Friday, December 30, 2005



My friend Kris was lonely and frustrated—he worked too many hours, days and—quite often—weeks sorely on end, to scarcely even meet a girl, much less meat that girl. And when he did meet (or meat) someone, it was some St. Charles or St. Louis casualty—no different than when I prowled those stomping grounds. In fact, I do believe it rates a separate rambling tangent all its own:

With a handful of exceptions—all of whom can be named without repeating vowels, or numbered without a deficit of digits, I am sure—St. Charles is the Goodwill of the Playing Field, a dime-store Dating Scene: a sad-sack Salvation Army for sorry Midwest singles, it’s bargain-table odor reeking of day-old tackle, mildewed suits and baby-slobber, and the musty pheromone of death that the elderly emit…all of it covered like those couches—watermarked with urine—that the Goodwill sells to ne’er-do-wells, a drape over the cigarette burns and spring-snags, cushion crumbs and musky crusts, soda stains and booger smears.

Yes, a retail drape covers every stink and stain, and every story that unfolds in the cushion folds—a beercap, spit and semen Rorschach patches, evidence of menstrual spots or marital spats, another glob of preconception Man, another stale malt liquor odor, then sweat, then globs of soured baby formula…and then more blood, and wait—what could that last smear be?—could those be tears? Every couch in Goodwill tells a story through its stains and stink. And every couch, at least when I went in, was covered with a drape. And like the sour milk smell of that Thrift Store carpet, know that the carpet of the St. Charles Playing Field matches the drapes.

So Kris was often out of town, and sorely out of luck when he was not; and I refused to set my best friend up with someone I can’t stand, or who can barely stand up, or would stand either of us up for Motorcross.

I’d had decent luck finding willing harlots via dating sites like AFF and I promised I would scour them once more on his behalf. What I’d forgotten, however, is how dreadfully expensive these things are, not to mention shady—many of these sites secretly sell ladies’ profiles back and forth, and trade your information like so many “good time” numbers on a bathroom wall. There are also the Baiters. Baiters are girls who work for the site, who occasionally pretend to show interest in unpopular men’s profiles to keep them paying for the service. Nice, eh?

I went to one such site called Bangmatch. I surfed around, and thought, this one looks good—if they have any members in our area. But the site refused to let me search this. It wanted my monthly dollar on blind faith—I would have to pay a full month’s membership just to see if there was anyone within throwing a rock of, or even in our state.

I sighed, and began clicking away the maze of pop-up ads to leave. That’s when I saw it…it was the Evil Neon Dream: in brightest lighted font, it said, “Ladies Enter Free!”

These sites always need women…and what better way to secure them, right? It was then I got a truly wicked notion. I signed up with the service as a girl. I figured I would then log in, use their search function, see what they had to offer in our area, and if any of it was worth spending a dollar on. At least that was the plan. I’d make my profile super-unattractive, so as not to draw attention. That’s where things get interesting.

You see…for some men, nothing is too unattractive, vile, or grotesque to give a shot—be it a shot in the dark, or across her fatted back. Their life is a Lonely Now in search of Anything Soon. These men are hollow shells, as fired from the rusty muskets of Midlife crises, personality defects, flaws, and shame. And yet they have no shame. This I’d come to learn.

Here I was—hardly anyone’s knight in shining armor. I’m a scoundrel; I admit it. But in the two weeks that my profile ran, I suddenly understood why pepper spray flies off the racks. These men made even me feel dirty—and truly, that’s a feat. I had men send letter after sordid letter—lying, using lines I might have used in school. I had guys quoting porno films, and bragging of how they’re cheating on their wives. Letter after letter I received…I began to get a message… That message? Men are scum. Dear God, it’s true…we really are. But it’s better if I show you.

I called myself “Angelmeat.” I claimed to be 300lb., and hirsuite. I bragged about my bristly “gorilla salad,” and the roll of greasy meat that I called “chunder” beneath the backstrap of my bra. I described my breasts as “pendulous.” My thighs were walls of moistened margarine, with hair. “No one will want to tap this,” I chuckled as I typed it out. “No one with a life, or self-esteem or any self-respect.” Oh…but that was where my calculations failed.

Here are some sample letters I received, in the FIRST THREE HOURS after putting up my profile. Now keep in mind that I claimed I was a Baptist—I was looking for a lover, but I wouldn’t live in sin. Yet most of these men, when they wrote me, sent pictures of their penis.
The vast majority of messages simply said "call me" or "contact me now"—men of few words, obviously. I don’t know about you, but when I meet a girl at a club, I try to say more than “Hey bitch, give me your number!” Apparently, I am the last of a dying breed.

