonistic ways want to make me puke..fuck you…” and she walked out of the coffee shop with her head held high, never looking back, never caring again. To think it was so crazy what he could have had, a partner for life, but instead, he would bounce from one young romance to the other, all for the sake of trying to understand why the human race is one of jealousy, of greed, of diseased colored death of love. Black against white, innocence versus evil. All of this was coming his way.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
do you believe in UFO's?
“In my beginning is my end.”
--T.S. Eliot, East Coker
Credi in UFO’s?
Her immediacy to resist death,
And the recalcitrant fight to submerge in life,
Reminds us not of a battle, but a raging pacifism,
Caught up in the filigree of atomized consciousness,
Left to breed among the Moline crosses of an
Abandoned church falling to the lamented ground by the
Absence of belief.
So afterwards, the drinks sparkled in their own bioluminescence,
As if a parasitic tick was feeding upon our livers, shinning without
The light of the anachronistic human race, but producing its
Own malevolent illumination to cover her resistance with the
Hinting with thoughts of her dying against the meaninglessness of a
Nihilistic dawn with the presence of alien abstraction, and the wounding of time’s linear progression into significance.
--T.S. Eliot, East Coker
Credi in UFO’s?
Her immediacy to resist death,
And the recalcitrant fight to submerge in life,
Reminds us not of a battle, but a raging pacifism,
Caught up in the filigree of atomized consciousness,
Left to breed among the Moline crosses of an
Abandoned church falling to the lamented ground by the
Absence of belief.
So afterwards, the drinks sparkled in their own bioluminescence,
As if a parasitic tick was feeding upon our livers, shinning without
The light of the anachronistic human race, but producing its
Own malevolent illumination to cover her resistance with the
Hinting with thoughts of her dying against the meaninglessness of a
Nihilistic dawn with the presence of alien abstraction, and the wounding of time’s linear progression into significance.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
treatment of the mentally ill
When my psychiatrist first offered me the option of being treated with Thorozine, I immediately thought back to the way in which they used to attempt to moderate a patient’s behavior back in the early 1950’s. This controversial drug burst on the scene as an alternative to the infamous “lobotomy” and “insulin shock therapy,” both of which are considered barbaric today. However, given this “opportunity” I had to decline given the greater chances of developing tardive dyskinesia, a condition where the patient’s muscles tend to become stiff and/or move in jerky, uncontrolled movements. Yet all the anti-psychotics have this particular risk. They are not addicting, not by any sense, but have great side-effects, including weight gain (especially the newer “a-typical” anti-psychotics.) I looked into it a bit and chose perphenazine, another old ant-psychotic developed in the late 1950’s, around the time of Thorozine. I chose this medication because it is less sedating, which they all are, and there isn’t as great a chance for tardive dyskinesia. I am thankful for my medication, but sometimes I abhor its possible effects on my mind and body that I may face in the future. But there are only certain things to treat schizoaffective disorder’s psychotic symptoms, and the anti-psychotic, whether it be Zyprexa, one of the newer ones that also made me gain fifty pounds, or Stelazine, one of the older medications. Ironically, it seems to be that the older medications are proving to be more apt at treating the illness than the newer ones.
But before there were anti-psychotic drugs, patients at mental asylums, as they used to call psychiatric hospitals, used to have to face horrible treatments that are considered cruel today, but at the time, they were known to be the best and the best “therapeutic” treatments available, and basically the only as well. The men who invented these treatments won Nobel prizes. For instance Julius, Wagner-Jauregg's introduction of malaria therapy. This was followed by Manfred Sakel’s invention of insulin shock therapy, where the patient is made unconscious through the use of insulin as a catalyst for this coma. This was basically used for dementia praecox (schizophrenia). And then we had, Cardiazol shock therapy, founded on the theoretical notion that there existed a biological antagonism between schizophrenia and epilepsy and that therefore inducing epiletiform fits in schizophrenic patients might effect a cure, was superseded by electroconvulsive therapy, invented by the Italian neurologist Ugo Cerletti. And then, what I consider to be the most inhumane “therapy,” of all, is the lobotomy. Walter Freeman, caught on to the idea by the experiments in Europe, and thought that they appeared to be a logical cure for schizophrenic and depressed patients alike. The procedure was accomplished by sticking an icepick through the eyelid and moved around severing the nerves between the pre-frontal lobes in the brain. Brilliant, yeah, I know. But at the time it was the best thing that they had going for them. Apparently this procedure was performed on well over 1000 patients, almost all of whom suffered brain damage.
