YEAR OF THE COCK
While going through my old journals, I found a record of my famous New Orleans trip of some years back. I really should have published this stuff, in retrospect. I guess it was just too incriminating at the time...
Anyway, here are some highlights of what I'd written regarding a one-night stand I trapsed around with most the day, and her obnoxious friend who tagged along when we went down to the Absinthe bar:
Jet-black raven hair and jet-set powder skin softly framed cheeks hungry for all her pierced, flaring nostrils hungered for: Bad Angel Powder, the Devil’s Parties and powder kegs of sin. Her lovely eyes twinkled with nothing, sparkling in the hollow that her smile so often hid. Pouting post-vamp lips scrunched and puckered often when she’d lost track of her sneer. They know only how to speak to fools, despite the face she stared through at the time. She spoke often, and mostly when she had nothing to say, though her pierced tongue cruelly skewered my sewer dreams to screw her, it seemed smoke still seeped from the lid… She tagged along for hours like the fools her lips could only speak to…following my groping Id and the swinging chain of a wallet poorly stuffed with change from several stores. Like a sock in the front pocket, heavy wallets are the single guy’s best friend, feeding the libido best when it is roughly just as fat.
I tried hard to like Nick, for the sake of Lydia, and later, of peace—and perhaps for the sake of a piece of Lydia later. But this pretentious whining imp who somehow won her friendship burned though any rational sense of patience and control that I contained. He was a nervous pecker of a person, with eyes that googled, though he was anything but plush. He claimed to have been “everywhere.” How such elaborate travel was funded without a job, and with a hungry needle in tow, was indeed amazing. He faked a slight British accent at times, and ranted about how this or that or everything “chaffed his bum.” Irritant unto the chaffing of any random bottom was his pretension, and the man it hid behind. He left us now and again to inject himself, like a redneck leaves mid-conversation for a beer. As such, he was less man than Miller Commercial, as that High Life that was slow demise shot and trickled through his numb veins and numbing membranes like an overdue morning piss.
All that did not chaff my bum was Lydia; it was she alone who moved my queasy, greasy heart to foster one damned grin before it festered, or I drooled. She was all that flustered paradise, like rosy beaten or blushing toddler cheeks; and all that offered joy or warmness were her tattooed breasts and buttocks, a pierced tongue and a pierced clitoris—and the dream of making one moist as the other. It was the promise of soft spangled heavens, war and famine so warm and feminine, that became the very urge in urgency—the force in and for the sake of the forsaken. She was fear and trembling, and rambling speech; the lust for life and living in sin; an aching joint before the storm; the hope of suction and of crudely sloshing within the puckered void where speech was born.
And it came to pass that upon coming, I would come to pass on for countless twitching hours a great and terrible Peace I felt from her name and my ignorance: it was that I knew her name, and it was Lydia; and that I knew nothing else at all about her, other than she did not know me, either. Great and terrible indeed was this piece of Peace, and of ass—it was a piece that passes all understanding.
I knew not her faith or creed, yet knew the name of every god she called for when she screamed. And so it was, that God knew the number of hairs upon her head; and that I would know the number and location of every birthmark, and the shapes that each would make when squeezed from an infinity of angles. And as I ravaged as reprobate the image of God among the Godless, I swiftly and with Heaven’s hellfire would eat the flesh of a perfect sacrifice—as the lips of the devoted shook and shivered from the gift of tongues… It was here that nipples were erect and temples were defiled, where dreams and visions of pale steeds and scarlet whores gave sight to the blind and bound, and soothing aloe to the handcuffed... Where the erect Elect took up their cross as handmaidens took off their clothes… Where the knees of those who knelt were ground to thin stigmata while the master gnawed on any ears that were to hear, all that I would whisper here—sweet nothings, precious else and the lonely now. For, by grace, the Lonely Now was yesterday.
Sweet Pickled Jesus, I must have been high....
BACKDOOR TO VICTORY
Street justice just ain't what it used to be...
Special thanks to Maddox
There have been many interesting developments in the world of late. I acknowledge I am tardy in addressing them. But let's face it: I write this stuff to amuse myself. Unlike a lot of bloggers, I don't expect that anybody actually reads it. (For example, note the empty comment box for yesterday's post. Harrowing in its emptiness, isn' it?) But I enjoy myself. And I pity the fool who actually does take the time to read this stuff. It's not going to get any prettier.