Here’s some of my favorites--Keep in mind that these are the ENTIRE MESSAGES. No wooing or small talk here...these guys were ready to bang away. I've included my replies, as Angelmeat.

BlackCockDown: _do you like black dick ? I am well hung. holla back_ Sex acts I enjoy: Receiving oral sex, Giving rim jobs, Nude photography, Home videos, Voyeurism, Role playing, Threesomes, Orgies, Fun with food, Sex in public, Bondage & Domination

Angelmeat: How delightful! Maybe you could combine some of those…you know—like the role playing and the food fun. I’ll tell you what, you pretend to be a large meatloaf, and I’ll stick a fork in you. Remember not to scream. Meat never screams. That is, except in dreams—dear God, the dreams! Angel. PS. If “holla” is the same as “flail like a wounded bird while screaming,” I can certainly accomodate you. AAAAAAAhhh!!!!!!!!!!

Captain_Dreamy_Sack: _hi sexy if you would like to meet and have some fun send me a message_

Angelmeat: Can that message be “Go fuck yourself?”

HardAsIron: _this is hard for me to do .im 6feet 250 i have alittle belly as so people call it a spare tire or a tool sheid hi. _ Sex toys I enjoy using on myself or my partner: Anal beads, Cock rings, Clit stimulators, Dildos, Vibrators, Butt plugs, Ben Wa balls, Strap-ons

Angelmeat: I have a “tool sheid” also, as so you call it. And I keep many toys in there. You seem to like toys. My “sheid” is getting full, though, lover—would you mind if I kept some of them in yours?

Julio_Ben_Julio: _Hi I saw your profile and wanted to see if you wanted to do anything that may come to mind. Just let me know._

Angelmeat: Ok. Anything at all? Because a lot of things come to mind throughout the night. Like what do penguins taste like? I’d also like to go to the circus, and kidnap a dwarf. Then I want to dress him like an archbishop, while we drown him in a bathtub filled with soy sauce. God, that’s hot. And wear flippers. Always wear the flippers. Is Friday good?


Not bad enough, dear readers? Wait—oh just you wait! Come Monday, I will show you the dire depths of man’s corroded soul. Because this was just Day One. And I have many more letters to show you, as I’d have many yet a suitor to fend off…



Thursday, December 29, 2005


I have some great stories to tell this week, which I’ve been putting off for far too long. While I realize that my readership awaits the next full series…something interesting happens, and I get distracted, either with stuff like this or this, or this.

But mostly, I’ve been distracted by…uh…distractions?!

Take this week, for instance. Go ahead—I’m done with it...


You see, I was recently encouraged by a musician friend to set up a MySpace profile, for business/networking purposes. Sure, it sounded like a great idea—except that I’d spent the last several months utterly mocking MySpace people.

Then I got an e-mail. It said, “Holiday Greetings From MySpace!”

Apparently, many long nights and haggard months ago, I must have—in a clearly drunk and doped out state—set up an account, and completely forgotten about it. Oops.

But hey, it’s good for business relations, right? Unfortunately, my mind is rarely on business matters, and after sprucing up my page, I spent my next several days flirting with goth chicks far and long into the hazy, addled night. My blogger ladies will be so jealous...


I also briefly turned into Danny Bonnaduce. The gooey burnt out husks of my fried circuits and broken neural pathways can’t resist the site of purest kitsch. You see, people set up MySpace accounts for inanimate objects. At some point, I ran across a profile that listed “ALCOHOL” as one of their friends. Being somewhat acquainted already, I immediately added “ALCOHOL” as one my friends. Then, I noticed on its profile, that “ALCOHOL” had listed “MARIJUANA” as a friend. This then led me to a page for “LSD.” Again, I added it, only to see “COCAINE” among its friends. I added “COCAINE,” and saw a profile page amongst its friends for “METHAMPHETAMINE.” Hey, MySpace is for connecting with old pals, right?

Thus, in the course of twenty minutes, I became Hunter S. Thompson, and there would be no turning back. I passed on adding “HEROIN,” though. We had a falling out.


One of the gals I was talking to wanted to chat on Yahoo. I hadn’t used Yahoo Instant Messenger in forever. Now I remember why—there are weird things there. A long time ago, I had done an article on the “consensual cannibalism” subculture. I had made a new Yahoo ID for the sole purpose of infiltrating and chatting with them. Apparently, I forgot to kill the profile when the article was done, and a fellow named “Footoeat” IM’ed me out of the blue.

The conversation didn’t last long. Here is the entire transcript (I am Stigmatador):

footoeat: hi
footoeat: thank you
footoeat: Saw your profile in sassy group
footoeat: R u into cannibalism?
footoeat: yes. I ve joined many. But I am looking for someone interested in eating
footoeat: eating my feet
stigmatad0r: NOT TO BE RUDE OR ANYTHING...
footoeat: goodbye.

