SWAN LAKE AND THE UGLY DUCKLING

The freezing lips of the winter chill kissed through his skull and numbed his brain just long enough for him to forget that it was probably the only time he had ever been kissed.  But this dazed state would only void his intentions for a few seconds before he realized the dawn was on its way. The same dawn that would bring the coming of his adversaries only minutes later. All the families. Men who had at one time surely administered him a beating out of cruelty and the women who would laugh both in front of his mangled face and behind it. But worse would be the children. For they were the cruelest of all. Their pranks had not only caught him with his pants down but posted pictures on the internet that caused him immense shame.

As he stood eagerly awaiting glory in the decrepit shack that sat upon the edges of the frozen river he stroked the instrument that would change everything in hands that were so deformed they had often been mistaken for claws. He had to be certain there would be no accidental discharge before the time was right so these caresses were cautious. His thoughts turned to the candles lit atop crates in two of the corners of the shack. Temperatures dipped on the low portion of the digit scale so he could use all the warmth he might be able to summon in order to make his satisfaction ritual more comfortable.

He knew that if his true essence of manhood was to be recognized by those who looked down on him it must be here at the frozen wonderland of the lake. This was where all the neighborhood families would congregate each Sunday morning before church. Mothers and fathers who allowed their children some fun time to skate and socialize before heading over to Father Dyer's early morning service. A service that he had never attended again out of embarassment after what had been done to him on the road leading to his uncle's home from behind the church. He had tried not to think about it and staying clear of the reverend's sermons might have made it slightly easier. But having those pictures of his deformed body and face, laid bare with nakedness and humiliation for all to see on the internet made forgetting even more difficult than it should have been.

He knew why people abhored him. He was held accountable by standards of a freakish nature. Even by the uncle and aunt who had been responsible for him since his own parents had died shortly after his birth. It would only be through pity and gene they would stake claim to his half-shell of an existence and there were many times when a simple glance or moment of silence had given way to tension as maladorous as a pie made from rotting meat and flesh. But all of this would change today. Those who had only seen a child forever abandoned and left to rot in the deformed body of a man would now at last see the man behind the boy. It was only in appearance that he was labeled as a freak. Though nobody in the town had ever been able to get past this appearance he was of sound mind and determined heart and it would be this heart and mind that would lead him here to the shack to meet his destiny with eagerness and weapon in hand. He was tired of being called a freak. But most of all he was tired of being called a boy. Today the town would see him differently. They would know once and for all that he was a man.

A commotion outside drew his attention towards the shattered doorway of the shack. He lowered his hands to his sides, thus disarming himself. The boy was soon to be laid at rest. For the time had come. The time to be a man. He saw his salvation standing in the doorway. It was the retarded girl that lived on the end of his block named Cici. Saliva pooled the sides of her mouth as she raised her eyes from one of the tater tots snatched off the trail he had made from her backdoor to the shack and in that moment she gazed upon his freakishly deformed but ample sized erection.

"Please come in," He beckoned her with a smile as she shoved what he gathered to be the last remaining tater tot he had used to lure her to him into her mouth that emitted a loud moaning sound of appreciation afterwards.

Looking at the ground and sniffing the air she moved only slightly and though it was hard to tell from the never changing expression of her face she was confused. Reaching out his hands he gently pulled her into the shack with him to be warmed by the pheromone candles that had been burning and filling the air with their odorous influence. She moved her head around as if it were rotating on gears and surveyed the room as she stepped inside. There she eyeballed his pulsating erection that was now glazed with pre-cum and smeared on tater tot grease.

Within moments of her entering the room the girl's eyes became crazed and she descended to where she began gobbling the head of his cock. With waves of elation rushing through him he guided them both over in front of the open doorway. She licked the greased aphrodisiac from his penis as he kept his sights on the frozen lake. Soon it would be filled with activity and spectators. Those who would at last see him for the man he really was. Lost in a trance to the soundtrack of slurping that drowned out the whispers of the early morning wind he smiled. The dawn had come and soon....  so would he.


*****Scribbles writing challenge. A picture challenge. Original post date 9/20/2011*****

WHO'S YOUR DADDYS NETWORK PROVIDER?

He found himself smiling because he knew the words were coming off of his lips soon. That always made him feel good. Mostly because he knew that if he said them first she would return the favor.

 "I love you, sweet pea."

As usual the initial response was an eruption of giggles and then came what he had been waiting for all day.

 "I love you, daddy."

This brought cuddle mode to full fervor as if warm hands were cupping his intestines and goddess lips were blowing sprinkles of pixie dust on them. Those words always made him feel as if he could die happy once they were uttered. But he knew this would never happen. Not yet anyway. For the potency in those four words currently made him feel invincible with a shield forged of butterfly kisses and laughter as yummy as birthday cake.

"Baby let me talk to mommy now. I'll see you soon."

These words met with more giggles and then with the passing from angel to angel would now come whispering so soothing it could have been flown into his ears on the wings of white doves.

"Hi ya honey. When ya comin' home?" Spoke his soulmate. Best friend and love of his life.

Though buzzing in the connection on the cell phone would hinder clarity the connection of their souls ignited with each scattered audible phrase.

"Soon. Not soon enough. But soon....."  He paused and scanned far and wide. Traffic was a nightmare. The stop and go of rush hour challenged usage of the term "rush."  None of this would matter in-

".....Twenty five minutes tops." His estimate ensured dual smiles as anything less than a half hour was certainly just cause for celebration.

