Wednesday, June 29, 2005


You can't say I didn't warn you...

Special Thanks to Engrish...

In the dreamtime, it was 1999. That year was pivotal, and active for me. I sowed many wild oats—nay, I practically stuffed my pillowcase with the down of ruffled fallen angel feathers, prickling like dope pins, needles at my neck. I worked a lot, and worked out, also. My schedule in flux, I saw most of my friends when at the gym.

I’ve mentioned my workout partner Mark before; we’d meet up after work, and hit the gym. I frustrated the hell out of him—we were never on the same page, workout-wise. When I stopped taking painkillers, I realized that working out actually hurt. Mark was much more fit than I; so I’d take tons of ephedrine in the hopes of keeping up with him. This backfired routinely, because now I was out of shape, and tweaking. He’d want to work on upper body, and I’d use up our time fixating on the treadmill, or the bike, for two damn hours. It’s a tweaker thing; you wouldn’t understand.

After we were finished irritating and disappointing one another, we’d drive through some fast food place, to undo all we’d worked for in a single greasy wrapper. It was fruitless; but it was clean, hetero fun. In the Clinton years, this had become harder to find…

But back to the life in slumber’s sweaty busom:

In the dream, we’d left the gym; we were mulling over where to eat. It was between Jack In The Box and Burger King—a rock and a hard place, really…the Greasy Devil and the Deep(fried) Blue Sea. Mark steered the car toward Burger King.

The drive-thru drool-cup dimwit took our order, never to return. We waited…and we waited…and we fumed, and waited more. Mark stepped out of the car, and went inside—to mete out meaty justice among the minimum wage depraved.

He also never returned.

Now keep in mind, that he is the dependable one. If Mark goes in a store, you could damn well leave the car running. Let me loose in a store, and…you might as well come back another day. This was inexcusable. He never took this long. He was either arguing, or dead. Either way, I’d been abandoned. Worst yet, my pills were wearing off, and I was hungry like the wolf. My patience was on low, but my hunger was on stun. I waited one more minute…then I left. I peeked inside as I walked past—nothing. He wasn’t even there. I walked towards the alternative…Hello Jack…get the fuck back in that Box, and make my food.

Jack In The Box is scarcely meat, and I am much afraid upon consumption that it consumes me from within. It does not digest in the gut, so much as gestate in a fatty womb. Their addictive White Trash Tacos are a fryer-trap delight…provided you define “delight” like Brando did. But it’s better than nothing at night’s end, I thought. I impatiently walked inside.

The smell of Death was all around. It was probably the chicken, or whatever misshapen lumps they deep-fried in its place. I approached the counter. And then I looked around.

I saw them. I saw them all.

I’d walked into bowels of hell itself, fool that I was. At this establishment, in every seat and eating fries, were enemies of all colors—foes from childhood up. My every adversary, schoolyard bully, overbearing girlfriend, asshole boss, and nemesis were seated in this place, and smiling like Syd Barrett at the wall.

Bastards-in-arms, with teeth gleaming like knives to slice my very bones…these were men who’d bugger Santa, with an elf tied to each leg.

I shivered in trepidation; stressing, creases crossed my brow like the worried, fearful smiles of NAMBLA’s boys’ choir. Every enemy I’d made or left behind…all here, before my eyes. It was an evil that fogged contact lenses, and mine had not been changed in months. I nodded, smiled, and slowly backed away.

An old high school jackboot jock approached. Gleaming with psychosis, his tongue slithered from lip to lip to speak. His eyes were glazed like donuts, holes wherein a soul might be…he was Satan’s grinning glazier, offspring of the King of Hell, and Dairy Queen. Then, in the dumbest Southern drawl, explained how he’d just beaten his old record for how long he could sit with thumb in ass.

This threw me off. Then another piss-ant spoke to me—an arrogant son of a bitch who edited a magazine I’d written for long past. He spoke in utter humility, and apologized with waves of sorries lobbed at my befuddled face like shit. One by one, they spoke; one by one, they jested or apologized, or acted like the dumbest men on earth. It was then I felt a certain shame, that I’d ever feared or loathed them. I had a revelation: My enemies were stupid. At least it seamed that way.

