Orders from Central Command:
Get your shit in order son.
Report to Iraq.
Report to Iraq soon.
Since receiving this news, I've had a constant hard on. It's become a bit bothersome. Don't get the wrong idea, Tricky Dick's not some relentless trunk of wood, he's just a very light, very restless sleeper.
My tastes have gone from refined to having ankles turn me on. Any flash of flesh and hint of eyeball will suffice. Slender thigh meat makes me salivate. Ass cheeks can't be too big or too bony for my fascination. All I see is the sexual nature of all women who pass within my vision.
Women with babies, born and unborn, athletic women, wheelchair women, noneck women, tired women, put upon women, chirpy women, savage women, ditzy women, pale, dark, yellow, spotted, giraffe-like, chipmunk tail, women of all shapes all ages and all sizes constantly call out for my attention, as long as the woman has some redeeming attractive quality, my dick is game.
She could be picket fence toothed and silverbacked but if she's got creamy long legs-Wood.
Long neck with an ET forehead and skis for feet but her eyes are amber jewels perched atop pillowy DSL's-Wood.
Man hands and Popeye legs but a slender waist peppered with freckles topped with floating milk bags-Woooooood.
As you can see, even horrid women garner my attention. Put a dime piece at my nose and watch me soar like a rocket tied to two useless flaps of flesh.
My perceptual awareness is also under constant barrage. I say thank you to someone who replies "Anytime" and that word stretches out into a loaded and bloated mass of innuendo sodden with all types of dirty endless possibilities. Every mouth is an invitation. Smiles are dark and sensuous. Hellos are insistent demands for the vigor of my stroke. Even inattention is nothing more than a furtive demand of “grab a handful of my hair and take me! Who cares if I've got three kids I'm screaming at and I'm trying to argue with the post office lady. I can see you out of the corner of my eye and its taking all my will power not to rip off my clothes. Take me! Take me! I need a roll of Forever Stamps!”
Don’t even think to ask what my dreams are like.
I’ll let you know when or if this new reality subsides.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A Twisted bit of Political Whateva
It's been said by some close to Hillary Clinton that she truly believes Obama cannot win the election come November.
That may be more true now than ever but not for the reasons she states. She argues he is the weaker candidate and that he cannont win even though he has won more states and more of the popular vote and more superdelegates have declared for him since super Tuesday.
If she were to follow her own logic, then why wouldn't she be trying harder (as in nicer) to get the Veep spot, ensuring Democratic victory? If she is truly the strongest between them, knowing she can't make the nomination (as she surely realizes), shouldn't she be fighting to form the winning ticket? I see in the Clintons, the spirit of winning at all cost, which is evident in how easily lies flow from out their mouths, even their daughter has begun earning her namesake.
Clinton mouths are blackholes where truth gets sucked in and cannot escape.
No, instead she is knee capping her opponent, doing her damnedest to ensure he can't win in November. One can only suppose her behavior is geared for an opening to run next election cycle. It is also possible that there is no next time for her. She may feel this is make or break and she must exhaust all measures.
I think the most ridiculous attacks against the Democratic front runner come straight out of the Clinton camp. When they are called out about their harsh intraparty attacks, their standard response is "well if Obama can't take attacks in the Primary, just wait for what the Republicans will do". The unspoken proposition in that refrain is -Our attacks are just as vitriolic as the Republicans-.
Perfect example is this latest episode of how McCain AND Shrillary are both echoing the same attacks against Obama. Bittergate.
I would be lying if I didn't write that this whole ordeal between Obama and BitchFaceWhoreMouth doesn't bode well for McCain. Simply because Clinton's ability to draw Obama into petty arguments diminishes his original appeal. She has taken his shine and covered it with her own purient shit so that now he appears less dignified than McCain.
McCain now looks presidential, until you watch him speak (I mean read his lines) or until you see him try to raise his arms above armpit level. Sad puppet.
My ORF (One Republican Friend) is now more confident than ever that the R's will take back the houses and the Presidency.
My ORF, coincidentally is also my One Retarded Friend.
That may be more true now than ever but not for the reasons she states. She argues he is the weaker candidate and that he cannont win even though he has won more states and more of the popular vote and more superdelegates have declared for him since super Tuesday.
