Miracles- The Clowns Don't Lie.

Let me tell you something.


If you have a whim, humor it.

I'll tell you I'm nearing an unexpected success story, after all this time spent fucking with disaster.


It's like this:

Somebody found the cure for cancer with AIDs. They cancel each other out.

Now the Hospice is going out of business.

It's a fucking miracle- more impressive than any magnet.


So chin up, Heavy Heart, you're going to be just fine.


And if all it goes to Hell, at least we'll both keep warm by brimstone.

Real True Romance

It's pretty fucking easy to be romantic when you have the lighting set right, the flowers on the bed, the gift-wrapped dildo engraved with both your names, the picnic, the horses, the beach sex where she doesn't mention the sand in her puss and you don't mention that your dick is exfoliated, the french restaurant with the El Salvadorian cooks, the confessions of undying love underneath satin sheets while your other baby is texting you the color of their skanky panties.


Yes it's very easy to be romantic like that.


But that isn't romance at all. That's just Hallmark conditioning love. And that's fine. That's very nice to do once in a while. But that just isn't really romance.


You know, if we end up in a motel 6 together, with a dead guy in the pool, a sleeping puerto-rican gangster on the ottoman, and 10,000 dollars we don't ever remember having before last night, that'll be romance. If we can kiss each other and taste vomit without flinching, THAT is romance. If we can throw up on each other in the shower, THAT is romance. If you hold back my hair while I'm dry heaving in the bathtub and still have the mind to play with a titty, THAT is romance. If I give you a blumpkin.... THAT'S STRAIGHT UP LOVE.


You should still take me out to some place fucking expensive though. Red Lobster style.

Stupid or Sexy... Not STUPID sexy. Stupid.

Hey.

It's hard to be sexy when you like stupid everything. 

I'm going to lay it out for you like this:

When we met, I didn't want to make you laugh

I just wanted to get your dick hard. Funny girls don't get dicks hard. So I didn't want to be too funny.

Because that's what matters. Because I like you like that- but I would never say anything. You get bored, you told me so, that girls come and go by the time the next month rolls on by. 

I wanted to thrill you. With ambiguity. With your erection. Shit... the possibility of it popping up is enough to satisfy me. ( But not SASSIFY me )

I sincerely wanted to get your dick hard. Out of love. If it had been lust... I would have just made you sit across from me and Sharon Stoned you. But I didn't want to do that. I wanted to elicit a meaningful erection from you. Not a cheap and dirty hard dick. An attentive hard dick. 

Tell me... if you had met me and I had on overalls and walked like I had a sawed-off shotgun in my pant leg ( boot? I wasn't wearing pants.) then started spitting nonsensical rhymes about thighs eyes and pussy sighs while fellatiating a tootsie pop with somebody else's baby on my hip, you probably wouldn't have taken me out again. 

But I'm pretty sure you would have laughed. 

I've grown. Matured. I've realized that my love of stupid is innate and impossible to ignore. Stupid is funny. Smart stupid is even better. But stupid is always easier.

I'm sorry BooBoo, but I want to make you laugh AND give you meaningful erections.

But I can't give you anything hip or cool or culturally significant. I don't know what I should be wearing since what I'm wearing now is SO two years ago. I don't have a scene and nobody knows me.

All I've got is pussy, giggles, and casseroles.

But so much love. For you. And your glorious, kind, and undoubtedly beautiful penis. So much love. 

Now take it before I throw it in the goddamn garbage and some hobo finds it and claims me as his own. 

What Saran Said

I was sitting out back the other night, nursing a poor man's drink, when my neighbor stepped outside to have a cigarette. She sat down next to me and we had a talk.


Saran is not somebody that I would have met if it hadn't been for the virtue of situational circumstance. I'm sure she would say the same thing. She is a sorority girl and I am hardly a lady. She is the peachiest of any peach I've ever had the pleasure of talking to.  I am a lecherous old homosexual man in a 22 year old girl body.


We were talking and we started glossing over our love lives, as girls are prone to do in the midnight hour. Our romantic exploits could not possibly have been more different. But we came to the same conclusion three cigarettes later.

Both of us believe in love. I felt pretty stupid about it. She felt pretty stupid about it. But then we brought it up. And it was such a relief to know that somebody else is on your team when the modern world makes you feel like an asshole for believing such a thing. It's good to have a friend when you're fighting against the logic of the masses.

So the next time you have a chance to chit chat with a sorority girl... Do it. You can't imagine how good it feels to have a Phi Mu back your shit up, whatever your shit may be.

Anchor

anchored in

the ocean of

your eyes


my ship

will brave

the storm

victorious.  