I smiled and nodded more, backing away one final time. I turned my back to order. I heard rustling and snickering behind. Had I made the right decision, then, to stay? Should I have waited on my friends, though they might fail me? Or take my chances that my critics lack good genes—though it all might be a game? A painful, sometimes hungry wait…or immediate fulfillment at the table of the Wolf? And knowing that neither option is low-carb? And where’s my fucking Horsey Sauce, you pricks?

Where's the beef?!

I awakened with a rumbling gut, and unaware which meat slab caused my curse…but I didn’t care. I lumbered toward the bathroom. I clutched my flab in hand. I’ve lost 38 pounds in the last few months, but I know it’s not enough. I’m still several pounds from healthy, and I drink myself to sleep too many nights. I clenched my fat in hatred. Fuck both places. Fuck ‘em all, I thought and swore.

I need a fucking salad. Nothing more.


Monday, June 27, 2005


Everyone's a critic...

I gave it a week; but the Rhyme Scheme meme was met with thunderous...apathy. Are those fireworks or crickets that I hear? Are you purring or snoring? Whatever.

A few brave souls stumbled forward; only one sticks out right now. Sound Destruction answered the call with confidence and candor. I recommend their site...

Otherwise, their were some half-assed bongo-apes who e-mailed shitty Bush limerics; and many who were so gung-ho have yet to contribute a thing. I'm not offended. I suppose it's all less competition in the long run.

Here are the last of my contributions to the cause. I might take all this down next month. All this yawning makes my site meter sleepy.


All of Nature is reviled
(All our natures are defiled)
By a smirking pestilence--
A multi-class vehemence,
And a virus nondivine
That destroys braincells and virtue
Like a hard dose of strychnine.

There's been a new die cast,
To keep our systems caste;
To make scapegoats of schisms,
To rain parades--not on them.
It's a circus that's come to town,
Where ringleaders and acrobats
Jump bandwagons in single bounds.

Prerequisite and exquisite
At making me inadequate,
It circulates; it circumvents,
As men descend to heat's content.
Virulence in vogue, but out of sorts:
Both clarion and carrion,
Causing to conform as it contorts.

Hungry as wolves, fast as jackals,
Wild-eyed, with hyena cackles--
A group mind, minding groups and scenes,
A sickness needing a vaccine...
Itself, addictive as a drug.
Infectious, swift as lightning...
A leech that only feeds on slugs.

A social smoke chaffing our lungs,
Infecting the heart, then the tongue.
Every food chain has weak links--
And we are bound more than we think.
Smitten by Swarms to become the Swarm...
Gospel to garbage-loving flies,
In blanket personas, ever warm.


An anthem we've begun to sing--
It's tuneless, yet it tops the charts.
It lends a familiar ring--
It missed the mark,
But the echoes play in our hearts...
A shot in the dark
That has killed our moral being.
It's not the bells of freedom that ring.

I can't believe what I am seeing--
A problem of true faith that's soon desolved.
I can't believe they have made it king.
It always resigns
Long before it begins to resolve.
Truth is so unkind...
Thank God they haven't told you a thing.
(Who would subscribe to that magazine?)

A pretty dress missing the seems--
We're less concerned with why we're right,
And more concerned with who'se obscene.
It's not farfetched
To think, if thrown a bone just right,
We would play fetch,
Or jump right off a cliff, singing:
"They did it first...we're just lemmings!'


Panning for the gold of God
Until the Deluge comes…
And riding high upon
Weathered and defeathered wings
That no good angel would wear…
We stand alone-unkept, unshod,
Gathered only to sing
Praises to a dying sun,
Subtracting uncertain sums
Where only fallen angels care.

Moving forth, not forward
Until our kingdoms come…
Until our kingdoms fold…
We shake the hands that shake our lands
And shake our very faith as we approve…
Forced down, facing upward
By strength of glands and foreign sands--
By what descends of old…
But only running from
All and everything that does not move.

Begotten and bygone by God
As time steals our very wings to fly…
A muse laments our amusements.
Returned to collect an age-old loan,
Something waits to settle a score:
Fleeting echoes of a harlot’s moan,
Of a prophet’s voice long absent…
Of an unknown midnight cry…
Of an ancient dead lion’s roar.