If she were to follow her own logic, then why wouldn't she be trying harder (as in nicer) to get the Veep spot, ensuring Democratic victory? If she is truly the strongest between them, knowing she can't make the nomination (as she surely realizes), shouldn't she be fighting to form the winning ticket? I see in the Clintons, the spirit of winning at all cost, which is evident in how easily lies flow from out their mouths, even their daughter has begun earning her namesake.
Clinton mouths are blackholes where truth gets sucked in and cannot escape.
No, instead she is knee capping her opponent, doing her damnedest to ensure he can't win in November. One can only suppose her behavior is geared for an opening to run next election cycle. It is also possible that there is no next time for her. She may feel this is make or break and she must exhaust all measures.
I think the most ridiculous attacks against the Democratic front runner come straight out of the Clinton camp. When they are called out about their harsh intraparty attacks, their standard response is "well if Obama can't take attacks in the Primary, just wait for what the Republicans will do". The unspoken proposition in that refrain is -Our attacks are just as vitriolic as the Republicans-.
Perfect example is this latest episode of how McCain AND Shrillary are both echoing the same attacks against Obama. Bittergate.
I would be lying if I didn't write that this whole ordeal between Obama and BitchFaceWhoreMouth doesn't bode well for McCain. Simply because Clinton's ability to draw Obama into petty arguments diminishes his original appeal. She has taken his shine and covered it with her own purient shit so that now he appears less dignified than McCain.
McCain now looks presidential, until you watch him speak (I mean read his lines) or until you see him try to raise his arms above armpit level. Sad puppet.
My ORF (One Republican Friend) is now more confident than ever that the R's will take back the houses and the Presidency.
My ORF, coincidentally is also my One Retarded Friend.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Butthole Whores Articulate Something Momentous
What I am about to write is purely unscientific speculation but I will type on none the less.
My conjecture is that porn is shifting and sorting due in part to the internet. I know, way to go out on a limb there on that speculation, says you.
Read on.
The internet is not the reason, yet merely a tool turning the brush of desire against the engine, transforming it with every touch of every perverted and covetous click of a mouse. The reason has more to do with people using the internet as a medium, a means of mass communication.
Porn used to be a semi-one way street with the peddlers fashioning the latest craze and waiting to see what people would buy. People are now driving attention and $$$$ to websites, creating markets out of what used to be niche or fetish, relentlessly changing the shape of the animal with the curiosity of their desires in the form of mouse clicks.
The advent of real-core is a straightforward manifestation of that which I speak. When web cams and amateur vids found their way onto the net, guerilla style, their popularity had the porn industry scrambling at ways to profit. The porn industry sought to manufacture real-core material, manufacture being the operative word.
Real-core paysites popped up all over. Web cam barely legal girls looked amazingly familiar, as if they’d been seen in 20 or 30 other paysites and maybe they appeared more used and abused than fresh from the farm. Butthole virgins amazingly took big pole monsters quite well for their supposed rookie status to their anal adventures.
Another example would be that of the tattooed variety. Somewhere along the line, an interest was shown in women that had a different look and then, all of a sudden, you couldn’t click through the net without seeing Suicide Girls, Tattooed Cum Sluts, Alternateens or anything of the like. Even Vivid assembled VividAlt, an arm of the studio dedicated to creating alternative porn.
I believe the studios have it wrong. They still operate on the assumption of craze and fad. They misinterpret the need expressed in the various morphing of their chosen market. When VividAlt was born, one could almost imagine someone at Vivid saying “this is the new thing—this is what they want now. Why doesn't that bitch have a clit ring? Can't we find a cum drinker with a 666 tatted on her guzzler?”
The various ventures of Real-core, Gangbang, Ass To Mouth, B&D, S& M, Web-cam, Amateurism, Barely Legal, Cutie Cutters and not least, other Fetish types, as well as the obvious rejection of plastic tits, rubber faces, fake orgasms, contrived situations and just flat out phony people give us something to ponder.
Coursing through all of the varieties of smut I just named are moments like the bent awkward look, a genuinely pained face, an actually perky mound of flesh, visible and believable enjoyment in the filmed action—the crucial component is the pure experience of authenticity.