First off the bat, I would be failing my readers if I didn't mention this.
Go ahead. Follow the link. I dare you.
"And I say to myself...what a wonderful world..."
The blogosphere is twitching with regards to the recent torture murders at Bagram. What do we do with these people? With the overall lack of aggression we've displayed in punishing the Abu Ghraib perpetrators (likely because we'd rather not know how far up the chain the scandal might extend), the outraged public is looking for someone to hit. They want these troops disciplined. After the Oscars, of course.
Therein lay the clinker--the American people are largely apathetic to it all. We want to win this war. We don't want to focus on the negative. But the rest of the world is taking note. Let's just say that it's not going to be as easy for the next round of exchange students to get laid overseas.
Now, no true patriot wants his countrymen tried in any sort of "world court." That's lib'rul commie talk. I'll have none of that, thank you. The truth is, we don't need it. We don't need to see our troops convicted and sentenced to 18 years of cornholing in whatever Turkish prison the UN deems to toss them in. We have people just as adequate at cornholing on our own shores, thank you once again.
Take W. David Hager for example. Please. In fact, take him to Greece; he might like it there.
Hager is another "religous enthusiast" who would like to see the walls of Church and State broken down, paved over, and replaced with Teen Abstinence rallies. He also forcibly sodomized his wife for 7 years. No shit. His wife, who is still an active Republican, and a Christian, finally divorced him after enduring years of forced-anal torment.
Now, to be fair to the ol' ass bandit, the guy was an OB/GYN. And I suppose that if one were arm-deep in pussy everyday, you might want a bit of variety at home...fair enough. No one wants to bring their work home with them, right? It's bad enough that the cats probably swarmed him when he got home. I sympathize.
Oh, and did I mention that he's the Bush Administration's appointee to the "Advisory Committee for Reproductive Health Drugs" for the FDA?
Yup. That's their choice...the Butt Pirate.
And I'm sure you've all heard about how John Bolton, my favorite big sweaty, hairy, angry guy in politics, forced his wife into an orgy. Look lady, at least that was one night you didn't have to sleep with the big sweaty, hairy, angry guy. Count your blessings. You get no sympathy from me.
As you know, Bolton is also the Administration's nominee for UN Ambassador.
Yup. That's his choice...the Orgy Guy.
And then there's Neal Horsley, a staunch Social Conservative--beloved by moral crusaders and pro-lifers everywhere, and a man with the most appropriate name for a political figure I've ever heard. Horsley likes mules, you see.
And this guy gets trotted out and interviewed as some sort of Christian Coalition superhero everytime there's an abortion debate.
Yup. That's their choice...Captain Donkey Show.
And of course, I've picked on Bill Frist before. Frist, if you showed up late, is the Josef Mengele of the feline community. (Felines do have communities, don't they?). As a cat lover (ney, a lover of pussies world-over), I really hate this guy. Did I mention he's Senate Majority Leader.
Yup. That's their choice...the Kitten Mangler.
And let's not even start on Alberto "Torture Me Elmo" Gonzales.
As you can see, the GOP have quite a rogues gallery going.
So where am I going with all this?
Atonement. Atonement for all involved.
We don't need no stinking world court to punish our "bad apples." We just need to let the ol' Republican Guard do what they do best. We can handle this in-house.
Here is my suggestion:
Orgy at Bolton's house; Horsley can bring the girls--specify long or short ears. Dr. Frist can bring the roofies, which will be administered to the naughty troops. Gonzales, dressed like a dentist, will oversee, and ask the troops repeatedly if it is "safe." Meanwhile, with their eyes pryed open, Clockwork Orange-style, the troops are forced to watch the Bolton-Horsley-Eeyore flesh fandango. Then, with our transgressors drugged, bound, and naked from the waste down, we let Hager in. We'll just let him do his thing.
And all is right in Washington again.
SPAM THE MAN (TALES FROM THE SPAM-PURSE II)
Yeah, it's unweildy, but it eats Creationists.