People have no sense of humor anymore.

“Futuo sese quasi sese nescio capio a ludo.”

(Sigh) [cue sad Incredible Hulk "walking away" music...]

Tomorrow: My adventures as an Ugly Chick on a singles site. Stay tuned…


Sunday, December 25, 2005


(Looking for something new? I'm at the other place today. I'll be back this way come Tuesday night--I have a special comic treat to warm assorted cockles, far and wide...heh heh...I said "cockles").


Thursday, December 22, 2005


I actually had a pretty good post set aside for today...and then I saw this.

And nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

Nothing, I tell you. No matter how great. (Not even the nekkid bowling).

For hardened sinners such as myself, this is the greatest sort of porn.

Try again tomorrow. I am soooooooooooo going to Hell...

Rock on.


Monday, December 19, 2005


Today, in celebration and anouncement of my new poetry blog, Vowel Movements, I will leave your addled minds with a piece of holiday anticheer.

For those who don't know, I've been carrying on in private with this endeavor for about a week or so. I wanted to see what sort of traffic word-of-mouth alone brought. Alas, the word "alone" would come into play more than once that week.

The point of it all is this, really: over time, THE AMEN CORNER has evolved. It has a following, however miniscule, who have come to expect a certain sort of beast each week. Whether it be a gonzo-style alliterative memoir, piece of obscene fiction, or a hyperlink-ridden satirical rant, most of what I do here makes people laugh or twitch. As great as this is, it also means that I must keep upping the dose. As such, I have reached a point where I realize that I can never really be taken seriously here. No one comes here to read about my day, or my emotional damage. Nor should they. Rather, they come here to read words like "wigglepit," "cuntmuffin," and "meathammer."

Thus, I have branched out a bit. THE AMEN CORNER remains forever open, and obscene. Meanwhile, all the melodrama will be partitioned off, and swept into little Auchswitz piles on the other site. (Which, ironically, has a
similar web address as a religious site I found out today).

In other words, you all now have TWO websites to bookmark/flag, and TWO buttons to affix to your sidebars. I'm sure you'll all be thrilled.
(But then, I was sure everyone would love the Squid and Andrew series. Go figure.)

This week, I'm featuring a series of poems dealing with my forsaken religious background; it's been going for awhile, so scroll down to the bottom of the page when you begin.
As for the corner? Nothing changes here. We'll go back to making the readers twitch bright Wednesday morning.

Caveat emptor, or is that empty?



I'm feeling overshadowed...

It's holiday time again.
An ungodly cold's outside.

An ungodly cold's within.

There is no snow on the ground,

And no presents to be found--

But a presence all around.
Whatever tapped my window

Must have found it's own way in.

I will not sing any carols.
I've got a stocking full of coal.
The man in red is here;
It's not wants my soul.

It's humming "Carol Of The Bells."
It's not jolly, but laughs as well.
It likes that roasted chestnut smell.
By the chimney are dead sparrows.
"God's eye is on them," it consoles.

Something arrived for me today;
I don't mean in the mail.
It brushed past my shoulder.

It flew. It soared. It sailed.

That's not Frosty waiting for me outside.
That's not Rudolph, but it glows just as bright.
It's not St. Nick, though it offers gifts at night...
It did not come here on a sleigh,
But like Jack Frost, it's pale.


(PS, Fuck Christmas).

Wednesday, December 14, 2005


(If you are generally unaware of this week's series, see last Monday's post for details...)


The Squid: A mind-fried crimelord on the downward spiral.

Andrew: His ne'er-do-well teenage successor.

The Locale: The Lalaurie House, abandoned, in New Orleans, in some distant future, but no less haunted...


Once, along his lamentable travels and travails across the 1st and 2nd floors of the hotel presenting consuming the entire filthy clan, young Andrew—the noted neuro-novice—made the pitiable mistake of leaving his copy of Juggs within vicinity of a Bhagavad-Gita belonging to his mentor, The Squid—the “sri” master bastard—in a squalor parlor toilet pile of literature near the stall.

The Squid saw opportunity for council—not that anything was wrong, but rather that things reminded him of other things. Presumably in this instance, the erect spurting penises, gaping wombs and poop-shoots, reminded him of the vast fount of wisdom that he—a dick with balls in a puckered Porky’s pornucopia of pussies, cocksuckers, and assholes—had courageous virile madness to impart among the parted thighs and cheeks of their collective cerebellums. And like that soiled, violated picture of Fran Drescher from that Entertainment Weekly stuck fast to the bathroom floor—peppered with Pre-Man globs and squiggles, Andrew was, at very least (or very best), a stationary target. The boy was easy prey.