He could almost feel the smile on Annie's lips through the haze of the phone that he was prohibited by law to be holding in his hand against the contours of his ear while on the chrome littered battlefield. Still, when all soldiers brave battle they must tow their weapon of choice and Brandon's was his smart phone. Life was flying at him in voices and emails with the frequency of bullets in literal combat. Without his trusty tool of trade and raid he would be lost in the mix and ripe for massacre. This made him devoted deeply to the device.

Imminent disconnect would be halted by something Annie had to tell him. He wasn't entirely sure he understood as stop and go accelerated with urgency and brought with it chaos. As he struggled to maintain position in the fast lane he asked her to hold that thought. A request never delivered as the jolting of Friday afternoon bumper cars on the 101 unknowingly caused his thumb to press the hang-up button. This brought his curiosity only silence and confusion and his attempt at recapturing the conversation would be severed upon impact.

The smart phone used so often unwisely would be ripped from his grasp by the forceful clutches of the air. But as much as Brandon had vowed to hold and protect his beloved it's farewell would be an insignificant quibble as his unbelted body was wrenched from the driver's seat by turbulence and thrown towards the windshield. In mid-flight the steering wheel slammed with enough pressure into his abdomen that had there not been such commotion from the collision that was now both ahead and behind his cherry red Mustang Brandon might have actually been able to hear his bones crackling and snapping throughout his anatomy. As it were though he only felt the trauma as if he were blindfolded as the rush of air flew into his face and caused his sockets to seize themselves up and thus temporarily imprisoning the balls of his eyes.

As his body jerked every which way with the elasticity of a pretzel made of flesh and bone the steering wheel impaled his mid-section and in doing so his legs bent themselves and folded up underneath of the wheel. He felt his right knee smash into the ashtray, which he only used for housing coins he took home nightly for his sweet pea angel. His cap shattered on the tin of the edges that were slightly ajar because he had just filled it with pennies and forgotten to close it tightly and his eyelids were peeled backwards from the wafting intensity of being flown into the windshield. In the instant between the collision itself and his impact with the glass the windshield went from spidercracks to shards that shredded the meat of his face.

The car slammed to a halt as its bumper collided with the end of the vehicle in front. His body stayed folded upon top of the steering column  and wrapped itself around the middle and underneath of the wheel as his face lodged itself in the panel made of glass. Streaks of his blood splashed the interior of the car that was as well crimson on the outside. Brandon felt as if the shattered glass had sheared all the way through his face into his brain where it would sever his thought process. He clung to life in his frayed misery in hopes that he might be able to see the face of his sweet pea angel one last time before expiring. But there was so much blood and screaming all around him that he knew this to be impossible. Then realizing that he had just recently heard her say the magic words he let go and stepped into the abyss. His steps bringing with each of them the ultimate reckoning that he was not in fact invincible.

The smoke and bedlam that cluttered the 101 would soon begin to dissipate as if it were carried off by the arms of guardian angels. Much like the arms this guardian angel named Brandon once used to carry his own little angel off to slumber. The same sweet pea angel who now stood eagerly in front of the front door awaiting the arrival of her daddy. A door though only twenty five minutes from the scene of the accident, would now find itself another world away.


 *****I remember driving around and seeing some dickhole talking on their car phone. I loathe these people and I thought to myself how awesome it would be to kill him. Thankfully, I am a writer and able to do this legally whenever I want. Original post date 7/15/2011*****

THE GHOST OF AMY WINEGLASS

Cotton candy always makes me smile. Seeing it. Smelling it. Just not eating it. Never tasted the stuff before. I was always afraid that the taste wouldn't live up to the memory. My eyelids blink themselves closed and in an instant I am there all over again. On those bumper cars.

End of Summer 1996. Bluebob's Park. The biggest little amusement park just shy of the boardwalk. A whole other world that lay at the feet of the ocean.

I was there with some friends. Bunch of guys. Nobody important. What was more important was Amy Wineglass. She was in my third period ceramics class the year before. Hey, don't laugh. I made a really cool water bong for my final. My teacher asked to borrow it and when he handed it back with a smile on his face he told me I got an A. I liked my bong. Not as much as I liked Amy though.

I used to stare at her so hard sometimes that I would drool down onto my shirt. She took it as a compliment though and one day we ran into each other at the Circle K. She told me that if I was gonna be at the carnival she would see me that night. I was. So she did. It was a night I'll never forget.

There I was hanging with a group of my best friends whose names began to escape me as early as the next day. Boys will be boys and that night we were. Then I saw her over by the jungle gym. It was like a scene from a movie and she was waiting there for me to come and rescue her from having to climb up on a vine and yell my name all across the way.

The Summer heat was dancing on it's last legs and there wasn't even the slightest hint of a breeze because it was hot as fuck. I quite liked it actually. We both were all sweaty before we even saw each other. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to lean against her and feel the wetness of her on me. It didn't take much to make me happy back then. It still doesn't. Boys will always be boys.

We were having so much fun and when we rubbed together our bodies cupped with suction and that was when she said we should go on the bumper cars. That was where everything changed. On those bumper cars that now sit in the dilapidated park crusted with moss and insects.

I could tell that she wanted to sit all closed up next to me just as bad as I did with her. We both jumped in that car in unison and it was as if time skidded to a halt with Fred Flintstone's bald feet. But we had to wait for all the slowpokes to get on board. As we did this she stared right into my eyes and I felt my heart pop itself outward and much of my breath was yanked from between my lips like a rabbit being pulled from a hat.