Faraway

strains the

salt-stained

chains


If they break,

I will drown,

driftwood defeated

by a tempest.

Domestic Brought Back

This series of pictures were some of my favorites and in a fit of frustration and practicality, I deleted them, along with a whole bunch of other good ones. I decided to bring them back because this is exactly how I would like you to remember me. Half-naked in the kitchen begging to make you a sandwich. 

How about a lobster roll?

Slightly Effeminate Men versus Your "Machoman Randy Savage" Men

It's time to appreciate slightly effeminate men, for there are many of them and some of them do deserve celebration. 

It is also time to put down "Machoman Randy Savage" Men.  Because those guys are the worst and they don't know how to tickle the southern ivories worth a tit's shit.

There is nothing that I like more than a not-so-macho guy who can come to into my room and beat up my womb.

And not a 90 pound POW either. That's just ridiculous. You're just letting those guys hold you down- if you struggle, he'll fall off the bed and break all his bones. 

A SEM can't be a little bitch. Just... more attentive to his appearance, which is lithe in nature. He should have played some kind of sport as some point in time. Then decided to get a little more pussy with tighter jeans, slicker shoes, and longer hair. 

If you haven't tried getting pounded by a SEM, I recommend it. Those artistic types tend to get a lot of pussy, and while not all of them are really apt to stroke the cat, the ones who are can become your Caravaggio and paint you wet with one good bad touch. 

The macho men... well, I have to be honest with you folks, I've never actually had the pleasure of crying in the dark underneath of a muscle-milk experiment gone wrong. 

But I imagine that my rule for SEM would be the exact opposite for MRS men. MRS men probably become little sniveling bitches in the coitus mode. Their sighs jump a few octaves once you touch their howdy-doody dick.  They ask you if you're okay till you're definitely not okay. 

If they keep the MRS persona though, they're just going to copy whatever they see while they jerk off to porno. You'll get a lot of hectic thrusting without any rhythm, a lot of Kool-Aid guy "OH YEAHS", some gorilla-shit groaning and a teeny peeny that squirts sick slow spunk all over your disappointed face. 

MIND YOU: an MRS guy can also dress like a SEM. Don't be fooled- this is an MRS guy who got how to get pussy. SEM might also be jacked and wearing sweatpants- but this is FAR less common. 

Prove me wrong. Give me one night with an MRS guy who has the necessary emotional intelligence to fuck a girl right and I will stop touching myself in record stores and coffee shops. 

Prostitots

Man I am CONCERNED.

Ladies, you need listen up.


It's hard to be a lady; you got hooka-hos and other bitches you gotta constantly be on your toes for. You got every kind of style in every kind of magazine telling you that you don't look good enough and you'll never get good enough to keep a man from running around town with a better lookin hooka-ho.


But it's gotten worse Ladies, it's gotten bad.

Not only did we have the Better Lookin Bitches to mind, now we have Prostitots to watch out for. Ain't can't be competing with Prostitots! Look at this shit:

THIS SHIT


Unbelievable. Even I'm getting a little bit aroused looking at this little girl. Bitch wants it and doesn't even know what it is. She's 10 fucking years old. How the fuck-I can't...I feel like a wrinkled pair of spanx.


Shit is CRAZY ladies! You have toddlers in lucite and teenagers with plastic titty meat making your 20-something look like an aesthetic hospice. Little girls are getting sexy quick and Men can't resist the allure of a 9 year old whore playing with a barbie doll at the foot of the bed.


What can we do?

At the rate this girls are going, they'll be sucking dick like a meth-lab stripper by the time they hit puberty.

Can't compete- hopefully, they're too young to know about condoms, so they'll end up pregnant with herpes.

How To Make Slavery O.K.

Woah there.

Lets not ruffle our feathers.

Hear me out.


I don't think that we should enslave a bunch of people based or sex, religion, or race or anything like that. That's the worst kind of malignant nonsense there is.

But I think that it should be perfectly legal to ride a horse bareback through Hollywood and burlap sack whatever reality TV star or general fame whore you see walking around.

The thing is, they have to contribute negatively to society in order to be eligible for slavery. They have to be making millions off of their mercilessly shallow existence for absolutely no reason. The things they produce must actually subtract from the value of our culture. I won't name names because it fuels the fire, but I'm sure you can think up of one or two famous asses.


So what would happen is that you'd have to haul in your capture to a local Fame Whore office of some sort, where they would be evaluated. I know some of you are just gonna hop on a horse and snatch an actor or musician you want to fuck.