Monday, June 20, 2005


Children's books are so subversive...

With most Blog "memes" reaching new degrees of pointlessness by the hour, I have decided to start something quasi-meaningful. Inspired partly by fellow blogger Surrogate (of Jesus Reporting), I have decided to initiate a full fledged POLITICAL POETRY SLAM across the Blogosphere. Sure, there will be wanton suckage on some sites...but the intent shall remain ever-pure.

So what's the fucking point of this all? I'll tell you: We live in a politically volatile time, much like the 60's...but the spirit of that era still eludes us. It's like we have protest songs, but our music sucks. Sure, we have activists and revolutionaries. But most of them are too high to vote. So let's shoot for something more all-inclusive...something more grassroots, with the emphasis more on roots, than grass.

TO PARTICIPANTS: Entries can be of any persuasion, left-wing, right-wing, or flat-out batshit loonball. Your post title should be "Rhyme Scheme 2005" or some such; and you should link to the site that implored you to do this. Otherwise, conventional "meme" rules apply.

Let's start this ball rolling, shall we?


In a land of milk and honey,
In a land of sight and sound;
In a time when playing God
Is the biggest game in town,
Only time and God are money…
Or the other way around.
...............Now everything’s surreal.
...............Now they’ve clubbed the seventh seal.
...............Now the seventh church is burning to the ground.
...............Now everything makes sense.
...............Now secret governments
...............Are gathered for a night out on the town.
...............(Now everything is burning to the ground.)

In a land where might made right,
And then made several lefts;
In a land where word of mouth
Got a mean case of Tourette’s,
Four Horsemen race tonight…
Gentlemen, place your bets.
...............Now false profits have us tricked
...............In the name of politics,
...............Like a séance and a circle jerk combined.
...............Now we sing an Amen chorus
...............As they make decisions for us.
...............We all forged our neighbors’ names as we signed.
...............(Now everything Man wants shall be combined.)

In a land where the tide has turned,
But the undercurrent’s strong;
In a land of blood-red paths
That we traverse with a song,
We are almost, sort of, learning
Why we believe but don’t belong.
...............Now we break our toys so they stay ours;
...............Now demons are not foreign powers,
...............Nor sycophants, nor psychopaths--
...............A deluge of delusions of grandeur.
...............And like alligators in the sewers,
...............Urban legend becomes epitaph.
...............(Now a bleeding heart has left a blood-red path.)


It was once said that we were beat
Like a hard, much-traveled road.
Maybe in the 1960’s…
But that road has since closed down.
Since the highwaymen left town,
Dark and desolate are the streets.
Business at the rest stops lacks.
Now technology reigns supreme,
Performing an unnatural act
Upon the American Dream.
“We’re just cogs in the Machine!”
Is the hoarse, violated scream
Of American Walking Meat.
...............(We’re little more than meat
...............To the powers that be…
...............The Meat Generation,
...............God shed His grace on thee.)

Living in such defeat,
After having won the game…
Always glued to our seats,
In a long run so short-sighted
That only its signs were lighted—
While darkness claimed the streets.
We all rush to sign the pact,
When endorsed by the winning team.
We’re the handle to an axe
That we never know who swings.
And now Death has lost its sting,
‘Cause we’re numb to everything
In legalized retreat.
...............(Envelope-stuffing casino queens
...............Were passed out drunk at Twilight’s Last Gleam.
...............Some want a better tomorrow…
...............And some just want better things to drink.)

Gum and snot under the judgment seat,
The 10 Commandments on the back.
Justice will be served during May Sweeps.
(But for two weeks freedom might stop,
When the network moves its timeslot.)
Obey the law—it’s must-see-TV.
While ghetto culture continues spreading,
Our nation’s racial tensions won’t cease.
Blanket identities—piss-soaked bedding…
All faithfully delivered each week.
Blessed are the willing…Blessed are the weak…
Suffer the children…Suffer the meek…
Suffer unto us for us to eat.
...............(Land of the Pilgrim’s pride,
...............Land where our fathers died,
...............Land of the bleating sheep
...............Who are shorn from the inside.)