While I am certainly not the first person to think of this, I thought it would be a hoot to take all of the "random word generated" text I've been getting in the hundreds of SPAM e-mails I receive each day, and make them into poetry.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, dig this:
This is VERBATIM what I received at the end of an e-mail for Cialis:
FROM: Overactive H. Grimness RE: shame lanes heaviness dense interstices considering carcass fearsome arouse cognition reave desolater intransitive repudiate molt A snack masquerades, writing succulently to a happy promise, Sick season as a ruler plays about the important entity, Years like aardvarks speculate well but boldly. Mice like loaves clean concisely but positively. In clocks, the woman will go, write not Shames like rocks demonstrate allegedly to loaf, diving The short thicket walks frankly, honestly. When laughs dress in gargantuan resolutions, the tower finishes, Kings like papers undo undetectably to porpoise, explaining The fear ponders, as if the harp is a table. The unicorn conducted plausibly, far spoke the homesick meaning.
sammy friend: suspensory tenai hushful idrialine pterodactylid positioner The HTML graphics in this message have been blocked.
Reality is for people who can’t cope with me. The napkin looks as if it were on top of a stack of cards or also fishsticks. Blake is Jewish or uh from NM.
Remove me opt in opt out Edit preferences – What’s this?
Thy police saw around a electronics or a dressing ah just forget it.No one knoms in a low stack of wood you could put out an eye. She is from a world now alien to me! Worf
The HTML graphics in this message have been displayed.
It's almost poetic. Thus begins the first annual Amen Corner SPAM POETRY SLAM. Feel free to submit your own efforts in the comments box. Here are my initial attempts. It didn't take alot of work.
All "poems" are taken VERBATIM from Spam e-mails I have received. I merely rearranged the words, and broke them up into stanzas. NONE OF THE TEXT IS ALTERED.
TWO POLES, TWO INSERTIONS, ONE PAIR OF SCISSORS
(Taken from: ad for Levitra).
The two poles at one time can be two poles at one time.
Not One, but Two insertions at once.
The chip looks as if it were beside
A silver cantalope,
Or maybe a pair of scissors.
The hand looks as if it were around
A blood-wet neckbone,
And maybe a pair of scissors.
ONE CLEAR CIGARETTE
(taken from: ad for MILF site)
Working hard is like seeking a clear cigarette.
In addition, I like piles of computer parts, and sour cream…
Also, stacks of books.
Nobody will ever will the battle of the sexes.
There’s just too much, no reason to be seeking…
A mailbox, maybe,
And maybe, yes, a ham.
GEORGE THINKS THEY CAN
(taken from: ad for random porn site)
If George thinks they can,
They might just be seeking
A pitcher of Old Grandad.
George is full of crap.
The power is in,
On top of a dog…
Ah…but that is silly.
George is full of crap.
AIDA (DEAD BESIDE A KNIFE AND SANDWICH)
(taken from: ad for Anal Valley)
Aida is a country or…
OK…maybe a wallet.
Aida is very stupid,
Of all the things beside a knife and sandwich.
Boing! Ow! You’re dead.
Ever lob a live grenade into a basket of kittens?
It could fly up in the air and hit your nose.
You could get a paper cut, you know.
Of all the things near a loud bowl,
Or maybe a loud knee.
You could get a papercut, you know.
A FRIEND (LEILA)
(taken from: ad for clandestine offshore pharmacy)
A friend, Leila, told me
You were around a silver doorknob.
Leila is very nice…
Or maybe you should put it back.
Look at yourself, for a speckled BMW.
A silver doorknob, a speckled BMW…
A friend, Leila, told me,
Maybe you should put it back.
(taken from: ad for Christian mortgage dealer)
Talking to Priscilla is akin
To somewhere near a sticky plasma TV.
Vera is near a cheapened breadstick.
Zeke is for oderific stacks of books.
Life is too important to be taken seriously.
Its up to Mark. Go figure…
I bet they’re only seeking
A carton full of smokes.
Priscilla, Vera, Zeke and Mark…
Life and books, and breadsticks,
Oderific stacks and talking seriously,
A Carton full of smokes,
Somewhere near a sticky plasma TV…
Mark, go figure.
Priscilla, Vera, Zeke,
Go fuck yourselves.
Klingons do not pursue relationships.
They conquer them.
I bet you’re only seeking.
Go fuck yourself.
LOW CRAWLS AND HIGH TIMES
Bush coaches a potential GOP 2008 frontrunner...
I just realized something today: this site is not viewable in Internet Explorer. I tried it on a whim, and the whole site looked ridiculous. All the text was at the bottom of the page, and my paragraph breaks had HTML code in them. The fonts were HUGE. This is stupid. Really, people...WHY DON'T YOU HAVE MOZILLA FIREFOX?!?! Come on, now. It's been long enough. Life's too short to use a shitty browser. Get with the program. Wankers. My life is strange and arduous enough without the worry of such things.