As the ride started up I leaned back and took in every inch of the moment. The song that was playing on the radio and spilling out of the speakers. The whirring of the gears as I would be shifted and tossed around with Amy Wineglass clinging to my every move. But nothing overpowered me like the sweet almost sickly aroma of cotton candy perfume. It seemed to float right through my pores from the air straight into me where I felt my insides curdling. Awaiting the soothing rescue of princess Amy Wineglass.

Right there in middle of the carnival.... on the bumper cars... surrounded by hoardes of unknowing people... Amy reached down inside the cover of the car... and gave me my first handjob... and there... shoved around in the chaos of the hot summers night air.... I was crowned king of the world.

The park would be closed down the following year. Some freaks escaped from the freak house and went on a rampage. They scared the living shit out of everybody in attendance and even managed to park a short bus of fear into the hearts of many who weren't. The house of freaks is right across from where Amy and me fell in something that maybe wasn't exactly love but sure felt along those lines for a few minutes. Them freaks busted up the bumper cars real good. Damn shame. But it didn't really matter. I never went back to the carnival while it was open after that night with Amy. Didn't seem necessary.

I never saw Amy again after that night either. She went her way and I went mine. Opposite ends it would seem. But every now and then I grab a six-pack and head over to what remains of Bluebob's Park and my youth. I crack a frosty one and I toast Amy standing in front of the trashed out bumper cars. Hell, sometimes I bring my water bong and I toke one for the freaks. Even all these years later I can breathe in the ocean just down the other end of the boardwalk and it always smells like cotton candy. It's like going back in time and being king all over again and no matter what kind of day I'm having it never fails to make me smile.


*****Scribbles writing challenge. A picture challenge. Original post date 7/26/2011*****

I LIKE YOUR MOVIE IF YOU LICK MY RECTUM

 In case your head has been under a rock because somebody put it there, there is a movie out about fuckbook. I haven't seen it. My first reaction was that I find fuckbook to be completely irrelevant, so of course, why would I wanna sit in a theater for two hours and watch a movie about it?

Then, somebody told me that David Fincher had directed it.

I didn't exactly get wood or anything, but David Fincher is a truly unique visionary and I am fairly curious as to what he will bring to an otherwise completely insipid concept. Still, it ain't gonna get me into a movie theater.

I guess my first question would be the most obvious one..... why would somebody wanna make a movie about fuckbook? In case you are taking notes or anything, the not quite as obvious but still equally as necessary next question would be.... why would anybody want to watch a movie about fuckbook?

I haven't seen the movie and don't plan on seeing it until I can illegally burn it after renting it from shitflix. But, the movie does seem to be a hit. So, my 10-15 bucks will certainly not be missed by anybody.

Regardless of whether the movie is good or bad, the fact that David Fincher directed it will certainly allow it to stand above the average meaningless Hollywood soulsucking filmfuck frenzy that has been tossed onto a screen for the acutely impaired general public.

I believe that seemingly meaningless tripe can find itself rising above the commonplace churnings of the magical machine of movie muck should it have a more than capable director and captain at the helm. Although, most people who are in fact stupid enough to pay 10-15 bucks to sit in a crowded theater full of enthusiastic silver screen wanna-be's who give Oscar winning performances from their seats and will then pay another 20 bucks to hold soldier over a watered down carbonated beverage of their choosing and rub popcorn on their gums that has special butter just for them courtesy of that slow kid who got the job merely because of his mental insufficiencies that obstruct him from knowing that he should urinate into a toilet and not a popcorn bucket..... these type of people wouldn't know David Fincher from a fruit flavored urinal cake.

I am guessing that the cast has something to do with the success of this film more so than its director. Your typical bunch of pointless to be name dropped pretty faces. That guy who plays a lovable nerd in every movie that he's in. No, not THAT GUY. That other guy. Yeah.... him. With the curly hair. His head looks like one of my balls. That nerd.

Justin Boober is in it too, I think. Wait a minute...... no.... Justin..... the other guy.

 Does it really matter what any of their names are? Maybe, but not to me.

Smart casting though, is a viable ingredient to a movies enormous success these days. Who cares that making a movie about fuckbook is about as enthralling as making a movie about the journey and lifespan of a Burger King onion ring fart? Stick some pretty people in front of the camera and have them act out any story and your film is a guaranteed blockbuster.

Riding the waves of the success of this fuckbook movie I decided to make a script of my own and I most recently gathered much interest in the project and initial casting has begun. I might even get to direct the piece of shit on account of nobody else wants to.

The movie tells the story of another completely pointless and so over website that I shall call drama.com

The story is fairly basic. It involves a bizarre cast of characters, all of which have lost touch with reality and find themselves merging their pea sized brains with a make believe world that exists only on the internet that, as previously stated, goes by the moniker of drama.com

Through a series of mis-adventures that mean absolutely nothing in the real world these characters band together to proficiently answer the age old question "if a grown man yells at another grown man on the internet, is it okay for them to eventually just get motel rooms with online access and have cyber sex as long as they promise to use ALL CAPS"? This tender hearted and absurd study in the lack of humanity is as well highlighted by the underlining theme that what happens on the internet shall stay on the internet, even if it should find itself copied and pasted on thought engines all around the world.