In God we trust, obsolete.
Trust in our credentials—
God knows, we don’t have a creed.
They took our weapons away
When it turned into child’s play—
Just white-wash the bloody streets.
But they couldn’t outlaw hands and fists…
They couldn’t outlaw the soul that screams.
“God is love,” but ignorance is bliss,
And the only joy many have seen.
Amen—hit the snooze when freedom rings.
Only dream the American Dream…
Like American Deadbeats.
...............(The Watchdogs love us; the censors care—
...............They care about the Red Rocket’s Glare
...............While the American Deadbeat
...............Just assumes our flag is still there.)


A growing distrust of men,
As I watch it all crumble to dust--
As I see golden rules melted into golden calves…
I walk these fields as a victim.
Like a thief in the night, some have stolen the sun from the day.
They have stolen my love out of lust…
Taking my name in number, and I lost my faith on the way.
And when I close my eyes, my ears burn as something laughs

A gripping fever sets in…
It swears I am not the one that’s sick…
Voices whispering to go, imploring me to come.
I’ll never follow again.
Like Adam’s wake to missing ribs,
I awake to all that contradicts…
Men pacified as babes in cribs…
I awake in discomfort to those comfortably numb.

A glowing anger within…
Yet I only want to put the candles out.
I’m no shepherd, and grow weary of counting sheep.
How could I ever begin?
But what burns inside won’t be told not to…
Since waking up, I only know to doubt.
Since waking up, I only see what I can’t do.
Since waking up, I only want to go back to sleep.


I'll hit you with three more at the end of the week. Let's see how far this travels...


Saturday, June 18, 2005


Who says I never win anything?

This website is the proud recipient of the CRYPTIC'S PICK AWARD, from Cryptic Eyellusions.

The Cryptic site has a great design, by the way.

Well, I guess I should thank all the little people...

I'd also like to take this opportunity to welcome some new friends to my "blogs of doom" list below. I do not "blogroll." I do not cheapen the reciprocal link. I link only to blogs I actually read, and recommend. Fuck this whole "mutual masturbation" thing--you like something or you don't. You don't promote the things you are indifferent to.

So, please welcome our new compatriots, Jenn (Jenius), Surrogate (Jesus Reporting), and tj (Zazzafooky). These are not all reciprocals; these are simply folks I've come to appreciate.

Surrogate and I plan to host a pseudo-political poetry slam on our blogs soon...I'll keep you all updated. Anyone is welcome to jump in...

And I think we are all familiar with Doug (whom I harass daily), Dot (whom I don't harass enough), Pikkel (don't call him "weezy"), Eva, and John, correct? And I don't think anybody can forget dear Roger and IconoBill. Even though they try... (For more of Roger's deliriously sacri-licious ranting, check out his message board, which is updated far more often than his blog).

Do to a work-related accident, my ability to post this week was hindered ever-so-slightly. But I assure you, I shall return sooner than later, with venom, and with vigor.

Now go buy some absinthe from the link below...and toss a shekel in my cup.

EDIT: Sweet Pickled Jesus...I forgot Freedom Girl! FG won me over back in May (I think) with her Wal-Mart post. I think you can find it somewhere around here. I still refer to it on occasion, when I can't think of anything to bitch about. Several years ago, Wal-Mart turned me down for a job because I was on prescription medication that complicated their drug-testing policy. I'm better off, I think.

I'm also adding Angel Devoid. It's one of those blogs that's just completely indescribable, like the Yawning Anus. Totally addictive. more thing: I've added Tom "Warrior" Fischer's blog to my list. Tom is an old hero of mine, having been the driving force behind inspired blackened art-thrash pioneers CELTIC FROST, whose albums you are scarcely worthy to own. (In addition to To Mega Therion, I like the one nobody seems to care about, Vanity/Nemesis). Check 'em out! allies pile up like corpses in my yard... I love it.


Monday, June 13, 2005


Oh, sure--NOW you tell me...


I try to post twice weekly, maybe more. Admittedly, I’ve gotten slack of late. Sad, too—I’ve suddenly been blessed with traffic, new eyes and minds to sicken and repulse.