Thankfully, the use of the lobotomy was replaced by lithium to treat patients with mood problems, primarily bi-polar patients. And I mean thankfully. I am on lithium and it seems to work well for me. Although I have to have blood tests and be monitored closely, it seems to be working much better than an ice pick.
Entering some of these institutions during the older days (1890-1920) or so, was a like walking into a prison, both literally and figuratively. One can just imagine the shape the patients would be in. Walking zombies they would appear to be, and that is how these people were desired to look and act like, so that they would not hurt or cause havoc in the ward. Or course there were no other treatments, but being chained to a post seems barbarous even in retrospect to the resources they had to use at the time.
We live in a day and age when “madness” has been replaced by “mentally ill,” and “manic depression” has is now known as “bi-polar disorder. Whichever the case, mental illness has certainly gone through evolutionary methods of being treated, but one thing remains steadfast: mental illness is no one’s fault.
But before there were anti-psychotic drugs, patients at mental asylums, as they used to call psychiatric hospitals, used to have to face horrible treatments that are considered cruel today, but at the time, they were known to be the best and the best “therapeutic” treatments available, and basically the only as well. The men who invented these treatments won Nobel prizes. For instance Julius, Wagner-Jauregg's introduction of malaria therapy. This was followed by Manfred Sakel’s invention of insulin shock therapy, where the patient is made unconscious through the use of insulin as a catalyst for this coma. This was basically used for dementia praecox (schizophrenia). And then we had, Cardiazol shock therapy, founded on the theoretical notion that there existed a biological antagonism between schizophrenia and epilepsy and that therefore inducing epiletiform fits in schizophrenic patients might effect a cure, was superseded by electroconvulsive therapy, invented by the Italian neurologist Ugo Cerletti. And then, what I consider to be the most inhumane “therapy,” of all, is the lobotomy. Walter Freeman, caught on to the idea by the experiments in Europe, and thought that they appeared to be a logical cure for schizophrenic and depressed patients alike. The procedure was accomplished by sticking an icepick through the eyelid and moved around severing the nerves between the pre-frontal lobes in the brain. Brilliant, yeah, I know. But at the time it was the best thing that they had going for them. Apparently this procedure was performed on well over 1000 patients, almost all of whom suffered brain damage.
Thankfully, the use of the lobotomy was replaced by lithium to treat patients with mood problems, primarily bi-polar patients. And I mean thankfully. I am on lithium and it seems to work well for me. Although I have to have blood tests and be monitored closely, it seems to be working much better than an ice pick.
Entering some of these institutions during the older days (1890-1920) or so, was a like walking into a prison, both literally and figuratively. One can just imagine the shape the patients would be in. Walking zombies they would appear to be, and that is how these people were desired to look and act like, so that they would not hurt or cause havoc in the ward. Or course there were no other treatments, but being chained to a post seems barbarous even in retrospect to the resources they had to use at the time.
We live in a day and age when “madness” has been replaced by “mentally ill,” and “manic depression” has is now known as “bi-polar disorder. Whichever the case, mental illness has certainly gone through evolutionary methods of being treated, but one thing remains steadfast: mental illness is no one’s fault.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
the cruelty of the waves
(although this doesn't fit the "genre" of the blog, I thought it was interesting, so I'm including it here)
The cruelty of the waves
Sinking into valleys where there is no space or time,
The sounds of distance resonate through clarion silence,
Into the hearts of the bleeding children, high in the air above
The world that has been created for them: nothing again, nothing after, only an abstraction, a way to mend the hearts of many, but
Leave nothing for the few who really care about this loss of memory;
The calling into the higher grounds of existence: there is no fun to be had here: there is no games: there is no playground here, but signs point to the place where they once danced and sang along with the
Cruelest motions of the waves, crashing into the breakers, rolling
Out into the sea with sand caught in the throes of aquatic love for them, while we sat down on the chairs on our porch overlooking the ocean, thinking of what we must do to save them, when to save is but a key in the foundation of life’s mystery that we spend all night
And all day trying to solve with bemusement and stinging pride of our intellects swirling around in a logical fog somewhere above the great Atlantic.