The story alone might not sound like much when compared to a movie about fuckbook that has an extremely attractive and sex juice inducing cast, but just you wait and see who myself and the producers have lined up for casting couch auditions and celebrity beer runs. I am sure that there are many movie lovers who are just chomping at the bits for a first hand peek at what we have in store.

Angelina Jolie top lines the brilliant array of thespians we have.

Her role as a once prom queen, who now lives in a cardboard box behind Buckingham Palace in hopes that they will one day invite her inside the gate and allow her to sit on the turtle watching bench in the royal gazebo so that she will know the feeling of her ass cheeks touching royal wood will surely garner her much more acclaim than she already has for adopting all of those smelly babies from around the world.

In fact, her character also knows a thing or two about motherhood as well, on account of through a series of liaisons with street sweepers she has shat out 37 illegitimate children, all of which have speech impediments and smell curiously like bacon bits.

Rosie O' Donnell has the truly most glorious role of all.

The Queen Bee. She leads the entire site in a cyber group hug and blogging orgy that makes the Guinness Book of World Records for producing the largest orgasm. 

She continually gains support by faking her own death every other week and eventually opens Kool-aid stands on every street corner in the neighborhood. The Kool-aid is laced with laxatives and she forces all the local children to salute her and call her mammy by bribing them with toilet paper and bottles of axe body wash ass spray.

Renee Zellweger is going to play the same character that she plays in every movie you have probably never bothered to see her in. But, rest assured that she will bring a new found gusto to this particular role that shall undoubtedly make audiences everywhere feel a tightness and moisture in their private regions.

Her wilted butterplum, named Petunia Cloud-Sniffer, once held the crown and title for being the world’s happiest woman and was universally lauded for creating a dildo in the shape of the sun.

After suffering a nervous breakdown from misinterpreting the intentions of a stop sign and drowning a Boy Scout troop on a bus with her tears that she cried after they laughed at her because she had missed her stop, she was forced to wear a letter M for murder that was branded on her left breast. Nobody would have even known had she not had a penchant for always pulling out her breasts in public places and singing show tunes to her inverted nipples.

Sean Connery will bring a dashing aura of Scottish pride to the role of an angry old unemployed wanna be photographer who takes mental pictures and then forgets them.

He was laid off because he is lame beyond the furthest reaches of the term lame, and he steals the welfare checks from his next door neighbor and uses them to buy video games. This delusional love puppy also claims to have fathered three quarters of the neighborhood children, despite the fact that he has been impotent since his own conception.

Christopher Walken will play a very exciting role that shall absolutely add to his repertoire of distinguished impersonations. He is the reincarnation of William Shakespeare, respectfully referred to by the neighborhood street corner poets as Webo.

He is most famous for accompanying all the local housewives on a weekly picnic where he reads them poetry from the book of Gomez and he was once brought up on charges for illegally filming and posting videos on DudeToob of the women shoving cheese logs into their vaginas and shooting bull frogs with them.

I just love Steve Buscemi, so imagine my delight when we were able to procure his make believe services as the town drunk who works a series of odd jobs such as bathtub shitter and taint scrubber to the rich and immorally degenerated so that he can continue his upward climb on the status ladder from albino to wino.

I can assure you that the day Mr.  Buscemi steps onto the set for the first time it will be high noon for all nips and dicks present.

Tom Green is going to be the neighborhood philosopher and Star Wars geek turned simpleton who everyday dons a cape made from a filthy bedsheet and tries unsuccessfully to fly into a brick wall.

 I have no reservations that Green will bring this role to life and fly right off the screen and into the laps of anybody in the audience with a heart... and 3-D glasses too, because we are so excited about this project that while we are capitalizing on the example set by a fuckbook movie, we might as well milk that cow titty while we're at it.

Heath Ledger is going to play a disgruntled atheist who moonlights as a priest, in what he claims to be an attempt to infiltrate the system of a downward spiral.

I know what you're thinking. Isn't he dead? Well.... DUH. But, it’s the movies, silly. We can do whatever we want. Just put a little extra make up on him and the audience won't even be able to tell the difference. For a little comic relief, we are going to have Chris Tucker dub all of his lines.

 You just try and picture that and not think BLOCKBUSTER.

Whitney Houston is going to make a monster screen comeback as Florence Daysipper. The voice of reason in the blogging kingdom.

She becomes a worldwide sensation when she writes a bestselling novel on a bunch of sanitary napkins pilfered from a dispenser in a bird bathroom called The Good Bloggers Manifest of Common Sense and Reach-arounds. There will also be a very exciting semi-nude scene where she has a pair of lips tattooed to one of her ass cheeks. For this scene, Houston has asked that the set hands be on a highly discriminatory work schedule that day. It will all work out though because we're going to save a little bit on the budget, since Whitney volunteered to be paid in crack.

Betty white is sidekick to Zellweger's Miss Happy-Pants. Her birth certificate mysteriously only carries the enscripted words “Yay Wow Neat". She's a simple lass and BFF to all of her invisible pets. Since she was a little girl, all she has ever wanted was to buy the world a Coke, then collect the bottles and turn them in so she could use the deposit fees to buy herself a moondress.

That Betty White.... she sure is old. We gotta get her while the getting’s good and she still has her girlish figure.

In a ground breaking gender bending role, dame Judi Dench will play the neighborhood old timer and resident flasher named Sparky. Of course she will have to wear a prosthetic sausage, as the role does require full frontal nudity.