And speaking of things, and such...
"Larry Lovetooth" wrote today; he's making bite-marks on his arms. His latest manifesto made me laugh a nervous laugh. It borrowed dialogue from The Lion King, and actually contained the phrase, "Bite the belly of love." It also referenced his obsessive interest in eating human flesh, his bitter hatred of religion, and his concerns that he is being electronically poisoned by Illumnati Men In Black. And he meant every single fucking word of it, no less
. "Barry Buggered" sent me an e-mail out of the clear blue, and clearly with the blues. Someone from my former workplace--someone that I barely know--bumped into him, in a place I rarely ever go. She talked with him, despite her hurry, and dispensed to him my e-mail like a prescription from a shrink. I remain forever at a loss as how she remembered my address, or why I came to mind when he said he needed help. Nonetheless, I took the job. He seems lonely; he seems to also have alot of time on his hands--a little too much, if you know what I mean. He obsesses over "God" and "Satan," "good" and "evil," etc. I keep trying to convince him that Absolutism and the extremities of such polarized views and concepts will only drag him down. But then again, he's only 19. I believed the exact same shit when I was his age. When I was his age, I was still a troubled youth minister, leading teens in prayer, while struggling in private with my own view of "the Lord." In retrospect, I was really just too young.
It was 1996 when I first mistepped from grace. I fell flat on my face; but then, I realized I'd fallen forward, even still. In fact, I routinely stumble forthright; I alone manage to fall up flights of stairs, to the flighty stares of all who just fall down. In 1997, I renounced my faith. I still believe in God, though I won't place bets on Heaven; and I dated Hell in 1998. Her name was Angie, by the way; and every minion of the netherrealm slithered through her poison frame like crabs across the callouses of her heavy-traffic snatch. Thank God that I'm not bitter anymore...
Drugs and whores, and dates with death, heresy and blasphemy, hard work and empty pockets, low crawls and high times--these were the things that followed me, like punctuation follows every sentence--or better yet, makes up a part of it. Bitter, sweet, and bittersweet dreams sniffed my ass like a friendly dog--a hellhound bent on following me home. Every hound of hell has cute puppy-dog eyes; and they lick their balls like any mutt, because every force in nature has a vice.
In all my furtive pervert journies, I've sought to be a thousand and one things: a disc jockey, a novelist, a poet, a famous journalist, a womanizing junkie, a music store and bookstore wage-slave, and an armchair/toilet philosopher ranting at other burn-outs in the Labor-Ready line. I never would have thought that something called a "Wash-Up" would smell so bad, or that, contrary to label-name, it would in fact be on a dirt road down. Nevertheless, the furthest thing from mind--apart from sobriety, marriage, and children--was becoming counselor or confidant to anyone; my pastor days are done. I also never pictured these words cropping up like so much Kansas corn: "role-model," or "idol," "mentor," and "best friend"--or worst of all, "big brother." The monkeys on my back have kept my shoulders free from being cried on, for nearly ten long years. But something--perhaps a "funny" angel, or a vindictive God aglow with holy smirks and snickers--SOMETHING strives to keep me in the "pastorship."
Philip K. Dick once said (in VALIS, I believe) that his worst vices were dope, and his attempts to help his friends. For this reason and others, Philip is an idol of mine, a tweaker hero, beatified as a bizarre beat-era saint in my private pantheon. And were he still alive, he would be horrified or mystified, or both. I guess things never change. It's yet another similarity between myself and Dick; we both reject the praise of those who strangely worship us, yet we scramble to their aid at every chance a new day brings us. Maybe it's the dope; but then...it's as I said earlier on: Every force in nature has a vice.
I received a Bizarro-world blast from my past this week. I don't know what to add, apart from that. Perhaps I'll discuss it later on, when time and energy permits. Let's just say the skeletons in my closet have begun to beat the walls with brooms. Voices unheard for ten long years have tracked me down, not one, but quite a few. Synchronicity is proof to me that God knows HTML, and the universe, the world wide web of the divine.
And like my website, it is best viewed in Mozilla Firefox.
"Relax folks--we just want to see your ID..."