The cruelty of the waves
Sinking into valleys where there is no space or time,
The sounds of distance resonate through clarion silence,
Into the hearts of the bleeding children, high in the air above
The world that has been created for them: nothing again, nothing after, only an abstraction, a way to mend the hearts of many, but
Leave nothing for the few who really care about this loss of memory;
The calling into the higher grounds of existence: there is no fun to be had here: there is no games: there is no playground here, but signs point to the place where they once danced and sang along with the
Cruelest motions of the waves, crashing into the breakers, rolling
Out into the sea with sand caught in the throes of aquatic love for them, while we sat down on the chairs on our porch overlooking the ocean, thinking of what we must do to save them, when to save is but a key in the foundation of life’s mystery that we spend all night
And all day trying to solve with bemusement and stinging pride of our intellects swirling around in a logical fog somewhere above the great Atlantic.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Picture it, Sicily
Picture it: Miami Florida, 1989. Blanch and Rose, two old hags, were fighting:
“You’re father was a micro-cephalic and your mother was a half-black, half-Mexican whore!” Blanch Deveraux said to Rose Nylon, in protest to being called an “easy slut.”
Rose smiled a big ol’ St. Olef grin, the smell of Viking shit oozing out of her pores, filling the kitchen with Nordic funk (not such a bad smell to Blanch, but she also loved the smell of grey-haired cocks of men after putting three hours on the tred-mill). “Blanch, you are a whore. And if you think that I slept with your ex-husband George, you’re out of your mind.”
Blanch thought back on the picture that she had derived this belief from, thought deeply, and concurred that it wasn’t Rose after all, but some retarded girl George was visiting on a trip to Nebraska when he was in the army. “Oh, ok, I’m sorry, now let’s kiss and make-up.”
Then their eyes met, like they had three years before, when they both were attached so deeply that it bordered lesbianism; but, this time it was for real. They floated to one another, literally, Rose’s feet lifted three inches off the floor, her slippers fell off, and then they kissed. It was as if the kitchen was filled with light—artificial as Blanch’s wrinkle-defying make-up. Rose’s tongue circled Blanch’s mouth, tasting the MacDonalds that Blanch had eaten earlier in the day. Blanch, in turn could taste the horrible unpalatable tang of scrapple. Then they started to suck one another’s necks. Rose was biting tenderly on Blanch’s nape, while Blanch licked fastidiously on Rose’s lower neck. And then her kisses turned downward, and she unbuttoned Rose’s shirt with her tongue.
“Oh, my god, you certainly have learned some things!”
Blanch unsnapped Roses’ bra. “You’re damn right, they don’t call me Albert Einstein’s whore little sister for no reason. I’ve got a IQ of lasciviousness of 190.”
“I don’t know what that word means, but I’ll say so. Hey, how bout we take this to the bedroom?”
But as she said “bedroom” Sophia, the most elderly of the bunch walked through the swinging door only to see the horrible sight: something that she wasn’t all to unfamiliar towards; she had in her youth fooled around with the similar sex—then again, she was twelve, not haggard and wrinkled.
“What the hell is going on here?” Sophia said.
Then Dorothy walked through the door and chimed in, “I don’t know, but it kinda looks like something that you’d see at the zoo. Don’t you remember ma? Those two gorillas humping?”
“Yeah, pussycat, I do, but these are too old, and too female to be primates mating….and with too much make-up. Gorillas don’t care if they are aging. They do it with grace, well, whatever, you know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry,” Blanch said, wiping her lips of Norwegian spittle. “I guess we got carried away.”
“We sure did,” Rose said, “I think that I flew there for a second, and I got all crazy. Now can I ask a dumb question?”
Dorothy couldn’t miss the opportunity, “Better than anyone I know.” (the canned laughter going off, can’t you hear it?)
“Ok, guys,” Blanch said, “I think the mood has changed enough for me to ask you why you are both wearing safari outfits.”
“No, no, no,” Dorothy began, “These are the uniforms we’re going to wear when we “really” start our job today.
“You kinda look funny,” Rose said.