The Squid called Andrew into the “conference room.” They sat upon the fetid “Pillows Of Learning,” facing one another, to begin.

“Andrew, my boy, tell me: How many penises do you have?”

Andrew smirked, “Um, last I checked, I believe there was only one…”

The Squid seemed bemused. “Well then,” he offered, “when you are receiving a blowjob, what receives that blessed gift?”

“My cock,” Andrew asserted.

“Alright, but what perceives that?” The Squid leaned in a bit.

“Well…I do…myself, I guess.”

“Okay. So if the “microcosm” that perceives is, by necessity, separate from that macrocosm which receives, in a sense, one might deduce that reality is a multi-cock exchange. There is the cock which experiences the hummer, and beyond that—or within—there is the cock which then experiences experience itself.”

Andrew scratched his head, then grinned; he thought he understood. “So, in a way, I have two dicks! Cool!”

The Squid sat upright. “Ah, but wait—What, then, perceives perception? Certainly, by logical default, there is a cock which perceives the cock perceiving the cock receiving head.”

Andrew’s head hurt. “So wait…then I have three dicks?”

The Squid shook his head. “Perhaps, but then, what perceives all that? And that thereafter?”

Andrew nodded slowly. “So really, in the philosophical sense, I have an infinity of dicks!”

“Now, dear Andrew, knowing what you know of logic and of common sense, point out the logical flaw in our discussion.” The Squid smiled with poo-consuming menace.

Andrew paused, then replied, “That reality outside is different from the inside?”

The Squid seemed disappointed. “No…no, that’s not it at all.” The Squid got up to leave; he turned to offer a condescending doggie pat upon his student’s head. “The flaw, dear boy, was that no one would probably give you a blowjob in the first place, and therefore, that which is outside the realm of feasible experience is—in the Wittgenstein sense—unworthy of being spoken about to begin.”

The Squid—the shaman, the sage—left to torment others by his tongue. Andrew—the intern, the quasi-mentored—remained…first to stare off wildly into space, and secondly to weep within the infinity of experience and his infinite lack thereof.


Monday, December 12, 2005


(If you are generally unaware of this week's series, see last Monday's post for details...)


The Squid: A mind-fried crimelord on the downward spiral.

Andrew: His ne'er-do-well teenage successor.

The Locale: The Lalaurie House, abandoned, in New Orleans, in some distant future, but no less haunted...


Andrew—the green trainee—returned home from a jaunt—a fearsome and tiresome escapade in spades. “That was Hell,” he swore, exasperated and worn.

“Ah… Have a seat,” said The Squid—the rancid master—upon the boy’s entrance. Tweaked and tweaking, Andrew sat upon the disease-ridden “pillow of learning,” and prepared himself, somewhat reluctantly, to listen to his lord.

The Squid assumed his Buddha guru posture, which was rather slumped over for an avatar. “Tell me boy,” he said, “Have you ever shoved a starfruit up a hungry man-shoot?”

Andrew blinked uncontrollably. “A…a…what?!”

The Squid smiled and replied, quite plainly, “A man-shoot—a man’s own chocolate starfish, a manhole, a brownie cave, a mangina—good God, boy—an asshole. And a hungry one, at that!”

“God, no!” Andrew shrieked.

“Then Andrew, my boy,” quipped The Squid, “you’ve never truly lived.”

Andrew shook his head, and said, in a somewhat more lively voice than normal, “Well so be it, then…’Cause if that’s the case, I feel I may be better off if I never lived a day in my whole life!”

The Squid grinned a knowing Zen-grin, “And that, dear Andrew, is exactly the point I seek to make.”

Andrew was confused. “That life is not worth living?”

The Squid, in negation, shook his head. “No, no—not at all. Rather, that Hell is really other people, Fellow Man—and especially that Man’s hairy, puckered fruit-packed mangina.”

“I’m not sure if I actually believe in Hell, sir—it’s a bit of a religious concept, you know.”

“I agree,” began The Squid, “that was the point. I’m not very religious, either.”

Andrew nodded in agreement. “So what’s you’re take on it?”

The Squid thought for a moment, and replied, “It’s a bit off-topic, but…well… Do you know what the true nature of religion is, Andrew?”

Andrew shrugged, resigned to lecture. “I expect you’ll tell me.”

The Squid replied, “Precisely.” And with that, he left the room.

Andrew—the seeker, the asker—sat alone scratching his head. The Squid—the mystic, the prophet—never returned.


Friday, December 09, 2005


(If you are generally unaware of this week's series, see Monday's post for details...)