I’ll make it up tonight. This post is long, swollen, and unwieldy, like a big black, greased-up porno cock. But Introspection’s greedy phallus shall only jack into its own flaps for a bit, until the hairy, throbbing rod of this bastard’s weary Worldview points toward you. It doesn’t spurt the Gooey Truth, but its smells and stains are close enough for porn. So stay with me, dear readers, as I rake the muck, then rate my luck, and rape the sordid past…

I was 14, and so much afraid: I’d discovered girls quite early on, but now I was obsessed. Puberty hit me hard, and made its mark—the Hand of Gland—upon my cracking voice and fuzzy chin. It was the Mark Of The Beast, as befalls a cub…a rite of passage into manhood, to the snide delights and chortles of womanhood all around. The Wages Of Sin were Death, and I was finally on the clock.
But I was not a normal youth. I was Pentecostal; and the onset of such interests were the very Mark Of Cain. I was taunted and tormented by bullies and stuck-up girls before—but now I was tortured nightly by my own wants, needs, and urges. What sort of God gives man a need he can’t fulfill, lest he fall deeply into sin? It was contradiction; and it made me miserable.

Boo Hoo. You’ve heard this all before. But wait—there’s something more.

We used to dream, you see—we horny Christian Youth. Sexual repression makes exquisite nightmare fodder for the righteously oppressed. You see, Jesus hated T & A; worst yet, he might return at any hour. What awkward teenage boy wants to be caught beating meat during the Rapture? ‘Cause if you’re polishing the bishop when the Good Lord comes, you’re left to face the Antichrist alone. And if you’re 14 years old and “left behind,” ol’ Splitfoot is the least of your concerns—what if Jesus takes your parents, whose roof you’re staying under…your family, friends…everyone you loved has disappeared. And there you are, alone and playing whack-a-mole—all for scattered signals, Skinamax, and unrealistic airbrushed Playboy pics.

Nah…that’s not gonna fuck anybody up, right?

One night I had The Dream. I was watching Lady Chatterly, or some such softcore drivel, when the Great Trump sounded, blasting forth for all with ears to hear—but mine were deathly silent. I knew something was up; I ran outside. Above me, I could see it: A gathering of souls, dead, undead, and the righteously alive, transforming before my teenage eyes, as they all cluttered the sky. They filled the air like human smog. The clouds rolled back like blobs of greasy dishwater when you add drops of detergent to the sink. In the center, I could see Him—our righteous, holy Icon—the Dashboard Christ, the Iron Fist Of Love’s Perfection, the Governor of Grace, ol’ JC in the Godly, glowing flesh. He beckoned all to come. I fixed my eyes upon the heaving mass that dwarfed the sun—all of this occurring in the twinkling of an eye—and I began to slowly rise toward the sky.
But the images of bouncing, bulbous tits kept bleeding through the membranes of my mind. I felt the weight of guilt, because I was not holy, nor covered under grace almighty—I hadn’t had the time, you see, to ask forgiveness before this Blessed Advent had begun. (If I’d died right then, I’d surely greet the Devil in his flaming Sodom underground abode). I was the Unforgiven, and out of grace—and now, it seemed, I was likely out of time. With each glimpse of a forbidden nipple, each shimmer of a thigh—every trace of flesh that slithered through my fevered teenage mind—I sank lower to the ground.

Before “Jesus Wept” could leave my lips, they all were gone. The sky was gray and empty. Silence roared like white noise all around. It was over; I was lost. I was Unraptured, left behind—all for a glimpse of Nekkid Boobs, and the pale blood on my hands—a residue of lost souls, each sperm a human life I murdered, to which I’d be accountable in the end. I was a masturbating Hitler, alone in the world, without a God, a parent or a friend…just me and the Great Beast—locusts and the Tribulation. I would have to give my life now, if I wished to be redeemed.

I awoke, trembling and wet with tears…and sadly still 14. As a viral, primal male in heat, I woke with wooden loins. I cursed my hellbound traitor cock. I prayed for hours; but it took God nearly a year to answer, and make me not 14. But then I was 15, and that was worse. Sixteen was even worse than that, if not the worst of all.

Nah…that’s not gonna mess with anyone.