Sparky is a complex mind boggler who claims to know all, see all, and hear all because he has read about it all in books. He once was a teacher at the Hawaiian University but was unanimously voted off the island and forced to swim to the Banana Republic and back in two hours. He claims to have done it in one.

Seth Rogen is going to play an honest and hard working man who makes every effort to be the best father to all of his children born out of wedlock by funding their educations and hobbies with his earnings that he has collected from being the inventor of anal beads.

He also has plans to design an ass ring that doubles as a brown collar for men who wear their shirts backwards. A very resourceful character and role for a truly gifted and entertaining funnyman.

What has me most excited though is that we have now officially secured Billy Bob Thornton to play the neighborhood redneck named Uncle Leon, who spends all of his free time licking the rims of outhouse toilet seats and belching the theme to Raw Hide. Since he finds it hard to keep a steady job on the account of his breath issues, free time is all this lovable hillbilly schlub does have.

The most truly mind blowing and brilliant aspect of this character is that Billy Bob will say all his lines in Karl speak. Karl being the role he played in the hilarious and utterly genius comedy Sling Blade, which is one of my favorite films of all time. It has long been a dream of mine to stand in the same room and hear Billy Bob say "I reckon you can make me some biscuits" up close. Thankfully, the magic of movies and the ability to never stop believing has now at last made this a reality.

Do I smell a hit? Well, I did just eat some Burger King onion rings, so maybe not. But do know this much..... an uproarious and mentally challenged good time for all is soon to be filmed and shall be stinking up a theater screen near you. So, grab some of that favorite watered down soda piss and popcorn that has been dunked in slow Timmy’s toxic body waste and get ready to have your mind blown.

\ 

 *****Original post date 10/10/10*****

ITS A WRITER THING YOU WON'T UNDERSTAND

 There is an old saying-

 Opinions are like assholes because everybody has one.

Well then, who are bigger assholes than us writers? I mean, after all if you don't have a Herculean opinion you have no business being a writer in the first place. When you are spending more than a fair share of your time hammering out these opinions on the keyboard (or old school in a notepad) the reality of being an asshole just seems to go with the territory.

Okay, so each writer is different. Unique even. Well, except those who merely have no soul to pull from and go around pilfering from others. But they are not considered writers usually outside of when snowjobs or blowjobs are involved. This is referring to the real writers. The ones who have their own thing going and the reason they do it so well is because..... well, lets face it nobody else does it at all. It's theirs, after all. Yours. Mine. Whoever the fuck.

Ultimately we all write for our own reasons. Plural essential here because nobody just writes for one reason. Not how it works. How does it work? Well, I can only ever speak for me obviously. So, keeping that in mind..... here I go. I believe that a true writer should be fearless. Kind of like that eye of the tiger thing. I mean, if one should be allow for breaks in their action due to intense fear of some sort..... well, really... how the fuck will you ever be able to write anything that isn't complete shit? Just because your audience is not standing next to you doesn't mean they can't still smell your anal vapored prose.

You see, readers are not stupid. Well, okay some of them are. How else do you explain success stories like that 50 shades of shit nonsense? The non-stupid variety are out there somewhere and if you pour your every being into so much as writing a haiku about taking a monster trucker sized dump then chances are after being completely ignored for most of your lifetime, when you are decrepit and greying, these people will find you on their next google search and they'll ask "where have you been all of my life?" Answer? Right here fucker. While you were reading the blogs about eating rice-a-roni and fingering your doughnut hole.

No fear! Isn't that a sports slogan of some kind? You'll have to forgive me. Competitive sports is either fixed or all about penis envy and I don't have time for either of them shits. I'm too busy pouring my soul into a glass shaped like a computer screen. But this no fear thing should totally be copped as the writers law. A lot of people like to write for attention. It makes them feel special to write a bunch of nonsense and have complete strangers offer praise and cyber titty twisters and before you know it, a star is born.

Hey, come on..... I like attention as much as the next asshole.... I mean, writer...... it's always nice to have somebody gushing over your creation. I mean, if there were people who thought a steaming pile of shit fresh from the ass bakery was as relevant to pop culture as a song about spilling your beer do not think for a second that there wouldn't be galleries and coffee shops every where scouring the district for artists to feature on toilet bowl night. But the truth about attention is this..... it's a lot like a toilet bowl. You do your thing and there it is. Wow. Even if you manage to clog the sewer main and annoy half the fucking neighborhood.... that's it.... WOW. Then you flush..... and it's gone. What next? Unless you're suffering from shit disease you're gonna go about your day, am I right?

Attention is cool. I get that. I love getting that in fact. But once I get the attention I find myself bored as fuck because really all you have is a bunch of people eyeballing your every move that would not have normally given you a piss squat of notice in the first place. Before you know it, you are expected to do..... something. Something else, rather. That gets messy because you are an artist (and an asshole at that), so the first thing you want to do is see how many of these fuckers you can get to go away and leave you to your business of arting. Write something about sticking your finger in Justin Boobers ass and then having his mother lick the pudding. Problem solved. No more attention for you pal. You're just fucking sick.

But see, that is what a writer does. Pushes the envelope. In fact, the writer does more than just pushing the envelope. A true writer would take the envelope and give himself a paper cut on the head of his cock (or girl parts) and then ask for some friends to play naked twister with so they could find out who their real friends are. Who else but a true friend would let you bleed on them?