The Squid: A mind-fried crimelord on the downward spiral.

His ne'er-do-well teenage successor.

The Locale:
The Lalaurie House, abandoned, in New Orleans, in some distant future, but no less haunted...


When Andrew—the intrepid pupil—returned from his most recent indecent travels, he bore a special sort of burden this time around. Life, the universe, the Great Divine—or whatever—had taunted him with spitballs from beyond…strange events that shattered notions of the nature of the world, then began to mock and giggle that anyone would have notions in the first place, a dipshit headtrip of deep-shit dimensions. It was unmentionable to him, and unperceivable beyond that—a mind-fuck in a muck of hazy dreams. But The Squid—the grizzled wizard—knew just what to say. He often offered advice on such strange things. He often offered advice…period. Actually, he failed to “offer,” so much as corner, inconvenience, scare, and lecture until done. But this was an occasion wherein one actually sought out his odd advice.

The two sat on dirty pillows, eye to eye, six feet apart. And class began.

“Sir, I don’t understand what happened…not a lick of it. It just doesn’t make sense. It couldn’t have been real—things like that don’t happen in real life.”

The Squid nodded intently, and scratched his itchy hand. He had rubbed a couple acid tabs into his palm not long ago. He wasn’t high, as such, but he could feel it kicking in. “Andrew, you don’t know about reality. You can’t know, and you can’t know even that. I can’t either. Philosophers call it ‘the problem of certainty.’ At least they think they do. They might call it ‘Eugene,’ and simply hear ‘problem of certainty.’ I wouldn’t know. No one can know anything. And they can’t even know that. In fact, I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. And sadly, that’s as good a proof as any.”

Andrew stared blankly. Philosophers were weird.

“You see, Andrew, we can only really guess at things. But I’ll give you my best guess. At least I think I will.” The Squid began to space and smirk. The acid was beginning to kick his ass.

“I’m open to anything,” Andrew offered, shaking his head.

“Excellent,” said The Squid. “Do you want some dope?”

“No…not at the moment. Thanks anyway.”

“Your loss. Oh well, where were we…oh yeah…we’re here. At least we think we are. In a reality of perception, which is really something different, after all.”

Andrew scratched his head. “You mean there are, like, levels to reality? I’ve thought about that...”

The Squid shook his head. The room swirled in his eyes as the colors bled. He gave Andrew a rather disconcerting smirk, and carried on. “Try not to think of reality as…whoa,” The Squid paused for a minute to stare at something he did not really see. “Wow. Uh, anyway...Try not to think of reality as…shit, that’s really fucking with me. I’m sorry.” The Squid chortled a bit and continued to stare.

“Please get on with it, sir…I’m really confused, here.”

The Squid steadied himself, and resumed eye contact. “Me too, Andrew, me too. But anyway, try not to think of reality in terms of 'levels,' or even—wow, um, nevermind—uh, dimensions…oh man. But, uh, think of it in terms of like a really big onion,” his eyes grew wider as he spoke, “Yeah, that’s it—a really, really awesome fucking onion. Now, like, think about peeling away layer after layer of onion skin, each successive layer thicker and more dense than the last, yet smaller by necessity. Far out, right?

Andrew had never heard The Squid say “Far out,” ever. He likely never would again.

“So keep peeling and peeling and peeling, and you know what happens, Andrew? Your hands stink. And nobody will touch you, not with a stolen pair of shitty gloves.”

Andrew did not want to be touched with shitty gloves. This arrangement was just fine.

The Squid continued, “And do you know what you find when you get to the center of it all?”

Andrew nodded wearily, “I suppose that I should say that I can’t really know. Right?”

The Squid appeared agitated. He was tripping balls. “Don’t patronize me, you little shit. Oh, I sorry--that was a little rough, wasn’t it? Let’s see, where was I? Ah yes…the center. You want to penetrate the center, right? At the center of it all is Alice’s rabbit hole. And do you know what happens when you penetrate Alice’s rabbit hole?

Andrew nodded “no.”

“I’ll tell you what you’ll get: A great big squeal of surprise, a black eye, and possibly a hefty lawsuit. That sort of thing is frowned upon in some states, you know.”

Andrew nodded again, blessed with that special twitch. Recalling earlier rants, he observed, “You know, sir—or maybe you don’t; I don’t want to start that again—you talk an awful lot about lawsuits in your philosophy…”

The Squid stared at his feet briefly, clearly observing something unobservable by others, then returned to the discussion. “Well, why not? I am an outlaw. And a philosopher. And you know what, Andrew?”


“Not every outlaw is a philosopher, but most good philosophers are outlaws. And the nature of reality is best perceived if you have a damn good lawyer.”