When my ex-girlfriend (hereon referred to as “Angina”), left me for a sinewy, urban-fixated muscle boy (hereon referred to as “Peter Prisonmuscles”), I became determined to work out. I had never lifted weights, apart from the clunk of my own ego, and my cock. But I was dead-set upon giving it a go. I would not be one-upped by some jock douche again, I said, resolute within. No; I will, one day—with God as my witness—only be abandoned for men with money, or a future…none of that “rippling muscles” crap. So I joined a gym (Bally’s, to be precise).
Being new to it all, I was in a swollen world of pain from the first day. Wisely, I compensated with blind, unfounded optimism, and Vicodin ES, which only added to my optimism. Of course, I exuded a general aura of incompetence in the gym. People avoided me at first. There was also the issue of the painkillers: Vicodin ES can make a Chatty Cathy out of any Sullen Frank—they’re really great big Happy Pills, and for a skuzzy-looking, long-haired, gothed-out headbanger like myself, it was a twisted change of pace. I certainly wasn’t in any pain. I doubt I would remember if I was; I took a bit too much sometimes. I was suddenly outgoing, boisterous, and possessed a tendency to gab incoherently at total strangers. (Ah…the magic of drugs!)
One such total stranger that I assaulted with vernacular was a conservative-looking business-type named Mark. I have no recollection of anything I said—only that I said it often, without pauses. In retrospect, he probably thought I was gay. But upon further conversation, determining that I was, in fact, quite heterosexual (and did not, as it turned out, wish to oil him in any manner), he seemingly decided that I was just insane enough to be interesting. A (perfectly straight) friendship developed; often, his encouragement kept me going to the gym long after my Vicodin ran out. And we got to laugh at old fat guys in towels.
One night, we went up to Bally’s, only to learn that they were enforcing a new “checkpoint” policy. Not only did they need to see our Member Card, but they also asked to see Photo ID.
Being permanently disheveled to some to degree or another, and perpetually broke, I didn’t always have my wallet with me. I was fortunate enough to remember pants most days. My Member Card was in my gym bag…but my wallet was at the house. By my reasoning, if you don’t drive, and you have no money…why do you need your wallet, anyway?
The hypercephalic oaf at the desk stood firm, arms crossed. He shook his head. “I need ID.” Mark protested. “This is not a checkpoint society,” he roared. It was also not a foreign land—we had walked past these same wall-eyed goons every day for the last eight months. Not only should they have known our faces, but they should have known our names, routines, and favorite Marx brothers by now. We left, opting for Amber Bock and a crappy film. As I kicked back another beer, I wondered…what about the place I bought my beer from? I purchased cigars (18+), alcohol (21+), and Mini-Thins (18+) there at least twice every week. Each time I was carded, though the clerk remained the same. If I failed to show ID, would the snot-nosed clerk refuse me on the 87th sale? Checkpoint Charlie rides again…
But remember: we are in a “post 9-11 society.” Right…think about that for a minute. You see, any time a public figure—in particular, a lawmaker—evokes the 9-11 Terrorist Attacks, it’s never to raise a toast to the victims. Have you ever noticed that? It’s never, “We are in a post 9-11 society; so let’s raise a glass, and drink to all who lost their lives that day.” Nope…never. Instead, it is almost always a preface to justification of some sort. It means they need the emotional vulnerability of those affected by the disaster, or afraid of its reprisal, to justify some pet “must-pass” legislation that they’ve been cock-blocked on the last 17 times. It worked with the USAPATRIOT Act. It works with a lot of things. Know only that when you hear the words “in a post 9-11 society,” that whatever else they plan to say will not be good. And they can use it with just about anything, and get away with it:
Cheney to Majority Whip, eyes ablaze with lust: “You know, in a post 9-11 society, you have to expect that sometimes men will viciously sodomize other men. We must be flexible for the challenges ahead.”
Rumsfeld at Press Conference: “Look folks, in a post 9-11 society, you have to expect that, occasionally, Congressmen will walk into a random supermarket, naked and covered in grease paint, and open fire on the 10-items-or-less lane. We can’t live in the past.”
John Ashcroft to Sean Hannity: “Listen,” (makes emphatic hand motion) “in a post 9-11 society, the people must be realistic, and prepared to give up some lesser liberties, like private defecation, or shoes. And Congress must have the tools at their disposal to fight the fallen angel Satan, as well as take a concubine—one each. We must continue looking forward.”
And my favorite…
Congressman Jim Sensenbrenner to Random Shadow Government Operative: “In a post 9-11 society, people needn’t worry themselves when we tag each man, woman, and child in America like some sort of rare species of moth. We must move with the times.”