“We look funny, and you two didn’t making out in the middle of the kitchen. I mean, it could have at least been in the back so that we wouldn’t see you immediately. God, I feel like I’m back at Shady Pines, giving a little lecture to a couple of old women who thought that they were lesbians. Dementia related, of course. Speaking of, Rose,” Sophia continued, “You sure are getting dumber and dumber these days, you sure you ain’t coming down with Alzheimer’s?”
“No, no, no, never….” Rose looked perplexed, “What is that, anyway, “Old-timers.”
“Forget it,” Dorothy said. “Come on Ma, let’s go, we can’t be late.”
Then Blanch looked at the clock, “Oh, dear, I’ve got a date with that cute plumber, “Big Pipe” Peter, as I like to call him. He’s going to do some work….on me.”
Rose looked at the time, it was around three o’clock. She never had anything to do. If she would just have some other friends. If she would just have a sex life, no, not like Blanch and her rapturous, rampant, slutty life-for-getting laid existence—just a boyfriend to fool around with; watch a movie with; play doctor. Well, maybe she’d read a book, she thought, but Dorothy’s books are so hard to read, and I’ve already read most of mine. Hey, yeah, then she thought of it, she’d go to the library.
“I think I’ll go to the library,” she said.
“Sounds like a plan; now, I can almost see his plumber’s crack in my face right now. I got to scidatle. See you girls.”
“Bye,” Sophia said.
Dorothy smiled that big, “I’m the ugly one and I don’t care grin,” and waved.
Rose sat patiently on the couch for the bus to come. She waited and waited, and then realized--dumb me--she forgot to watch for the bus. She’d missed it, now what? Watch the tube. She turned on the television and searched for her pack of cigarettes. She’d started to smoke a few months ago. The girls didn’t know it, but she didn’t really care if they did. She was a rebel. She found them, went to the window to smoke, and then there was a knock, knock, knock at the door.
“Hey, it’s me Stan.”
“Stan! What are you doing here? I thought that you were going to stay away, that is, after Dorothy found out that we were worshiping….him..together?”
“Oh, the Satan thing, and my folie a deux delusions that I was transferring into your mind, that we were both Reptoid aliens secretly living in an underground base. Yeah, I know. That was an attempt at getting you to kill Dorothy for leaving me. I’m sorry. But who we were worshiping, well, he exists. His name is Lucifer, keeper of the light, come take his hand.” Stan extended his hand to Rose, who was becoming entranced in his eyes. Stan said, “I’ll be right back.” He ran out to his car to get his pentagram and candles. Oh, this was going to be good. Sure is. He was finally going to get Rose to kill that hooker through hypnotism. He was going to mesmerize that bitch into killing his ex-love and love forever after, Dorothy Patrillo, Spornak.
Stan burst through the door, “Here I am!”
“Here I am!” Rose said, naked as a baby, her nipples pointing at the ground. Gravity sucks. Actually, Newton was wrong, her tits were being pushed, not pulled through gravitational force.
“There you are!” He said, now confused, which was more important, to get his noodle wet, which never happened, or to convince Rose that Dorothy was a conspirator with the goal of killing everyone with secret potions. Ah, he could always do both. So, he jumped on the opportunity, picking Rose off her feet, and taking her to the bedroom where they discovered “Big Pipe” Peter and Blanch fucking in Rose’s bedroom.
“What is going on here?!” Rose protested in the midst of heat, anger though creeping in, up through her spinal column, inside her feeble mind, out her eyes, and through her nipples which were become red with rage.
“Sorry,” hee hee,” Blanch said with her southern charm.
“Yuh, um…sorry Hey, nice tits. Firmer than this hooker.” Peter said, with no conviction at all.
“Hmm….guess we’ll have to go to her room,” Stan said, pointing towards Blanch’s bed.
“Yeah, that’s what we’re going to do! You’re right Stan,” So they both took one another’s hand and waltzed into Blanch’s room. And all this while Rose was butt naked.
Stan stuck his hand inside her ass crack, felt her puckered asshole, testing to see how much spit he would have to apply for easy entry. About this much, he thought as he brought his hand near his mouth, spit a bunch of mucus and spit mixture (just the right amount now. Dude was fifty six. Knew what he was doing), then he finger fucked Rose’s asshole for a few minutes, then he stuck two, then three, then Four! then FIVE! fingers up her poop shoot.