Andrew marveled briefly. It was close enough to sage. “And you know what else, Andrew?”


“Yes,” said The Squid.


“Good then,” replied The Squid, “My job here is finished.”

Andrew felt betrayed by this sudden madness. “Wait—I didn’t catch what you said…”

“I said, ‘And you know what else, Andrew?’” The Squid winked back.

Andrew thought carefully, and defiantly replied, “No.”

The Squid, tweaked and hallucinating, responded as he sat up, about to leave. “Well…you should. It’s very important. I wish I did.” And with this, he left the room.

After The Squid—the sorcerer, the adept—departed, poor, shaken Andrew—the initiate, the observer—sat alone, and flustered, never moving from the spot. He shouted after The Squid, “But I can’t!” Then he shouted at the heavens—knowing it was weird above him without having to look, “I can’t know…no, I can’t.”

He then shook it off, and left the room, to go masturbate in the bathroom down the hall.


Wednesday, December 07, 2005



Be sure to hustle on over to the legendary YAWNING ANUS site, where I am guest-posting today, after much delay. Agent Yawn, in between his hectic schedule of coring random cattle sphincters to feed the ravenous cannibal Greys deep within Cheney's secret bunker beneath Dulce, New Mexico, sent the interview questions, and I, a month later. Sorry.

I'm still in shock that he said nothing about my usage of the UMMO symbol...



Tuesday, December 06, 2005


(If you are generally unaware of this week's series, see yesterday's post for details...)


The Squid: A mind-fried crimelord on the downward spiral.

Andrew: His ne'er-do-well teenage successor.

The Locale: The Lalaurie House, abandoned, in New Orleans, in some distant future, but no less haunted...


Cards lay in between a kneeling Squid—the king of pushers—and Andrew—the nauseous Chosen One. Quothe The Squid to Andrew, “Tell me—and be honest—do you know what it is you get when you thrust fingers and fist into the vast Primordial Womb from which Man came?”

Andrew twitched and blinked a bit, which was to say, “Not quite.”

“I’ll tell you what you get,” The Squid proclaimed. “The same thing that you get when you thrust your hand in any womb a man came in—sticky, greasy fingers that reek of fish and taint-meats.”

Andrew nodded slowly, not quite sure he heard it all quite right.

“And sometimes,” The Squid, fondling the cards, continued, “a lawsuit is involved.”

Andrew twitched and blinked some more, and finally—gazing at the deck—replied, “What the Hell does that have to do with Uno?!”

“Absolutely nothing,” The Squid replied, “And it never will, at least I hope. I want you to remember that.”

Andrew sighed, and said, “Okay…whatever. But I believe it’s still your turn.”

But no sooner had he spoken it, then he realized that The Squid—the dealer, the elder—had left the room. And it was moments later when Andrew—the devoted, the pledge—noted that he heard sounds down the hall…moaning, groaning, groping sounds—echoes of The Squid fucking his girlfriend two doors down. Andrew sighed, and shut the door. He then pulled out a deck of Solitaire.

He was enlightened.


Monday, December 05, 2005


The following series of posts are potential excerpts and/or inclusions to my upcoming novel, Chasing Phantoms.
In between chapters/stories, there are a number of bizarre segueways involving a Zen-like crime lord called The Squid, and his young ne'er-do-well apprentice, Andrew. The only background that you need is that they are holed up in an abandoned (and potentially haunted) hotel building.
Now, I shouldn't need to tell anyone at this point that my posts are "adult." But this time...I mean,
DAMN. If you think my rants are obscene, just wait til you get a load of my fiction. Reader discretion is advised...even by my standards.



When Andrew—the sullen student—returned from his heavy trod abroad among the heavily trodden broads of Bourbon, The Squid—the tweaking teacher—was prepared. Two dirty pillow cushions lay upon the floor, The Squid’s old, ragged rump upon the one facing the door. Andrew entered in, and took a grimy seat. They sat across from one another, now, and stared as if to meditate—though they were truly only spaced-out from the drugs. Junkies do that, sometimes.
Class among those without it had begun.

“Andrew,” spoke The Squid, “I want to teach you about love and the power of blindness.”

Andrew nodded as if he really wished to hear—as if he had a choice.

“Now Andrew, I once dated a blind girl, long ago...her name…ah, her uh—mmmh—excuse me,” The Squid coughed, then cleared his throat, amid a reminiscing gaze that clearly longed for yonder decades yore, and poon-tang of the past, “Her name was Jo Beth. Ah, Jo Beth… She’d been blind from birth. It was a wondrous thing, I tell you: She was beautiful, and yet she didn’t know. I was the same pug-faced bastard I’ve always been, and yet she didn’t care. Her creepy glassy stares would freak me out sometimes, and her dog kept pawing at my stash, but ultimately it was heaven on my cock.”