I was taunted by these dreams for years. I had just turned 21 the year I lost my faith for good. Dark, lost, wandering years would follow…but I was never left Unraptured in a dream ever again. Better still, now I had real sex with real girls…and—eyes wide with amazement each every time—the ground routinely failed to open up and swallow me. It was a mystery, a miracle of life, like childbirth, farts, and German Beer, that I never took for granted; nay, I came to cherish it like life itself, or Family Guy, and European Death Metal CD’s. The afterglow is warm, my love—but it’s not always about you. It’s not about what happened, babe—but rather, what did not. Stomp the floor again, my dear—do you hear the whispers of the damned roll with the wind? Is their lightning in the sky, pointed like a bullet at our spines? No? God be praised; stay naked, girl—we’re doing it again.

Last night I had another dream; my first such dream in ten long years. But this dream, readers, was different. This time…the tide has turned.

We, as a culture, never learn. The same trends, the same scandals, the same old BULLSHIT—it all comes back around, like bellbottoms and syphilis.

In the late eighties, there was an Evangelical “Rapture Scandal” that nearly rocked the church—at least the Fundamentalist wing. There was an immensely popular book, you see, that predicted Christ’s return in 1988. Actually, there were several of them—prophecy teachers like Colin Deal, Charles Taylor, and Edgar C. Whisenant were all the rage back then. And on that Blessed Day, people shot their pets, quit their jobs, alienated friends and loved ones, and gave away their things en masse. People forget just how widespread this was. Time and gross embarrassment has minimized the scope of this event (or non-event, as such). But I remember. I, like all the others, watched the sky. We watched in vain.

American society is due for another such Rapture Scare—some have implied that our esteemed President may have already fallen for one. Why? Because people are stupid, and they don’t learn. The cycles just begin anew.

In my dream, this cycle had indeed begun afresh. A full-fledged Rapture Scare—no doubt inspired by those vicious Left Behind books—was in effect. I dismissed it with a wanking motion. I was rebuked. In fact, dare I say, my mailbox was just filled with froth and spittle, the weeping of pious loved ones, and the ravings of the White Christian Majority, who attacked me on the internet for “my arrogance in second-guessing ‘God’”.
At last that day—that Blessed Day!—was upon us. I was staying with my folks. My father slept, slumped over on the couch. He figured that if Christ could raise the dead, He could at least poke him awake to take him home. My mother dreamt of racing across the backs of those already in mid-air. She’d crawl past every rotten Calvinist, to poke her head in Glory’s Hole. Now my parents, above all people, would know that even Christ said that He “didn’t know the day.” But even they were caught up in the hype.
The minutes ticked. The hours melted into madness for the weeping, waiting throngs—heads bowed, hearts deep in prayer, and candles lifted to the sky, like lighters at a Lynyrd Skynyrd show. Some friends of mine, who knew the Scriptures stated that a “trump shall sound” at the appointed time, got an air raid siren. When the “Holy Hour” hit, they let the siren wail, and hundreds of eager glory-hounds leapt off their pious lawns, only to fall flat on their face. When the tears and laughter faded, only disappointment filled the day’s remaining moments. The time had passed, and none had cracked the sky.
It was just like a Carpenter God: Like any workman, he promises to return, but never shows… For “God” was a pilot that once flew over this island Earth…leaving followers, in child-like faith, praying daily to, and waiting for, the planes.

The last thing I remember in my dream was this: I was typing on my blog. The title of my post was, “ARE WE ALL DONE BEING STUPID NOW?”

But as I woke, the answer came: The answer, I’m afraid to say, is "No.”


Sunday, June 12, 2005


Just in time for the Second Coming!

In my neverending quest for the most obscenely ridiculous bulldada on the internet, I ran across this (I'd say I came across it, but really, that's a given).

Basically, it is a series of Christian justifications for Blowjobs, Buttfucking, and Threesomes.
They even have an article on their site called "Viagra And God's Will."

Wow. I knew I darted out too early...

Now, these do not appear to be some fringe cluster of weirdos, or Polyamory tupperwear den. This is "straight talk," from allegedly normal, church-going people. (Albeit, normal, church-going people who use alot of Astro-Glide).

Maybe I was simply in the wrong denomination?

My favorite was the "Biblical precedent" for Anal Intercourse. I will quote freely from it here.