Yeah, it's like that.

I think one of the most important questions a real writer should ask themselves each day is "who am I going to piss off today?" If being a writer is in fact about attention it functions like casual sex. Find your neighbor. Fuck your neighbor. Then say something along the lines of "well, I gotta go take a shit now." There you have it. The life of a true writer. You write something. You get reactions all over the place. Then you move on and write something else. Maybe people will read you again. Maybe they won't. You're a real writer AND you're an asshole, so who cares?

You wanna know what the coolest thing about being a writer/asshole is though? You are merely doing what you were born to do. It's like breathing and shitting to these other types. If you are multi-dimensional then maybe you can really go places other than the mailbox to get your checks from Rolling Paper magazine or Vanity Fart. I mean, sure not everything that you write is about pissing people off. There is some beauty to be found in what might universally be labeled as beautiful. This is not to say that there is nothing beautiful about writing something and posting it for all to see and knowing those fuckers are foaming at the mouth and fuming at the crotch. THAT is a beautiful thing and it's probably the single coolest thing about being a writer and an asshole. Even if the whole asshole thing is a facade and away from spewing vile worded bile you're actually a GREAT BIG CUDDLY FUCK TOY.... you're still an asshole..... and that makes you a real writer.

*****Original post date 5/19/2011*****

DOG PISS BOY AND BUKKAKE QUEEN

The feeling of warmth puddling onto Sean’s skin was not enough to make him open his eyes until after it had drizzled onto his tongue, which hung slightly from the side of his mouth. Though his taste buds were decimated from all the drinking he had done last night he was able to determine a slight trace of meat in there somewhere. Chicken, maybe? After a few seconds the acidic fluid was almost burning his tongue though and this caused his eyelids to wrench open with such force that had they not been attached they very well could have launched from his face. In a leap from lying on his back to standing on his feet he startled his friends beagle, Pepper, that had been pissing on his face.

His screams were masked not only by the still present buzzing inside of his head but also laughter that came from a group of his friends that were sitting there in the spinning room enjoying his humiliation. The dog yelped surprise but continued to piss at his feet before exiting the room all the while glaring at him as if he had just ruined the most pleasing relief in all of its dog years.

"Dude, seriously! What the fuck?!" He yelled as the laughter not only continued but grew in volume.

The first to be able to form words once the moment had calmed itself would be the owner of both dog and house, Rick.

"You were sleeping so peacefully we didn't want to disturb you," more laughter followed this explanation, "besides, I wasn't about to tell Pepper that he couldn't piss there. I don't speak beagle so he wouldn't have listened. You doomed yourself by your own choice of places to crash for the night, my friend."

The laughter subsided and segued into a prolonged silence as everyone present contemplated how to follow up a grown man having his face soiled by a pissing dog. Sunday morning had slipped into afternoon, the day after St. Patrick’s Day, and though everyone still in the house was hung-over none would argue that a hangover was much more accommodating than having been made into a human urinal.

"Some friends you guys are," Sean sputtered his words through his lips while trying to clean his tongue with the air.

"Why don't you take a shower and wash off the Pepper spray and then we'll all head over to Wang's Fung Hole for some spicy grub to sweat these hangovers out?" Rick said.

The haze cleared from Sean's head, probably dissipated by the acidity in the dogs piss. This idea was enough to bring a smile to his still tingling lips. Wang’s Fung Hole was the best Chinese restaurant in the area. Plus, Rick was right on the money. Their hot 'n' sour soup was enough to sweat the hangover out right out through your pores so fast you could wave goodbye to it as it was leaving. Sean could use a quick shower though he certainly did not relish the idea of wearing a shirt with a beagle made wet collar.

"You got a shirt I can wear, bro?" He asked Rick as he was nearly the same height and build.

"Closets right there by the can. Help yourself. Shirts only though, please."

This brought another laugh to Sean’s face, which cracked the crust around his mouth from the already dried urine and burned his skin a little.

"Don’t worry, man. I am not interested in wearing any of your lacey underwear."

Rick bent over and grabbed some cheese doodles from a dish on the table next to him and threw them at Sean, hitting him in the face with a welcomed scent of cheesy goodness. Way better than the smell of dog piss.

"What did you feed that dog this morning?" Sean asked as he headed towards Ricks bedroom.

"Today’s menu was chicken pot pie," were the words that trailed after him as he ran down the hallway.

Within seconds of entering the bathroom the mixture of chicken tainted dog piss and powdered cheese scent was instantly eroded by the distinct smell of vomit. It was everywhere. In the sink. In the shower. Even in the toilet, which had remained un-flushed. Sean raced back into the living room where he was greeted by scrutinized mass.

"What the hell happened in there?" He asked through gasps for air, as his eyes teared up.

"That my friend," Rick started before standing back up from his chair,"was the kind donation courtesy of that chick you brought here last night."

Suddenly bits of the previous evening began to sprint through Sean’s head.

"Oh man, sorry about that," was all that he could muster,"is she still here?"

Rick laughed.

"Thankfully, no. But she made up for her role in last nights..." he paused and squinted as if searching the air for the proper word, "...fiasco."

Silence filled the room again. None of this was enough to give Sean any ideas as to the origin of the phrase so he waited for Rick to elaborate.

"If you would be so kind as to clean up after your girlfriend, we can all go get us some chow fun."