“The dog?!” Andrew croaked.

“Um…no. The girl. You see, Andrew, blind girls give great head—best fucking blowjobs I’ve ever had.”

Andrew’s ears perked up.

“Now, one night we were swapping drizzle and slapping flaps quite hard and heavy, when a sudden notion hit me as I lotioned up her ass. I like to see girls play with bright red dildos—it’s always been a fantasy of mine. I asked her if she had a bright red dong. And you know what? She said she didn’t know! So she rustled beneath her bed and pulled out her sex toy box. Indeed she had a gigantic jelly dong. But there was a problem, Andrew: This dong was a tacky purple—and purple is just wrong. “

Andrew blinked mysteriously, and cocked his head.

Nothing—and I mean nothing, Andrew—that goes into a pussy should be purple like a syphilitic dick. It also shouldn’t have nasty stains and be covered with dog hair, but that is another issue altogether. The point is that her purple dong offended me; it turned me off completely—and Andrew, this woman had tits like Carrie Fischer in Return Of The Jedi, and an ass like Suzanna Love in Ulli Lommel’s Brainwaves.”

"I’ve never seen Brainwaves,” said Andrew, unenlightened as of yet. “Who’s Suzanna Love?”
“Oh—she’s that hottie in all the Lommel films, you know, like The Boogey Man and The Devonsville Terror. And uh, let’s see…um, oh, there was that Cocaine Cowboys movie with Andy Worhol and…um…uh—oh yeah—Olivia! You can’t forget Olivia. She totally screws the juices out of this one guy, and then snuffs the bastard. God, I almost stuck my penis through the screen…”

Andrew intervened like a rehab Special Friend, “Uh…sir…I, uh…you know, I get the point….”

“Ah yes. Sorry about that. Been awhile. I’ll have to have Kayla do that thing with the mirror shard later tonight. God, she hates that. I’ll need more dope. Oh—did you want some dope, Andrew?”

“Not right now, sir. Please, go on.”

“Alright, where was I…oh, yeah. So my hot blind girlfriend is trying to arouse me with a purple jelly dong—a fucking purpledong! The humanity! And then she had the nerve to kiss me. And then, she pulled me closer to her, and whispered in my ear. She said, ‘My love, there is no purple in my world. Try to see this moment through my eyes.’ And I said, ‘I can’t see anything through your eyes—you’re fucking blind!’ And then…she shushed me—she put her finger on my lips and shushed me! And she said, ‘Close your eyes, my darling.’ So I closed them, and kept them closed—like a nodding puke-spout trainspotter, or an 80’s balladeer. I heard the ‘splich’ noise of her straddling the dong. Our lips locked like a busy bathroom stall, tongues transmitting to tonsils torrid telegrams, amid each tender flick and tickle…”

Andrew noticed The Squid stroking a certain sort of sad lump swelling beneath his pants leg; it squirmed with menace as if seeking to escape its sweaty prison, snug between a salty, faded patch of pocket cloth and the clammy ham fandango of the old man’s sickly thighs. Andrew sought to avert his violated gaze, but when he looked up, The Squid’s fully erect nipples—visible even through his wine-stained button-down—metaphorically poked him cruelly in the peepers. Andrew took a deep breath, then again.

The Squid continued, “ Yes…each push of…oh, Andrew—good idea, yes—close your eyes! I can tell you’re getting into this. Anyway, both of us sightless and necking, she wrapped one arm around me—drawing me ever closer—and with her other hand guided mine. She guided my fingers up and down that greasy purple dong, as she pulled it in and out of her kid spigot. And it was then I realized that there was no purple dildo, because there was no purple. And there wasn’t any dog hair, either. There was only she and myself—the two of us—and the passion of the moment…and whatever images I gave it in my mind.”

Andrew nodded, eyes still closed, and dreaming of places happy, nowhere near the place he was.

“It was then I was enlightened. My mind was right. My heart was lifted. My dong was red. And then I spackled gack across her tits.”

Something clicked in Andrew’s mind. It almost had the twitch of timeless truth, or a drug-related stroke was coming on. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell.

“Now Andrew, here is what I learned—there is nothing truer I can tell you: The Power Of Love makes a dog-haired, splooge-stained purple dong into smoothest silk and the color of our dreams. The Art Of Dreaming is but a canvas for the Power Of Blindness, which sees beyond infinity with the sharp and soaring focus of the eagle, that it might build its nest with that top-shelf smut of the cosmos, giving piece of ass and peace of mind, and a boner beneath the raincoat of our very souls.”