Sadly, the last quote hits damn close. You see, shortly, the President will sign the REAL ID Act into law. Real ID, which has been resubmitted to Congress—in one form or another—since 2002, is the fruitcake that gets passed to different in-laws every Christmas. Someone wants this badly. It is “must-pass” legislation. And like “must-see” TV, it blows. Real ID, like the Real Doll, is expensive, lifeless, and will lead to someone getting fucked.
For starters, it means that the United States can now join the proud historical ranks of Nazi Germany and Communist China as a nation with a National ID Card. Secondly, it requires a house address (no PO Boxes) among the information on the card. Sucks to be a federal agent, or an undercover cop, eh? It also sucks to be among the nations millions who don’t want our name, address, and personal info sold to Info Brokers.
True Story: A friend once made an online order for me, when my own card was maxed out. Weeks later, he received a phone call from the same company, asking if he’d like to reorder. The scary part is, he never entered his phone number.
With the nature of just what will be contained within the National ID’s built-in chip somewhat obscure, just imagine all the fun spammers will have. (Conservative or Liberal, love ‘em or hate ‘em—you MUST see this ACLU cartoon. It is essential, and upon us).
You will be cataloged; and your data will be harvested by the private sector, who are always on hand to do what the government would like to, but cannot.
For instance, unless you’re on probation, the government cannot demand you take a urine sample. But any privately-owned company can; it’s their right. Currently, the government is working on legislation to outlaw any drugs or devices that might help a person foil those tests (such as the hilarious Whizzinator, a prosthetic penis/filter). Again, your privacy is at stake, and funny that you didn’t read about it in the papers?
So Uncle Sam wants to know what books you read? He calls his little brother, Private Sector Hector, in. Hector mines consumer data from receipts. He has your name, and payment method; he knows about your love of drag musicals. Expect a visit soon.
The Real ID will make this all much simpler.
Of course, its proponents (which exclude the American public, thus far) say that this will stop illegal immigrants. Of course, we know it won’t. Our nation is not overrun with illegal aliens because of fake ID’s, or even lax security. Illegal immigrants thrive because they are sheltered by small business and poor local economies that have become dependant on cheap labor. I have seen this with my own eyes. And with the economy flailing like a wounded bird, the thought of getting a full day’s labor for a stack of warm tortillas and a sixpack of Corona probably seems like a pretty sweet deal to the average Southern American businessman. And Real ID will not solve this.
So what will we do if this passes? I say be enthusiastic. When you go to get your respective Mark Of The Beast, bring in a container of your urine (or even semen, breast milk, and stool samples). Insist that the poor wretch at the counter take them, because—since this card will potentially contain your background information—it is important for them to know that you pissed clean. Don’t take no for an answer! Also, bring in one of those huge genealogy charts, and document your linage to the clerk, loudly. And don’t forget medical records! Anything embarrassing like vaginal polyps, testicular torsion, or even a cat with syphilis? These people gotta know. Loudly. While people are in line.
If the government wants information, I say give it to them.
Give them way too fucking much.
Oh, and don’t fill out the organ donor option, lest Acxiom get wind of it, and arrange for you to wake up crudely stitched and naked in a tub of ice.
The last thing you can do—which I’d recommend you do today—is go to this website, and read more about this. And then go to this website, and fill out a ready-made protest letter to the Suits. (Will the Real ID’s data chip contain information that we protested against it?)
Failure to do this will result in a bleak (but well-documented) future, wherein you can’t even cross state lines, buy prosthetic penises, or even laugh at old fat guys wearing towels, without some jackboot fitness center goon asking for papers.
You have been warned.
GARDY-LOO! (or, WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS...)
Natural enemy of the Allahfish.
The term “Gardy-Loo” was used in Olde England, before the blessed advent of modern plumbing. Michael Slade, in his cult novel, Ghoul, clues us to the origin of the term:
“Even walking down the street in those early days was a hazardous pastime. British in-house facilities then consisted of a chamber pot, the contents of which were tossed out the window to a cry of “Gardy-Loo!” This came from the French term “Gardez l’eau” and God help the Englishman who wasn’t bilingual. The term is still used today in ‘going to the loo’.”