“Oh, my God! That compares only to, only to George, my ex-husband, and he was hung like a horse; hey, let me see your pee-pee.”
“What did you call my cock?”
“Pee-pee.” It’s one of those play names that Charlie and I used when we were having sex. Just you remind me so much of him, anyway, let me see you penis.”
Stan coughed as though he was uncomfortable, as he unzipped his trousers only to reveal a very tiny uncircumcised dick. Something an asian dude would laugh at. “Here it is, don’t laugh,”
But she started to giggled, she couldn’t help it. “Don’t laugh bitch!”
“Hee heee!” she fell into full-blown laughter as Stan’s penis twitched once, twice, then drooped down again like an injured caterpillar.
“Stop laughing, alright, that’s it….I’m leaving, and the hell with my present to you.”
Rose sobered, “I’m sorry, Stan. I guess I just got carried away, what is it you have for me.” Rose was always one for presents.
“No,” Stan said as he walked through the bedroom door, grabbed his jacket, looked at the time to see that it was five o’clock
“Oh, my,” he said, “I’ve got to get the hell over to Nilda’s house. That Philippine gal sure makes me smile, and good longganisa. Damn good adobo too. She’s also where I got this aphrodisiac I was going to give to you…..forget it.” By this time Rose was fully dressed and about to wave goodbye to Stan, but if he really had what she wanted for so very long: a love potion, yes, she could have Miles for all time.
“Ok, bye, maybe I’ll see you soon?” Rose asked.
“Oh, ok. Nice asshole by the way.” And with that Stan was out the door, but only to bump into Dorothy and Sophia on the way out.
“Stanly Sbornak! What are you doing here?” Dorothy scowled and hissed.
“Sorry, just leavin, takin’ a plane actually.”
Sophia raised he old arms as if she were Mussolini speaking to a crowd, “Well why don’t you leave on a jet plane, and I don’t care when you’ll be back again. Maybe never Tiny, he heh….Dorothy told me all about that.”
“Why me!? I’m going to kill you Dorothy, mark my words.” Stan said as he stomped his way to his car.
As the evening turned into night and Blanch was yet to be seen, they were all not very worried, given the obvious fact that Blanch was an easy-lay-me-on-my-back-please, good ol’ fashioned Southern slut. Sophia was busy making spaghetti sauce while Rose and Dorothy were eating cheese cake, and for the second week straight, drinking scotch.
“Hey, ma d-da-da you wanna know the truth about my feelings about you. I love you, and I’ll never send you to Shady Pines.”
“Thank you dear. If I could have a drink I would, but the doctor has warned me about my liver, you know.”
Rose smiled, “Back in St. Olef there were no such things as “homes” and even livers, aside from, well, chicken livers that I used to eat, but my daddy used to take fishing. Said they were great for bass….”
“Shut up Rose!” Dorothy interjected, to the audience’s delight.
“Sorry,” Rose said.
Sophia walked over with a spoon full of sauce and threw it at Rose, “Here, here’s a message from Sicily. Shut the fuck up! or we’ll blow your brains out.”
“Hey!” Rose protested in comic joy, actually. “How do you know that the Italians would say that to me?”
“Because that’s what they said to my brother who always told dumb fables and tales and other stories that don’t matter and are probably not true.”
And then Blanch walked in, her hair all messed up, her lipstick smeared, her shirt torn a bit.
“Who, big surprise!” Sophia said.
“No, it’s not what it looks like, and this nasty spermatozoa ain’t what it seems either. It’s colgate toothpaste. “Big Pete” and me spent eight our repairing some woman’s toilet. And then he had the indignity to expect a kiss from me? Of course not, I just gave him a quick blow job, but that was it.”
“Like I said, surprise surprise.” Sophia retorted.
Rose smiled, picked up her drink and said, “well here’s to predictability. Kind of like the laugh-lines on our shows!”
“Hey, don’t say that?” Dorothy said.
“Why not?” Rose said.
“Because that would ruin…oh, never mind. I’ve got a date tomorrow with Bernie Rubble.”
“Bernie Rubble?” Sophia said.
Then Blanch said, “Bernie Rubble, hey, I knew you were working with apes livin’ in the stone age, but that’s taking it a bit too far.”