Sean was at a loss for rebuttal, so in what seemed like the longest walk of his life he went back towards the hideous wasteland that he knew was going to take him much time and effort so that Rick would be able to claim use of his bedroom and bathroom facilities again. As he approached the doorway he could already feel his own vomit pushing its way up from his stomach. Almost as if Rick could sense his bodies disruption he offered the closest thing to solace there could be for such a moment.

"There’s a bucket and some fresh towels underneath the sink."

As these words echoed through the hollow of his numbing skull Sean did everything in his psychological and physiological network to hold down his now rancid blessings from last nights party favors. The mess from his date was more than enough to deal with and there was hardly need to add to the chore.

After pulling out an armful of towels and the bucket he surveyed the damage. He supposed the most thorough course of action would be to start in the corner of the shower and work his way outward. The floor and the walls were speckled with discoloring stains that had they not smelled worse than warmed over road kill just as easily could have passed for hastily applied holiday party paint. But the corner of the shower was by far the most horrid of the mess. A darkened grue that was so chunky and filled with bits of food that Progresso could have canned it for marketability.

Scrubbing up the vomit of his lady friend got Sean to thinking. Holding a girls hair back while she were puking would be the makings of a true gentlemen. Surely actually getting down in the bung as if he were a pig in a sloppy pen game must warrant some sort of reward. At the very least another date with the added promise of some love action. This all of course once they both were cleansed of their St. Patty's Day party sludge. Speaking of which, he began to wonder, where did that little lover of his get herself off to? Maybe he could find her tonight and commence the intermingling of body fluids. A different kind of interaction than his current situation. As thoughts of love began to work him over he decided that all fluids were created equal. It was this decision that had him tossing his brush and rag and bending down to scoop up all the chunky parts of his lady loves spew pile. Feeling her previous days nutritional intake in the palms of his hands he began to think about the pu pu platter at Wang's Fung Hole. He could not wait to rinse his hands of regurgitation and get some giblets of his own.

After roughly an hour of being the love custodian of a sick girls dream Sean and his friends headed over to Wang's Fung Hole to sweat out their hangovers. They ordered the instant remedy of hot 'n' sour soup along with a pu pu platter and some crispy duck bills. Nothing sops up queasy stomachs better than a smorgasbord mop hand crafted in Wang's kitchen by the absolute finest in greasy cuisine. Wang was their waiter and had informed them that the hot 'n' sour soup was going to be a few extra minutes to cook up a new pot. Bring on the pu pu platter the hungry table of hung-over patrons demanded. As they waited Sean began to think romantic thoughts of the girl he hoped would be his date tonight.

"Hey Rick," he asked, "where did you say my girl got off to?"

Rick looked at him with a devilish grin.

"I didn't," he broke into chuckles,"you really don't remember anything about last night do you?"

Sean scrunched up his face and tossed his thoughts off like a ball going over a canyon.

"Not a thing, dude. I was really hoping you guys could fill in the blanks." As he said this he saw devilish grins infect everybody sitting around the table.

Rick leaned in closer to the table and cleared his throat before speaking.

"Where exactly did you meet that girl at, Seany my boy?" His tone mockery as if it were mustard sauce.

Sean surveyed all the smiles around the table and his momentary silence evaporated them all.

"I met her at the mall, why?"

His response brought them all back stronger than ever.

"Well, remember how I told you that she made up for her mess last night?"

Rick looked as if he were ready to burst into song as did everyone else sitting there with them.

Utter mystery clouded Sean’s face both before and after he found himself able to speak.

"Yeah," he replied in near stutter mode.

The look on Ricks face suggested that he was ready to either deliver a death sentence or the punch line to a joke that found itself left hanging since dog piss washed the sleep dirt from Sean’s eyes with his early afternoon awakening.

"Well, that girl of yours did every guy there at the party with the exception of a few that seemed repulsed for whatever reason. She was hot if you ask me. Besides, I didn't mind because since it was my house I had the luxury of going first. I felt special too on account of most of the others just had a sword fight on her."

Sean felt as if he had been punched in the stomach and yet somehow he still managed to not throw up his night’s supply of alcohol. Stunned for what to say he allowed Rick to continue as he looked overly eager to do so.

"She even let me film the whole thing. I told her I could make her an internet sensation and she was all over that. Amongst other things. She even asked you if it was okay."

This caught Sean’s attention enough to elicit response.

"What did I say?" He stammered, with his face as washed out as clean linen.

Rick broke into laughter that erupted in harmony all around the table.

"Dude, you were totally cool with it!"

Sean reached as far into his mind as he deemed possible and came up empty handed.

"You said it was cool just as long as you got to have a turn."

Still reaching. Still reaching. Still-

"Did I?" He asked through gulping.

Ricks elation sank like a ship going down into the ocean.

"No. As soon as we got started and the cameras were rolling you passed out in the living room. If you wanna see the video it’s on boob tube though. Just type in St. Pat gang rat."

Before anybody could say anything else Wang brought the first helpings of their relief chow. Deciding that he would weather this conversation better after soaking up the hangover Sean was the first to dive into the pu pu platter.

Everybody else followed. For a few minutes not a word was said as all mouths were filled and busy gobbling food. In the midst of all the gorging a scream broke out in the restaurant. With other things than eating on his mind Sean was the first to stop and look around the room.

"Oh my God! There are roaches in the food!" A woman yelled as she climbed up on her chair and pointed at the dish on her table.