Funny, I think certain politicians have been doing this for years. Maybe instead of revising the House Ethics Rules, Congress should just make Tom DeLay shout "Gardy-Loo!" everytime he pisses on the trust of the American people, or the shits away the last shreds of honor the GOP's current line-up has to play with.
Not every Republican is a hypocritical, moralizing weasal like DeLay or Rick Santorum. Don't ever think that; it's just not true. Not every "Red State" is Utah. And maybe this would be more obvious if everyone who is Tom DeLay, or Rick Santorum, (or is from Utah) would be legally obligated to shout an audible warning system when they are about to be an embarassment to their party.
It must be awkward to be a Republican right now--because, for obvious reasons, you have to support your team, right? I struggle with this every election. You have to take the good with the bad. And it can't feel good having to stick up for Tom Delay, who openly would like very much to "reacquaint" Church and State. He's implied that he would like to impeach "activist judges"--but it's clear he only means the "heathen" ones; Evangelical Christian "activists" are doing "God's work"--and how dare we hinder them, right? Oh, and I'm not terribly impressed with Bill Frist, either.
Fuck a warning cry--even a courtesy flush would be welcome, at this point. Not that anyone would notice.
I'm not even talking about John Bolton being nominated to the UN. How could I? As a big, disshevelled, hairy, sweaty guy who swears alot, how can I begrudge one of my own? The man is an inspiration to big, disshevelled, hairy, sweaty, angry guys near and far. And besides, I'm a Libertarian: Our foreign policy is just a bunch of swear words, and maybe a menacing glare. Who am I to talk?
Inspired by a recent message board discussion, wherein we related our most embarassing moments, I realized that--after spending years embarrassing politicians and religious leaders in print--it was high time I embarassed myself for a change. It's good for variety, and saves my detractors that tiny bit of effort they expend now and again, which they can now devote more fully to sending snotty e-mails, swollen with delusional, syphillitic pleas for my repentance, and jerking off to barnyard porn. Thus, I have a story from the vault--taken from my nomadic, restless years of yore. This one's for the kids.
In keeping with the theme of "trickle down"...
Several years ago, when I still wrote for Horribly Awry Magazine, I lived in a truly hideous apartment. I loved it. There are many stories I could tell about it. This one is my favorite, and probably the most personally traumatic.
This place was awful--the roaches all wore slippers, and the landlord/slumlord who owned the wretched hive had allowed the basement (which we were unable to access) to become overrun with vermin and raw sewage. This made pest control an uphill battle. Add to that our charming crackhead neighbors, and a parking lot speckled with dirty needles, and you have yourself a winner.
But still, I loved it.
The place was huge--it was a warehouse with a loft, that was converted into a home. I turned my loft room into a Gothic palace, complete with chromed bones, dangling razors, and duct-tape bondage Barbies hanging overhead. The walls were black, and the floor and ceiling were blood red, and vintage 80's horror posters adorned the downstairs walls. In other words, it was the sort of place the Feds would raid on a dare, during their lunch break, and purely for fun.
One night, I had a hot date. It was the best luck I'd encountered in many moons. She was this sultry and flirtatious British MILF--with an adorable accent, and huge...um...tracts of land, and so forth. Quite intelligent, and well-spoken, too, I might add. This one was a winner.
But I hadn't had a girl through there in months. (Usually, I dragged my one-nighters elsewhere, so as not to disturb my father, who stayed downstairs).
As a bachelor, my place was a wreck, anyway. So I had to do some last-minute cleaning...something I hadn't bothered with in ages. I'd given up, you see. But now I raced against time and the Devil himself to make this place less like Satan's Taint. I cleaned, packed, scrubbed, and swept--all collosal, herculean feats for a lonely slob as I. But it would become my Babe Lair...oh yes, I thought smugly, such a Lair it shall be! Oh, and I should probably hide the porn.
Now there was one problem with this "babe lair"--the bathroom was at the other end of the warehouse. This place was 25,000 square feet. I was upstairs. To translate this to non-single guys, it meant that this bathroom did not really exist to me, unless I was doing #2. Because, as a bachelor, who drank alot of Amber Bock and Diet Coke, the actual "bathroom" was the nearest empty 2-Liter bottle.
I worked alot of hours. I was in management training at my day job, so I literally woke up, went to work, got home, went to sleep, and repeated until the end of the week. Those bottles, which I hid behind a cabinet, began to build up over time...out of sight, out of mind.
With twenty minutes left to her arrival, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to get rid of those fucking bottles. With purest dread battling my deoderant, I looked behind the cabinet.