The rejection of the fake and disingenuous is a rallying cry “give us something real”. This, I believe, is what people are after.
I also believe this craving for authenticity is behind the shifting tides of mostly every aspect of society in relation to mass media.
That's why Hillary Clinton, with her fake crying and her contrived life, will never ever win my vote.
OBAMA!
My conjecture is that porn is shifting and sorting due in part to the internet. I know, way to go out on a limb there on that speculation, says you.
Read on.
The internet is not the reason, yet merely a tool turning the brush of desire against the engine, transforming it with every touch of every perverted and covetous click of a mouse. The reason has more to do with people using the internet as a medium, a means of mass communication.
Porn used to be a semi-one way street with the peddlers fashioning the latest craze and waiting to see what people would buy. People are now driving attention and $$$$ to websites, creating markets out of what used to be niche or fetish, relentlessly changing the shape of the animal with the curiosity of their desires in the form of mouse clicks.
The advent of real-core is a straightforward manifestation of that which I speak. When web cams and amateur vids found their way onto the net, guerilla style, their popularity had the porn industry scrambling at ways to profit. The porn industry sought to manufacture real-core material, manufacture being the operative word.
Real-core paysites popped up all over. Web cam barely legal girls looked amazingly familiar, as if they’d been seen in 20 or 30 other paysites and maybe they appeared more used and abused than fresh from the farm. Butthole virgins amazingly took big pole monsters quite well for their supposed rookie status to their anal adventures.
Another example would be that of the tattooed variety. Somewhere along the line, an interest was shown in women that had a different look and then, all of a sudden, you couldn’t click through the net without seeing Suicide Girls, Tattooed Cum Sluts, Alternateens or anything of the like. Even Vivid assembled VividAlt, an arm of the studio dedicated to creating alternative porn.
I believe the studios have it wrong. They still operate on the assumption of craze and fad. They misinterpret the need expressed in the various morphing of their chosen market. When VividAlt was born, one could almost imagine someone at Vivid saying “this is the new thing—this is what they want now. Why doesn't that bitch have a clit ring? Can't we find a cum drinker with a 666 tatted on her guzzler?”
The various ventures of Real-core, Gangbang, Ass To Mouth, B&D, S& M, Web-cam, Amateurism, Barely Legal, Cutie Cutters and not least, other Fetish types, as well as the obvious rejection of plastic tits, rubber faces, fake orgasms, contrived situations and just flat out phony people give us something to ponder.
Coursing through all of the varieties of smut I just named are moments like the bent awkward look, a genuinely pained face, an actually perky mound of flesh, visible and believable enjoyment in the filmed action—the crucial component is the pure experience of authenticity.
The rejection of the fake and disingenuous is a rallying cry “give us something real”. This, I believe, is what people are after.
I also believe this craving for authenticity is behind the shifting tides of mostly every aspect of society in relation to mass media.
That's why Hillary Clinton, with her fake crying and her contrived life, will never ever win my vote.
OBAMA!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Crabby Bitch Face Whore Mouth
There is this girl at work.
She is a married, mother of a one year old daughter.
Crabby Bitch Face Whore Mouth is what I call her if she doesn’t gets her cool-aid.
Her cool-aid usually comes in the form of any stimulant whether it be coffee, nicotine or a fat pig-snort of cocaine off a baby’s back. She is so dependant on stimulants that anytime she is not taking the nerve altering substances down her gullet, she throws up hate on everything and everyone.
Sometimes I wonder about her.
She can be as bright and dark as a razor.
Speaking of, the other day, she took a subtle interest in a conversation about Cutters. I asked her what she thought about it. The red face told me all I needed to know. Now, I tease her every chance I get. I turn every conversation back to the Cut.
"Can you pass me a pen" she'll ask.
To which I reply, "Sorry, but how bout this razor. We'll just make your skin my notepad today."
"Why are people such idiots" she'll scream.
"Does that make you want to cut" I'll needle.
"Hey fucktard, what are you eating today"
"I was thinking of ordering some Razor Whore Salad"
After much ball-busting, she finally admitted that she thinks about it sometimes. It was a real conversation. Neither of us held back.