Dorothy took her last bite of cake, got up with her empty plate, and said to Blanch, “He’s better than Big Top Pee Wee, the man’s a lawyer, credentials..possibly a judge some day. I like him, I don’t care anyway.”
“Really?” Sophia said, “Well I guess I got some place nice to live if you two get married.”
“’Shady Pines’ mean anything?” Dorothy said as she put the plate in the sink.
Then Rose smiled and said, “You know girls, we all have a lot of fun, we always have.”
“What’s your point, Rose?” Sophia said.
“I got cancer,” Rose said.
To be continued (maybe)
“You’re father was a micro-cephalic and your mother was a half-black, half-Mexican whore!” Blanch Deveraux said to Rose Nylon, in protest to being called an “easy slut.”
Rose smiled a big ol’ St. Olef grin, the smell of Viking shit oozing out of her pores, filling the kitchen with Nordic funk (not such a bad smell to Blanch, but she also loved the smell of grey-haired cocks of men after putting three hours on the tred-mill). “Blanch, you are a whore. And if you think that I slept with your ex-husband George, you’re out of your mind.”
Blanch thought back on the picture that she had derived this belief from, thought deeply, and concurred that it wasn’t Rose after all, but some retarded girl George was visiting on a trip to Nebraska when he was in the army. “Oh, ok, I’m sorry, now let’s kiss and make-up.”
Then their eyes met, like they had three years before, when they both were attached so deeply that it bordered lesbianism; but, this time it was for real. They floated to one another, literally, Rose’s feet lifted three inches off the floor, her slippers fell off, and then they kissed. It was as if the kitchen was filled with light—artificial as Blanch’s wrinkle-defying make-up. Rose’s tongue circled Blanch’s mouth, tasting the MacDonalds that Blanch had eaten earlier in the day. Blanch, in turn could taste the horrible unpalatable tang of scrapple. Then they started to suck one another’s necks. Rose was biting tenderly on Blanch’s nape, while Blanch licked fastidiously on Rose’s lower neck. And then her kisses turned downward, and she unbuttoned Rose’s shirt with her tongue.
“Oh, my god, you certainly have learned some things!”
Blanch unsnapped Roses’ bra. “You’re damn right, they don’t call me Albert Einstein’s whore little sister for no reason. I’ve got a IQ of lasciviousness of 190.”
“I don’t know what that word means, but I’ll say so. Hey, how bout we take this to the bedroom?”
But as she said “bedroom” Sophia, the most elderly of the bunch walked through the swinging door only to see the horrible sight: something that she wasn’t all to unfamiliar towards; she had in her youth fooled around with the similar sex—then again, she was twelve, not haggard and wrinkled.
“What the hell is going on here?” Sophia said.
Then Dorothy walked through the door and chimed in, “I don’t know, but it kinda looks like something that you’d see at the zoo. Don’t you remember ma? Those two gorillas humping?”
“Yeah, pussycat, I do, but these are too old, and too female to be primates mating….and with too much make-up. Gorillas don’t care if they are aging. They do it with grace, well, whatever, you know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry,” Blanch said, wiping her lips of Norwegian spittle. “I guess we got carried away.”
“We sure did,” Rose said, “I think that I flew there for a second, and I got all crazy. Now can I ask a dumb question?”
Dorothy couldn’t miss the opportunity, “Better than anyone I know.” (the canned laughter going off, can’t you hear it?)
“Ok, guys,” Blanch said, “I think the mood has changed enough for me to ask you why you are both wearing safari outfits.”
“No, no, no,” Dorothy began, “These are the uniforms we’re going to wear when we “really” start our job today.
“You kinda look funny,” Rose said.
“We look funny, and you two didn’t making out in the middle of the kitchen. I mean, it could have at least been in the back so that we wouldn’t see you immediately. God, I feel like I’m back at Shady Pines, giving a little lecture to a couple of old women who thought that they were lesbians. Dementia related, of course. Speaking of, Rose,” Sophia continued, “You sure are getting dumber and dumber these days, you sure you ain’t coming down with Alzheimer’s?”
“No, no, no, never….” Rose looked perplexed, “What is that, anyway, “Old-timers.”
“Forget it,” Dorothy said. “Come on Ma, let’s go, we can’t be late.”