Andrew sat in awe. Actually, he sat on a filthy cushion; but in the animistic sense, that cushion, just the same, might as well have been in awe, as the young man perched atop it felt he was.

“In closing, Andrew, my boy, remember this: that imagination and inner vision is like a page ripped out of God’s own Hustler; that Darkness shall reveal those things which Light cannot; that everything is perspective, and perspective changes all; and lastly, that blind chicks give great head.”

Andrew scarcely had words: “Sir, that was…inspiring. I mean, it actually was…inspiring. Shit.”

The Squid grinned a sagely Master’s Grin. Then, ponderously, his thoughts—now trailing off—took words, wispy with reflection: “Indeed; I never forgot, you know, and devotedly sought to utilize these truths in my very next relationship, with…Joan. Yes, that was her name…Joan. Ah, Joan… Sadly, things didn’t work out near as well…”

Andrew nodded reassuringly. “Was she not as enlightened as Jo Beth?”

The Squid solemnly nodded in return, “No… No, she wasn’t. But then, I had to blind that one myself.” He then rose up from his nappy perch, and offered his young protégé a hand, which Andrew declined to notice until it was withdrawn, as those last words began to churn and register. The Elder shrugged and kept forward. “Ah well,” he sighed. “Live and learn, Andrew. Live and learn.”

And with that, The Squid—the avatar, the wise man—buggered off, and out the door. Meanwhile, Andrew—the pupil, the neophyte—sat in stunned silence and trepidation, dazed, frightened, enlightened, and in marvel at it all.


Friday, December 02, 2005


Today, we have a guest post.

In a three-fisted drunken fury, the good BISHOP LES FEMUR--a frequent pestering molester in the comments box--agreed to let me post his debut blog entry here. "Orthodox" only in the sense that his penchant for sodomy is slightly less pronounced than mine, I found his writing style oddly compatable with my own.
His new site, POLISHING THE BISHOP, turned out pretty sweet, all things considered. At some point, we plan to tell him it exists. Eventually.

Ah hell...he'll find it on his own.

Go say hello, and keep your ovaries out of his rosaries, or however that goes...kooky rambling Bohemian...

Myself? I'll be back Monday with, perhaps, a new series of sorts. I don't know yet. I'm still taking requests...

In the meantime, I'm returning the favor to the Bishop, and guest-posting on his site (confused yet?) to give him a bit of Opening Day traffic. So go check out the Mad Monk's wares...he only bites the ones he loves.



Somewhere between all the whimpering and "Why not me!"'s, the divisions were becoming clear.

This, the capitol city of basement debachery(?), the house of a thousand quirks, the fabled land where etched upon the gateway is scrawled, "Abandon all hope ye who enter and get no play."

The barest, water wing equipped members of the 'seperate but equal' luke warm gene pool could find themselves hilt deep in the finest thigh velcro many counties had to offer, or at least a fine selection of virgin slayers.

For so many lucky, hapless bitches of fate, this was Elysium.

Yet the veteran here was forever to fail unless his coin was selected from the lottery and then still only if the number's echo made its journey unimpeded by generic pulsing techno beats, the stench of unwashed goth ass, and the flicker of propeller mimicking light sticks in a morose reflection of so many faces' beauty that lasted only until the moustache strikes one's view.
As the evening progresses, the haves and have nots stake claims in heir respective territories, the former fading into so many one shot stands, the latter scrounging for the last scrapings of substances with the potential to dull the mind enough into convincing them that they were of the nobler class.

My companion and I, knowing our lot and having direct knowledge that no intoxicants besides too many sodomites' private reserves lay untapped, we did as those rebellious souls quelled before ever having the opportunity to raise a call to arms: we lifted our chins and resolved to watch an action flick. Sowewhere during the feature, the subtitles began to blur.
Flashes of buckshot and horserides meandered through the entirety of this haggard creature sprawled across some five or more chairs.

My fellow journeyman had since found greener pastures (or at least a more comfortable place to bed).
I was alone. I had found to my reckoning. A fresh, yet cliche, title screen came to life beyond the snow and the ocean of the drop cloth. Something clicked. Time was taking a real form again and the fact that I had passed out in a hotel conference room materialized in my spine. It was time to move. The warmth of the sunrise in the shadows of the film was responded to by a rush of pressurized ocular bleach that would make a boddhisatva curse all existence.

Yet with this gift came the greatest gift of all, the Zen moment of insight that had eluded my unyielding grasp in all of this mess of corsets and poorly colored vodkas, the pinnacle of all binges of body or thought, the healing that poured from one spring for all: breakfast at Porter's.

Bishop Les Femur