No. I'm talking labor. That's just rape, what you're thinking about. I'm not condoning rape. Not yet.

So okay, you get this meaningless celebrity and it's approved by the Fame Whore offices.

Once that happens, all their rights as human beings are revoked. Now if, by some chance, they manage to produce something worthwhile during their slavery, that product gets evaluated by the Fame Whore office and they are either denied or granted freedom.

In terms of escape... well... if they can make it back to Hollywood and find an agent, you lose all property rights. But if you catch them...well... you can go take them to The Gathering as punishment. Leave them there and exchange them for a juggalo.


I think that this rooting of fame whores will surely allow show business to once again become a business run by integrity and cultural altruism.

Eloquence? Mufuckin rite.

Nyohmygad-

Nuh-uh.


Get out of my head and into your car and drive away.


Momma thinks I'm a ho cuz of you ( cuz of me too but cuz of you mostly ). Why don't you pay me next time? Least then I can take myself out to dinner.

Even though I let you up in my jingle-jangle poppin-fresh sugar walls without making you do shit for me. MY BAD- SORRY.


Power trip gonna make you slip over your own damn shoelaces. Even if you ain't got none cuz you don't wear shoelaced shoes.


All I want is to find somebody who looks like you, sounds like you, suck a titty like you, and stalks me on the internet too.  Why ain't you be up on my shit?

GET UP ON MY SHIT IF YOU GONNA MAKE MY MOMMA THINK IMA HO.


I want a man who says to me, "Bitch, I love you. I want to start fights with Albanians who look in your general direction. Your face makes my dick smile. You write super-good. Lemme have you fix me some pancakes. Talk dirty to me in that Long-Island jew voice you like to do- fuck, thinking about it gets me hard.  Let's make a baby and name is Carlisle. Lemme sing at you like an off-key Dean Martin- now get wet slut."

Best get on it QUICK before I find Eunice T. Kawosky. I know he's waitin on me at a rest stop somewhere.

Wordrection.

I want to give everybody a Wordrection.


I want you to read something I've written

and feel your mind shape-shift into a

massive penis, engorged with

thoughts and pulsing with emotion.

Cup your ball sack brimming with ideas then

watch your mind-cock explode into a messy epiphany.


Filthy-You're absolutely filthy, covered in nouns and adverbs.


Go get yourself a towel and clean that nonsense off your tits.

Need Management

I had an unrestricted childhood.


I didn't have to go to any club meets or practices or organized hobbies. No 4H or sunday school or soccer practice or chemistry club. Not for this little bear cub-no sir.

I decided to sell clay figurines of people's dogs when I was 8ish. I made friendship bracelets for myself and I made tiny paper cranes out of decorative paper then covered them in clear nail polish and made them into earrings. Everything I did, I did for me. I did for profit. I wanted to buy snow globes. And I did. I bought the fuck out of some snow globes.

That was the last time that I can remember where I had made something of myself.

Well, now I've got nothing. I've got no organizational skills to speak of. I don't even have any more snow globes.

But I can still make those dog statues. Only those dog statues are metaphors now. Sexy sassy hip metaphors.


I need somebody who can manage all of my affairs for me. I need somebody who can see the fact that I am a profitable source, waiting to be syphoned by several different corporate mouths. I am too ridiculous too do this.

Look, the only reason I might say that my creativity and word bonanzas are priceless is because there isn't an asking price. Rich people don't know I exist.

And the ones who do are painfully shy. Probably.


OR ELSE GET AT ME. Or does my ART offend you?! Frivolous philistine-back to your cave.


I need a person to who knows everybody who wants me to know these same people. Who wants to make them buy all the non-products I have to offer so that a we can swim in a pool of crude oil together.


I would sleep with this person. Preferably, they would be male. But I will also make love to a woman with strong arms. There's no better way to establish an outstanding business partnership than through DADT fucking. This has been true since the dawn of P.R.


But look- if you're great with business, you like my writings, you like my titty-meat ( R.I.P. PATRICE), you aren't rucking fetarded or anything like that, then please...manage me somehow... I don't really know how.


Negotiate with the Devil for me please.

Long Hair, Don't Care

Long Hair,

Don't Care-


Why did you

bother to say

Hello again?


I thought your lips

quit my name

after sunrise.


You are a

familiar plague,

born of

reluctant

hope.

Camel Toe: The Magazine ( Patent Pending )

I never thought I would find inspiration in Cosmo, (other than being inspired to think up of various euphemisms for genitals) but I did.


I'd like to start a magazine as a counterpart to Cosmo- Camel Toe.