Then Blanch looked at the clock, “Oh, dear, I’ve got a date with that cute plumber, “Big Pipe” Peter, as I like to call him. He’s going to do some work….on me.”
Rose looked at the time, it was around three o’clock. She never had anything to do. If she would just have some other friends. If she would just have a sex life, no, not like Blanch and her rapturous, rampant, slutty life-for-getting laid existence—just a boyfriend to fool around with; watch a movie with; play doctor. Well, maybe she’d read a book, she thought, but Dorothy’s books are so hard to read, and I’ve already read most of mine. Hey, yeah, then she thought of it, she’d go to the library.
“I think I’ll go to the library,” she said.
“Sounds like a plan; now, I can almost see his plumber’s crack in my face right now. I got to scidatle. See you girls.”
“Bye,” Sophia said.
Dorothy smiled that big, “I’m the ugly one and I don’t care grin,” and waved.
Rose sat patiently on the couch for the bus to come. She waited and waited, and then realized--dumb me--she forgot to watch for the bus. She’d missed it, now what? Watch the tube. She turned on the television and searched for her pack of cigarettes. She’d started to smoke a few months ago. The girls didn’t know it, but she didn’t really care if they did. She was a rebel. She found them, went to the window to smoke, and then there was a knock, knock, knock at the door.
“Hey, it’s me Stan.”
“Stan! What are you doing here? I thought that you were going to stay away, that is, after Dorothy found out that we were worshiping….him..together?”
“Oh, the Satan thing, and my folie a deux delusions that I was transferring into your mind, that we were both Reptoid aliens secretly living in an underground base. Yeah, I know. That was an attempt at getting you to kill Dorothy for leaving me. I’m sorry. But who we were worshiping, well, he exists. His name is Lucifer, keeper of the light, come take his hand.” Stan extended his hand to Rose, who was becoming entranced in his eyes. Stan said, “I’ll be right back.” He ran out to his car to get his pentagram and candles. Oh, this was going to be good. Sure is. He was finally going to get Rose to kill that hooker through hypnotism. He was going to mesmerize that bitch into killing his ex-love and love forever after, Dorothy Patrillo, Spornak.
Stan burst through the door, “Here I am!”
“Here I am!” Rose said, naked as a baby, her nipples pointing at the ground. Gravity sucks. Actually, Newton was wrong, her tits were being pushed, not pulled through gravitational force.
“There you are!” He said, now confused, which was more important, to get his noodle wet, which never happened, or to convince Rose that Dorothy was a conspirator with the goal of killing everyone with secret potions. Ah, he could always do both. So, he jumped on the opportunity, picking Rose off her feet, and taking her to the bedroom where they discovered “Big Pipe” Peter and Blanch fucking in Rose’s bedroom.
“What is going on here?!” Rose protested in the midst of heat, anger though creeping in, up through her spinal column, inside her feeble mind, out her eyes, and through her nipples which were become red with rage.
“Sorry,” hee hee,” Blanch said with her southern charm.
“Yuh, um…sorry Hey, nice tits. Firmer than this hooker.” Peter said, with no conviction at all.
“Hmm….guess we’ll have to go to her room,” Stan said, pointing towards Blanch’s bed.
“Yeah, that’s what we’re going to do! You’re right Stan,” So they both took one another’s hand and waltzed into Blanch’s room. And all this while Rose was butt naked.
Stan stuck his hand inside her ass crack, felt her puckered asshole, testing to see how much spit he would have to apply for easy entry. About this much, he thought as he brought his hand near his mouth, spit a bunch of mucus and spit mixture (just the right amount now. Dude was fifty six. Knew what he was doing), then he finger fucked Rose’s asshole for a few minutes, then he stuck two, then three, then Four! then FIVE! fingers up her poop shoot.
“Oh, my God! That compares only to, only to George, my ex-husband, and he was hung like a horse; hey, let me see your pee-pee.”
“What did you call my cock?”
“Pee-pee.” It’s one of those play names that Charlie and I used when we were having sex. Just you remind me so much of him, anyway, let me see you penis.”
Stan coughed as though he was uncomfortable, as he unzipped his trousers only to reveal a very tiny uncircumcised dick. Something an asian dude would laugh at. “Here it is, don’t laugh,”
But she started to giggled, she couldn’t help it. “Don’t laugh bitch!”