Sure, it may seem bizarre--but think about it: Paul was a "prisoner of Jesus Christ." And we all know how prisoners do it, right? Didn't Paul say to "be all things to all people"? Well, "be" on your knees, ladies in Christ. We've got Scripture on our side...

"Are you saving yourself for your wedding night? The Devil wants you to fail, that’s why he puts stumbling blocks in your way. But God wants you to succeed, and that’s why he has given us an alternative to intercourse before marriage: anal sex."

Wow. What an introduction. You know, if more Christian tracts read like that, I think we'd see a virtual explosion in conversions. Really. To Hell with the Devil! Bend over!

"Through anal sex, you can satisfy your body’s needs, while you avoid the risk of unwanted pregnancy and still keep yourself pure for marriage."

Okay, now, guys..."pure" is kinda stretching it, don't you think. Oh...I said "stretching." Sorry.
"Satisfy your body's needs" know, like the one for a thick, veiny Sausage Enema. Glory!

"’s important to realize that...often quoted (condemnatory) scriptures refer only to sexual acts between two men. Nowhere does the Bible forbid anal sex between a male and female."

Britney Spears, with butt plug = Good.
Backstreet Boys, in any form = Bad.

"Lamentations 2:10 describes how “The virgins of Jerusalem have bowed their heads to the ground,” indicating how virginal maidens should position themselves to receive anal sex."

No wonder they call it "the Wailing Wall."

Don't bend over in Tel Aviv, either.

"Another suggestive scripture tells of a woman’s pride in her “valley” (referring to her buttocks and the cleft between them) and entices her lover to ejaculate against her backside: "How boastful you are about the valleys! O backsliding daughter who trusts in her treasures, {saying,} ' Who will come against me?' (Jeremiah 49:4)"

"O 'backsliding' daughter," indeed. I'm not against you, dear--I'm for you!

"And in the Song of Songs, the lover urges his mate to allow him to enter her from behind: “Draw me after you, let us make haste.” (Song of Solomon, 1:4)"

But haste makes waste, wherein waste is made. Isn't backdoor action just a little...filthy? Even for a faith that regularly eats its Messiah (and thus, by default, excretes Him)?
Nah...get this:

"The Bible says, “To the pure, all things are pure.” (Titus 1:15)..."

Well then...God said it, I believe it, and that settles it!

"...having conventional vaginal intercourse can lead to unwanted pregnancies. While...the Lord bade us to “be fruitful and multiply,” (Gen 1:22) the Bible also counsels that “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” (Eccl. 3:1)"

Wow. That one's possitively brilliant. I wish I'd thought of that one when I was dating... Oh Hank...some "Bible Answer Man" you were!

"...for a young woman who has never engaged in sexual intercourse, having anal sex allows her to preserve her virginity (i.e., maintain an intact hymen) until marriage. There is no greater gift that a bride can give than to offer her pure, unsullied maidenhead to her husband on their wedding night."

But is it really such a coup that your young new wife is a virgin, if she can stuff a bowling pin in her saggy, puckered shithole? Is her "unsullied maidenhead" really that valuable if she has a fist-sized anus, that could comfortably hold your thermos?

"Unsulled"...Who is this Sully guy, anyway? It seems he gets around.

"Finally, anal sex allows both partners to save the most intimate and powerful sexual act, that of face-to-face vaginal intercourse, for their mates in marriage..."

Can we save that whole raising-children-and-paying-bills thing for later, too? Wow...the Lord really does move in mysterious ways, afterall. I got my Bible. I got my Vaseline. Baby, the Lord has left the rest to you.

Jesus loves you...but it's my cock in your ass.


Sunday, June 05, 2005


"I want to suck your...freedom."

"There is then little indeed in common between Love and such tepid passions as regard, affection, or kindliness; it is the uninitiate, who, to his damnation in a hell of cabbage soup and soap suds, confuses them.
"Love may best be defined as the passion of Hatred inflamed to the point of madness, when it takes refuge in Self-destruction.
"Love is clear-sighted with the lust of deadly rage, anatomizing its victim with keen energy, seeking where best to strike home mortally to the heart; it becomes blind only when its fury has completely overpowered it, and thrust it into the red maw of the furnace of self-immolation."

--Aleister Crowley, Little Essays Toward Truth.