As Sean paused he realized that he had yet to swallow his last bite and her exclamation sharpened his senses and made him suddenly aware of the tiny and brittle bodies crawling inside of his mouth. Just then all the men who were eating realized their mouths were all filled with egg foo yungs with an added ingredient of overactive cockroach meat. They all spit the contents out of their mouths onto the table just in time to see what best resembled an army of roaches scattering from their dishes that had been piled high with mounds once thought to be edible. Anxiety and commotion along with the sight of scores of roaches swarming from all the plates in the restaurant were the final disruption to overturn all their stomachs and each of the men began vomiting onto the floor of Wang’s Fung Hole. This caused all the rest of the dining crowd to vomit themselves. As rampaging roaches and enough sympathy vomit to float a canoe filled the aisles of the chaos ridden lunchtime hour, Sean and Rick were the first to race from their table out into the street.

Still hunched over and vomiting onto the concrete they were interrupted by Wang, who was waving a bill at them.

"You pay! You pay now and then you clean!"

Sean rose up still gagging and spraying colored breaths from losing his lunch and his previous night’s party fluid.

"Fuck you, Wang. You clean," he started laughing, "and while you're at it, clean up those damn roaches too. When you do we'll be back."

Wang began stomping his feet and waving his arms around in the air as if he were doing a short bus wave. Sean and Rick brushed him off and walked away shaking their heads. Since the other guys had not seemed to come outside yet, let them pay. Once they were finished chunking up their kung pao cockroach, of course.

Sean and Rick walked along the boulevard towards their homesteads as they both laughed. Rick was happy because he knew that another beer would wash the taste of roach from his tongue. Sean laughed because he knew that even though his day had been shit and he certainly wasn't going to call the bukkake queen he was not the only one who had just eaten cockroach. He looked at Rick and patted him on the shoulder.

"You guys are great. With friends like you who needs enemas?"

With this they each went their separate ways. As he jogged home the sentiment about enemas left Sean to ponder what it would feel like to excrete cockroaches. With all of their bristles and ridges, certainly that must hurt quite a bit. Thankfully though, they had been crunched and were no longer whole. The fact that they were dead meant they would not be crawling from his ass either. This made his day just a little better now. Just a little.


*****Scribbles writing challenge. Original post date 3/19/2012*****

ABOUT A GIRL- PJ HARVEY

 The first time I heard PJ Harvey I almost had an orgasm. Thankfully, it was indeed ALMOST because I was standing in the middle of a record store. Kempmill Records in the Laurel shopping center to be exact.

I was doing my thing, browsing the cds up and down the aisle..... that guy, Joe, was working. I always remembered him. He seemed cool. We used to talk music anytime I came in there. Good thing we were in a record store because we were not too far from this music we spoke of.

So, there I was.... minding my own business.... there was a cd playing. Sounded kind of different. Cool. Way different and way cool in fact. I had never really heard anything like it before. Kind of raw and bluesy. Dirty sounding. Girl singer. Drums sounded powerful. It got my attention completely first. Then, I was digging it like a grave. I thought maybe when I passed by the counter as I was leaving I would ask him who it was. Might wanna check some more of this band out or something. Just as this idea came into my head the girl singing let out this horrific and tortured sounding wail unlike anything that I have ever heard before. So much for waiting until I left to ask who that was. I had to know RIGHT NOW! So, I raced to the counter and asked Joe in a wavering voice

"Dude, who the hell ....is that?"

He pulls out this cd from behind the counter. PJ Harvey. "Rid of me".

I bought it right then and there. Her second release, actually. After taking it home and listening to it and falling in love, I immediately bought her first one, "Dry".

I have always kind of had a thing for girls with guitars. Love 'em. Most likely it's because I happen to love girls and I also happen to love guitars, so it only makes sense that if you put the two together you get orgasm city, baby.

Probably my goddess of all time would be Lousie Post, circa 1995. Man, she just made me tingle in the all the right places. But, PJ Harvey.... there has never been anybody else like her before or after. Sadly enough..... even PJ Harvey is not anything like PJ Harvey anymore.

If you love great music, that is passionate, a little bluesy, equal parts loud and soft, and full of rage, heart and pure uncut emotion, those first two PJ Harvey cds are just begging for you to go check them out. She would enjoy a decent amount of success with her third release, "To bring you my love", and I liked that one too. But, it's not of the same caliber as those first two, let me tell you.

The biggest transition from "Rid of me" into "To bring you my love" is that PJ gave up playing guitar onstage as she tormented and seduced the microphone and concentrated her efforts on being more of a vocalist. She danced around the stage like a sexually charged serpent high on volume and lyrical anxiety. Still ever the frontwoman, but in losing the guitar I feel like she lost her edge and each consecutive release of hers found itself alienating me further and further from her music.

I don't know what she has been up to these days. By 2004's "Uh huh her" I had had enough and I gave up hope that Polly Jean Harvey would ever dazzle me again as she had on that day in Kempmill Records and the few years that followed.

Still, I give credit where credit is due and a true music fan never forgets their heroes, even if they move on to less glorious pastures.

Music is indeed orgasm and some of the most multi-orgasmic throes of melodious passion that I have ever found ransacking my body and my senses is from those first two PJ Harvey releases, "Rid of me" and "Dry". If you have never heard them before I urge you to give them a listen. You might wanna have an extra pair of shorts on hand though.

*****From Musicequalzorgasm blog page. Original post date 8/25/2010*****