There were...a few.
I looked downstairs...my father (who was running late to work) still wasn't gone, like I'd assumed he would be. I wasn't going to run those bottles past him to the bathroom. There was no way I was going to explain that to him. And besides: a man's own private bottled reserve is his own damn business, right? So what could I do with them? If I waited until he left, it would likely be seconds before my date showed up, and then I might smell like pee or something. Can't have that, right? Women, being aliens, can smell even the faintest musk of manly living, and spot a germ--nay, count that microscopic beast's last tendril!--from 1000 yards away.
I thought about it, and then a little lightbulb went off: "Hey," I thought--heavens mocking with each passing processed thought, "I live upstairs...I'll just dump these out the window!" Afterall, what was beneath my window? The alley. No biggie. Drunks pissed there all the time!
Minutes left to go, I poured out the first rancid 2-liter bottle. I had no clue to its age, but the cloudy murk and primitive vegetation implied that it deserved a name, or even suffrage. Out it went...Easy as (urinal) cake.
I dumped a second round of kidney juice. Just then, I thought I heard something outside...nah. I'm a guy. I've always got time.
On to the third: I began to pour; it rolled out like a river rapid, alive with the froth of hell itself. And then I heard it--a mumble from below of "Wow, it must be raining..." followed by a deafening shriek of "OH MY GOD!!!!!! AHHHHHH!!!!! I'M COVERED! AHHH!!! OH GOD! AAHH!"
Then weeping... Then silence...
I never did see my date that night.
I'm sure that she was pissed.
PAPAL PEOPLE EATER
I was shopping at a department store today, and I almost picked up a box set containing all four Omen movies on a whim...until I realized that I couldn't handle hearing "O Fortuna" that many times in a row...I also saw a special issue of Life magazine (as opposed to Life cereal, which would be funnier) with Pope John Paul II's picture on it. The irony immediately struck me, with a lightning bolt to follow, without a doubt. Anyway, later on--synchronicity being the motherfucker that it is--I was digging through some of my older written material, looking for stuff that might qualify as "bonus supplementary goods" for the upcoming reissue of my debut work (1997's The Dyslexicon), and found something interesting.It was written as a parody of the Pentecostal perspective that the Pope is the Antichrist. The lyrics are mostly taken from the Book Of Revelations, and "Revelation Expounded" by Finis Jennings Dake (famous for his Evange-licious, Fundy-tastic Study Bible). Hey, if Dake was good enough for Swaggart, and Swaggart is good enough for me to make fun of...what the hell.And no, I don't really believe it.
PAPAL PEOPLE EATER*
*(sung to the tune of Sheb Wooley's "Purple People Eater)
A star fell from Heaven, but still burned bright—
A ten-horned Beast that thought it was the Light.
I commenced to slay it, and it said “Why me?”
“Don’t you know who controls your economy?”
(It was a two-faced, ten-horned holy Papal People Eater—
Three Vials, four letters—power-hungry bottom-feeder,
A great Beast rising from the sea.)
Son of Saturn, Son of Sam to me—
Who desperately wants to be
The Son of God, Son of Man, Head of the Fan Club
(Son of the Morning, son of a gun—Beelzebub.)
(It was a two-faced, ten-horned holy Papal People Eater—
Seven heads, seven mountains: a growing world leader,
Witch-burning with glee.)
So, Mr. Papal People Eater, what makes you divine?
(He said) “By reading Scripture—but just between the lines.”
“International banking helps, you understand—
Worship, wealth, and power go hand in hand in hand.”
(Save my soul, you’ve reached your goal—holy Papal People Eater.
Revising history extending back to Peter—
Rock of conspiracy.)
“Through endless propaganda, I’m the biggest game in town.
Good people spread the faith like a disease going around.
Revelation says ten kings shall bring me doom
(Singing, Awop bop aloo bop lop bam BOOM!).”
(Religious Right of Endless Night, great Papal People Eater—
Violate the Word of God like a parking meter,
The day is coming, only God in Heaven knows,
When angels with trumps shout, “The action is go!”
You’ll be usurped of Voice and Power as foresaid…
Left to play your hymns through the ten horns in your head!
(Yes, one day, God will repay—Papal People Eater.
The Whore of Revelation is just a cheerleader…
The truth shall set you free.)
SWEET, & LO!
"Where two or more are gathered..."