“Hee heee!” she fell into full-blown laughter as Stan’s penis twitched once, twice, then drooped down again like an injured caterpillar.
“Stop laughing, alright, that’s it….I’m leaving, and the hell with my present to you.”
Rose sobered, “I’m sorry, Stan. I guess I just got carried away, what is it you have for me.” Rose was always one for presents.
“No,” Stan said as he walked through the bedroom door, grabbed his jacket, looked at the time to see that it was five o’clock
“Oh, my,” he said, “I’ve got to get the hell over to Nilda’s house. That Philippine gal sure makes me smile, and good longganisa. Damn good adobo too. She’s also where I got this aphrodisiac I was going to give to you…..forget it.” By this time Rose was fully dressed and about to wave goodbye to Stan, but if he really had what she wanted for so very long: a love potion, yes, she could have Miles for all time.
“Ok, bye, maybe I’ll see you soon?” Rose asked.
“Oh, ok. Nice asshole by the way.” And with that Stan was out the door, but only to bump into Dorothy and Sophia on the way out.
“Stanly Sbornak! What are you doing here?” Dorothy scowled and hissed.
“Sorry, just leavin, takin’ a plane actually.”
Sophia raised he old arms as if she were Mussolini speaking to a crowd, “Well why don’t you leave on a jet plane, and I don’t care when you’ll be back again. Maybe never Tiny, he heh….Dorothy told me all about that.”
“Why me!? I’m going to kill you Dorothy, mark my words.” Stan said as he stomped his way to his car.
As the evening turned into night and Blanch was yet to be seen, they were all not very worried, given the obvious fact that Blanch was an easy-lay-me-on-my-back-please, good ol’ fashioned Southern slut. Sophia was busy making spaghetti sauce while Rose and Dorothy were eating cheese cake, and for the second week straight, drinking scotch.
“Hey, ma d-da-da you wanna know the truth about my feelings about you. I love you, and I’ll never send you to Shady Pines.”
“Thank you dear. If I could have a drink I would, but the doctor has warned me about my liver, you know.”
Rose smiled, “Back in St. Olef there were no such things as “homes” and even livers, aside from, well, chicken livers that I used to eat, but my daddy used to take fishing. Said they were great for bass….”
“Shut up Rose!” Dorothy interjected, to the audience’s delight.
“Sorry,” Rose said.
Sophia walked over with a spoon full of sauce and threw it at Rose, “Here, here’s a message from Sicily. Shut the fuck up! or we’ll blow your brains out.”
“Hey!” Rose protested in comic joy, actually. “How do you know that the Italians would say that to me?”
“Because that’s what they said to my brother who always told dumb fables and tales and other stories that don’t matter and are probably not true.”
And then Blanch walked in, her hair all messed up, her lipstick smeared, her shirt torn a bit.
“Who, big surprise!” Sophia said.
“No, it’s not what it looks like, and this nasty spermatozoa ain’t what it seems either. It’s colgate toothpaste. “Big Pete” and me spent eight our repairing some woman’s toilet. And then he had the indignity to expect a kiss from me? Of course not, I just gave him a quick blow job, but that was it.”
“Like I said, surprise surprise.” Sophia retorted.
Rose smiled, picked up her drink and said, “well here’s to predictability. Kind of like the laugh-lines on our shows!”
“Hey, don’t say that?” Dorothy said.
“Why not?” Rose said.
“Because that would ruin…oh, never mind. I’ve got a date tomorrow with Bernie Rubble.”
“Bernie Rubble?” Sophia said.
Then Blanch said, “Bernie Rubble, hey, I knew you were working with apes livin’ in the stone age, but that’s taking it a bit too far.”
Dorothy took her last bite of cake, got up with her empty plate, and said to Blanch, “He’s better than Big Top Pee Wee, the man’s a lawyer, credentials..possibly a judge some day. I like him, I don’t care anyway.”
“Really?” Sophia said, “Well I guess I got some place nice to live if you two get married.”
“’Shady Pines’ mean anything?” Dorothy said as she put the plate in the sink.
Then Rose smiled and said, “You know girls, we all have a lot of fun, we always have.”
“What’s your point, Rose?” Sophia said.
“I got cancer,” Rose said.
To be continued (maybe)
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