Now, everyday, I obsess about violating her.
She is a married, mother of a one year old daughter.
Crabby Bitch Face Whore Mouth is what I call her if she doesn’t gets her cool-aid.
Her cool-aid usually comes in the form of any stimulant whether it be coffee, nicotine or a fat pig-snort of cocaine off a baby’s back. She is so dependant on stimulants that anytime she is not taking the nerve altering substances down her gullet, she throws up hate on everything and everyone.
Sometimes I wonder about her.
She can be as bright and dark as a razor.
Speaking of, the other day, she took a subtle interest in a conversation about Cutters. I asked her what she thought about it. The red face told me all I needed to know. Now, I tease her every chance I get. I turn every conversation back to the Cut.
"Can you pass me a pen" she'll ask.
To which I reply, "Sorry, but how bout this razor. We'll just make your skin my notepad today."
"Why are people such idiots" she'll scream.
"Does that make you want to cut" I'll needle.
"Hey fucktard, what are you eating today"
"I was thinking of ordering some Razor Whore Salad"
After much ball-busting, she finally admitted that she thinks about it sometimes. It was a real conversation. Neither of us held back.
Now, everyday, I obsess about violating her.
The Wild
I’ve been sleepless.
The sun goes up and down, leaving no tracks in the sky.
I glance at a window and feel little whether it’s bathed in light or deepened by night.
I’ve been hollow.
There was a time when I couldn’t contain myself.
Calm days were so few.
In the combustion of youth, my will was a tangle of strings holding back a woodland thing.
Then, the liberation which led to days without any sleep.
Came a time, it didn’t return.
Now I’m somehow lost without that noise in my ears.
Sitting in my car, driving home, staring out the window, searching.
The sun goes up and down, leaving no tracks in the sky.
I glance at a window and feel little whether it’s bathed in light or deepened by night.
I’ve been hollow.
There was a time when I couldn’t contain myself.
Calm days were so few.
In the combustion of youth, my will was a tangle of strings holding back a woodland thing.
Then, the liberation which led to days without any sleep.
Came a time, it didn’t return.
Now I’m somehow lost without that noise in my ears.
Sitting in my car, driving home, staring out the window, searching.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Tubes of a Leviathan
Something terrible is stirring in the dark heart of everywhere.
I cringe to think that I may be eternally plugged in.
Tapping into a source that feeds back into me.
It takes even more than it gives.
I am a slave to it.
I belong to it.
I felt myself to be the master.
Now everyday it feeds on my mind.
Everyday I grow a little more insubstantial.
I'll save you a seat.
I cringe to think that I may be eternally plugged in.
Tapping into a source that feeds back into me.
It takes even more than it gives.
I am a slave to it.
I belong to it.
I felt myself to be the master.
Now everyday it feeds on my mind.
Everyday I grow a little more insubstantial.
I'll save you a seat.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Just Killing My Ideas
Say something to yourself in the quiet light
Tell a tale ten times of unrepentant boredom.
Someone says in words typed out on paper . . .
go to Washington, D.C.
Shit.
Tell a tale ten times of unrepentant boredom.
Someone says in words typed out on paper . . .
go to Washington, D.C.
Shit.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Vespers
I make my way down the broken path
Blackened rough and ragged
Stretched out like a dried out
Magma River
An amber flash beams my wants to attention
And I obey
Turning my rocket mind
Inside out
The Avatar beckons
And I obey
Approaching the Temple
A wary sinner
I unscrew open
Metal and plastic place of prayer
My choices three
A trinity of divinity pouring
As a spider weaves her silk across
She freezes at my finger
I press a Premium button
The Temple words flash
"Begin Pumping"
"Begin Pumping"
"Begin Pumping"
And I obey
Filled up,
Driving away,
I am at peace.
Blackened rough and ragged
Stretched out like a dried out
Magma River
An amber flash beams my wants to attention
And I obey
Turning my rocket mind
Inside out
The Avatar beckons
And I obey
Approaching the Temple
A wary sinner
I unscrew open
Metal and plastic place of prayer
My choices three
A trinity of divinity pouring
As a spider weaves her silk across
She freezes at my finger
I press a Premium button
The Temple words flash
"Begin Pumping"
"Begin Pumping"
"Begin Pumping"
And I obey
Filled up,
Driving away,
I am at peace.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Sort-of Typing
When writing, the most trouble I've ever had is finding a way to hold back or not to hold back.