You see, Cosmo is marketed towards fun and fearless females. Fashionistas and go-getting sassy gals who can ride a dick like an Indian Prince rides an elephant. Women who have careers and a vibrator. Wonderful women. Women with their shit not only together, but rose-scented and tinted magenta-lavender.


Camel Toe would be a magazine for bitter, overweight, desperate but uselessly hopeful women. This is a magazine for the generation of girls who grew up reading and believing the Twilight Myth, only to grow up into stern-faced secretaries who only have their abortion receipt to remind them of their love affair with a pale cannibalistic vampire-wannabe.  This is a magazine that will serve to provide more accurate and all-inclusive illusions for the pathetically delusional.


So instead of delving into the various style options of the season, I'll have a section devoted to finding the best possible bargains from the Ross discount rack. I'll go over a myriad of sweatpant styles, to find the most unflattering one. I'll give helpful tips on how to make your cat love you more ( "rub tuna on your body parts for a purr-fect night in") We'll have a Ben and Jerry's Flavor of the month.

Instead of embarrassing moments, I'll just have ladies write in their most successful blind dates ( "He kissed me and he waited till AFTER the date to vomit. I'll never forget his chivalry. )


The photo spread will have leather-skined grandmas posing in spanx, sitting on the lap of a very fit homosexual man. Jiffy pop in one hand, Virginia slim in the other.

I'll give advice on how to hag properly and where you can hang out to snag a gay best friend. I'll give you a top ten on lean-cuisine dinners.  Then, we can talk about how your mother screwed you up. We won't even bother with sex tips, but I can teach you how to bedazzle your vibrator.


Ladies isn't like the Ladies we supposed to be. Ladies get their dreams assaulted and destroyed- And I speak for them when I'm not seducing their husbands.

Beating a Dead Horse

I will now attempt to explain the logic behind beating a dead horse:


The dead horse looks like a sleeping horse.


Until that horse is an unrecognizable equine pulp, beating it may rouse it to orders.


My horse is probably dead. But it could also be in a coma.

Using Mommy/Daddy Issues to Litmus Test Your Piece of Ass

Ah Bitch, you have to trust me because I've done everything wrong.

Process of elimination cabron- I know exactly what you need to do and I'm going to tell you because I love perpetuating other people's love. It makes my shitty cynicism (cynishitism, if you will) pop a tent.


Here's what you have to do, men, women, transmen transwomen:


You gotta figure out the mommy daddy issues.


First thing you ask a girl, " How was your relationship with your father?" and vice versa. Well maybe do it a bit classier than that, so she doesn't wedge her wedges in your ball meat.

Then you take your own mommy or daddy issues and line em up really good and see if you'll be compatible. You basically figure out what kind of crazy you will most likely end up exposing yourself to over the course of time. Not a bad thing. Think of it as a question that works the same way the SATs work for college admissions.


So say you're a girl who had a father who spoiled the shit out of you all the time. A super cherish-y kind of dad. That's a couple of things. You probably feel that you are owed  unconditional affection and praise from all men you've ever met.  And if you're a beautiful girl without empathy- shit is terrible. But go on, you inherit the earth before the meek get at the crumbs.

Or none of the men will ever live up to Daddy. No man will love you like Daddy can, unless he looks a little bit like your dad probably.

If you had an absent father, you're just constantly trying to prove yourself to men as worthwhile and deserving of recognition and when that doesn't happen, you end up resenting men and eventually despising them because you are also trying to find a metaphor for your father in every man you meet. And your dad was a dick. So you're going after dicks, to make up for that dick ignoring you. Always keep in mind that your taste and preferences are usually what fuck you over, rather than an entire sex.  ( But guys are assholes and I'm sowing my pussy up shut anyway.)


Now for mens... women, beware of a man who hates his mother.  Distant is one thing. An ice queen is awful and it gives way to a desperate need for female approval and probably a love of big pairs of matronly titties to nourish his little boy soul. But a man who hates his mother is going to hate you, even if he loves you. There's a subconscious desire to destroy women if you start off with a bad mother who fucks you up in the head. I get that though. There are some awful moms and awful dads out there.


And then the overbearing mom, who is half in love with her son. Girl... you'll never be good enough. Ever, mama made sure of that when her baby started growing up. He'll love you second best, but it sure beats getting beat up by the momma hater.

ANYWAY- this is much longer than I wanted it to be but basically just use your common sense and figure out how your significant other clarifies their unavoidable Oedipal and Electra complexes by their words and actions.


Of course if you had loving perfect parents then.... fuck off.  You're only half as interesting as the rest of us damaged goods. Get the fuck off the discount shelf.