How much is too much?
Am I revealing too much about myself?
Am I being too honest?
Not honest enough?
Should I even be writing?
Will these words hurt someone close to me?
Mostly, it's an inner conflict between the athletic, slutty, asshole I'm known as and the poet no one reads (my own damned fault because I show NO ONE my poetry).
I remember submitting an application for mail clerk, to my hometown newspaper, hoping I'd wedge my way into a staff writer position.
Until I met actual writers.
Most of the journalists and editors at my hometown paper were a stiff kick in the nads of my romantic self-image of the rebel writer-not at all how I viewed my favorite authors or myself.
These guys were pallid, balding and trollish in their appearance and just as unappealing in their manner. Most didn't have time for a young kid curious about the inner workings of creativity in regards to keeping the flow of words an irresistible feast or, at least, an appealing snack, for the brain.
One of those guys told me "there's no such thing as becoming a writer, you either are or you're not. After that, it's practice".
Back then, I was as serious about my writing as I was about pussy, risk-taking and living free of regret. Standing in the newsroom, looking at that sad handful of professional writers, I realized how little any of my interests were represented at that paper. As I figured that a town's newspaper is a reflection of it consumers (my hometown), I realized I was pondering a cross section that did not bode well for my future.
I never became a professional writer, in the sense of receipt of pay for tip-tap-typing away all day and part of the reason has to do with my experience on that day; A moment in time when I was blessed with a view of what lay years ahead on one possible tangent of my future. Another reason is that I was restless in that tiny town and wanted to see the world (I've seen pieces of it).
Since then, I've always wrestled with a way to integrate my personal self-image with the literary track I've chosen. At the times when this contest is at its most tense, I find it hard to write about any thing. Then, at some impasse, the impregnation of ideas and voices I've been holding back reaches a crescendo and I will not stop my fingers from the tip-tap-typing.
I will continue to write.
Thanks to RC and Boris for the encouragement. It means too much to me.
How much is too much?
Am I revealing too much about myself?
Am I being too honest?
Not honest enough?
Should I even be writing?
Will these words hurt someone close to me?
Mostly, it's an inner conflict between the athletic, slutty, asshole I'm known as and the poet no one reads (my own damned fault because I show NO ONE my poetry).
I remember submitting an application for mail clerk, to my hometown newspaper, hoping I'd wedge my way into a staff writer position.
Until I met actual writers.
Most of the journalists and editors at my hometown paper were a stiff kick in the nads of my romantic self-image of the rebel writer-not at all how I viewed my favorite authors or myself.
These guys were pallid, balding and trollish in their appearance and just as unappealing in their manner. Most didn't have time for a young kid curious about the inner workings of creativity in regards to keeping the flow of words an irresistible feast or, at least, an appealing snack, for the brain.
One of those guys told me "there's no such thing as becoming a writer, you either are or you're not. After that, it's practice".
Back then, I was as serious about my writing as I was about pussy, risk-taking and living free of regret. Standing in the newsroom, looking at that sad handful of professional writers, I realized how little any of my interests were represented at that paper. As I figured that a town's newspaper is a reflection of it consumers (my hometown), I realized I was pondering a cross section that did not bode well for my future.
I never became a professional writer, in the sense of receipt of pay for tip-tap-typing away all day and part of the reason has to do with my experience on that day; A moment in time when I was blessed with a view of what lay years ahead on one possible tangent of my future. Another reason is that I was restless in that tiny town and wanted to see the world (I've seen pieces of it).
Since then, I've always wrestled with a way to integrate my personal self-image with the literary track I've chosen. At the times when this contest is at its most tense, I find it hard to write about any thing. Then, at some impasse, the impregnation of ideas and voices I've been holding back reaches a crescendo and I will not stop my fingers from the tip-tap-typing.
I will continue to write.
Thanks to RC and Boris for the encouragement. It means too much to me.
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